Growing into it

I saw you many days when I was but a child.
You were in fine leaf then.

We lassoed you twice and made a swing.
When days were happy, we swung
among your slanted sunbeams and jumped off, sailing,
into your baby’s breath cushions,
just in time for the dinner bell.

When days were unhappy,
we knew, and stuffed our pockets with stolen sandwiches,
in hopes that they wouldn’t come for us
until the fights were over.
We had our bug jars,
and caught fireflies to light our way home.

In time, I got a little sorry.
Father gone, mother so sick, brother needing a wing to enfold him.
I tried to do what was expected, to be called a man.
Odd jobs, gone all day.
Having to talk to the grown ups about plans.

Sporadic were the times we saw you then.
Your weathered tethers had snapped.
The cracked wooden seat hung crazily in the warm breeze,
drawing childish patterns in the sandy track we had worn.
I took a picture, and left you for a man’s age.

I write this now with a bowed head, for I am old.
There’s a happy young family now, on this lane.
They’ve shyly let me wander their back path.

You’re not the worse for wear, you know.
The grooves we once cut into your arterial limb
are now sporting new stout ropes, with a big black tire.
The sand pictures gone, with time’s etch-a-sketch.

You’ve seen all the weathers of the world,
and I wonder how many children you have made happy.
You seem to stand and study,
and, I wager, you have many long names
for this vector in space and time.

And so, I have grown into it.
Whatever it is.
But I think you will still dream your long names
until the world encroaches at last
and you must go
the way that I am going.

***

Art by https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.geofhickey-artist.com%2Fnew-work-in-progress%2F&psig=AOvVaw1T2qqGnacbKvQtntjmkrPL&ust=1622571352644000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=2ahUKEwiK9YW6w_TwAhXRBc0KHR54Cq8Qr4kDegQIARAj

Liebster Award nomination

N.  over at  https://therebemonstershere.com/  has kindly given me the nod for this award.  Please check them out for superb stories of an eerie, eloquent, and absorbing nature.  Although I don’t go in for this sort of thing, I feel I must show my appreciation by accepting their gracious gesture and by making a reasonable effort to carry on with the ins and outs of it.

The Liebster Award is an opportunity for bloggers to recognize and support other bloggers for their achievements. It’s available between January 1 – December 31, 2018. All nominations are voluntary and geared towards blogs with 1000 readers or less. The Rules are below if the nominees choose to accept.
IF YOU HAVE BEEN NOMINATED AND YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT, WRITE A BLOG ABOUT THE LIEBSTER AWARD, IN WHICH YOU:
*Thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog.
*Display the award on your blog, by including it in your post and/or displaying it using a “widget” or “gadget.” (Note that the best way to do this is to save the image to your computer, and then upload it to your blog post.)
*Answer 11 questions about yourself which will be provided by the person who nominated you. Provide eleven random facts about yourself.
*Nominate 5-11 bloggers that you feel deserve the award, and who have less than 1000 followers. (NOTE: you can always ask the blogger how many followers he or she has, as not all blogs display a widget that lets the readers know this information).
*Create a new list of questions for the blogger to answer.
*List these rules in your post (you can copy and paste from here.) Once you have written and published the blog, you have to:
*Inform the people/blogs that you have nominated for the Liebster Award and provide a link for them to your post, so that they may learn about it.

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Here are the questions posed to me:

1 – What was your favourite scary story as a child?

That horrific film The Wizard of Oz. I mean tornadoes, flying monkeys, not to mention the Wicked Witch?

2 – Who is your favourite book character of all time?

Levin, from Anna Karenina. Don’t ask me why.

3 – When did you first begin writing?

I have some musty old copies of poetry written in my late teens. Geesh. Pretty bad stuff.

4 – Who of your friends have you used as characters in the things you have written?

My wife, my brother, myself…..I know, not really friends.

5 – Were you a ghost, where and who would you haunt?

I would haunt the woman who tore my brother away from all ties with family, so that he remained estranged from all of us for the last thirty years. Vengeance is mine!

6 – If you were given the opportunity to live in any era, what and where would it be?

Ancient Egypt…..always wanted to know how they built the pyramids.

7 – What noises can you hear right now?

The ringing in my ears, the tapping of keys, the stuttering of my hard drive, and the
air conditioning fan.

8 – If you could make one blog related statement, what would it be?

Please don’t apologize for skipping a few days in your blog, or for having nothing to write about. Come back when you feel you want to. We will still be there.

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Some random facts about yours Truly:

1. I began writing a bit of poetry at the age of 17, I think. I still have some of these original hand scribblings, which I found in a file box the other day some 50 years later.
2. I knew my wife for 3 months before we got married 41 years ago. No, it wasn’t a quickie or a shotgun.
3. I have been knocked unconscious three times in my life that I can remember. In a game of minor hockey, diving into a shallow stream too eagerly, and falling down a slope into a ravine.
4. I’ve had three “careers” that lasted more than 10 years each.
5. I fell head over heels in love with reading when I first picked up a paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings in 1967.
6. As for the 60’s, I was there, I was of age, I did the things, there’s a lot I can’t remember, but the music of the Beatles will always be there.
7. I’m in a band with some like-minded older guys. We’ve been together for close to 10 years.
8. I have two adult children who are on their own. Good thing one of them is pretty rich, because she’s gonna be spending lots of money taking care of us in our old age.
9. I began this blog about a year and a half ago, as an outlet for stored-up creative impulses.
10. I’ve been nominated for a Liebster once before, and for the Versatile Blogger Award and the Mystery Blogger Award.
11. Have recently been published (for money!) in a town newspaper.

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The most eminent bloggers I wish to nominate here are:

http://muellermusings.com/

https://lmjones01.wordpress.com

https://allanesinclair.wordpress.com/

About

http://thestoriesinbetweenblog.wordpress.com/

HERE ARE YOUR QUESTIONS, FOLKS:

1. Have you ever run across a blogger who, based on their writings, seemed to be at risk of self harm? If so, how did you approach it?
2. What are the things that would deter you from reading someone’s blog?
3. If you ever have self doubt about your work, or writer’s block, how do you deal with it?
4. Have you ever taken down a post after having second thoughts?
5. What are the things that have made you do multiple edits before or after publishing a post?
6. Are you smart enough to appreciate some of the puzzling poetry out there, or am I just dull? (Humorous response, please)
7. Do you, or do you not, post stories of a personal nature?
8. Do you, or would you, give your website’s address to a friend or family member?
9. Do you post your work on social media?

 

 

Wonder World

 

The saddler’s leather
The vane of a feather
The needles that come from a pine
Electrical static
And the smoke aromatic
And the shivery feel up your spine
Hot summer hazes
The Moon, in its phases
The whoosh in revolving of doors
Cheeses so smelly
Hot food in your belly
And the sauna’s white steam in your pores
A pussycat’s tongue
An aria sung
The shadows that blot out the stars
The drizzle that’s staining
The snow, when it’s raining
And the sound of flamenco guitars
Bumblebees lazy
On summer days hazy
The waves from the pavement, of heat
The hummingbirds hover
We cannot discover
The speed of their wings, as they beat
The things in the Sea
Like the wild Manatee
And the squid with its fluids of ink
And the dolphins a-playing
And the predators preying
And the jellyfish, purple or pink
The eagles espying
The rabbit they’re eyeing
The spider that’s spinning its web
The spring ice that’s melting
The hailstorm that’s pelting
And the tides of the flow and the ebb
So, all is connected
And shan’t be corrected
”Tis part of the master design
And all things imagined
Belong to this pageant
That’s wrought by the Artist Divine.

 

 

 

 

Dangerous day

 

Yesterday, in my little corner of the world, we ran into some coincidental calamities, or nearly so….. all in the space of ten minutes.

I was driving east on the main street of town and was attempting to make a legal left turn to go northbound.  A southbound vehicle on my intended route had his signal on to make a left turn, into my path,  where it was strictly prohibited with numerous highly visible signs.  When westbound traffic was clear, I began to make my turn, and he came out right in front of me.  Had to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision.  He acted as if it were my fault and made various rude gestures.

After that heart stopping moment, we continued up the street and I had to brake sharply once again.  A little girl in a saggy diaper was running around in the middle of the roadway.  I stopped abruptly and put on my flashers.  My wife got out and took the little girl by the hand and asked her where she lived, quickly leading her to the side of the road.  She called over to a woman who was doing some gardening and asked her if the child was hers.  The woman came running out, picked up the girl, said an embarrassed thank you, and went into her house.

Five minutes up the road from there, just as we were leaving town, I nearly ran a dog over.  It was off leash, but obviously owned by someone, having a collar and tag.

Maybe my planets are out of alignment, or something like that.

A farewell to a life

In one of the back bedrooms of your emptied house,
you sit for a moment on the stepstool you were using
to dust out the vintage cobwebs.
The others are out by the front porch,
having a celebratory coffee.

The last thing now to do, before the painters and cleaners arrive,
is to take down the faded pictures.
And, one by one, you lay them in bubble wrapped boxes.
Geez, you know, the floors are quite a bit of a different colour
where things used to sit in the years.
Vivid squares and rectangles left by absent pictures.
The bunnies of dust, forgotten gum wrappers from the kids,
lost cat toys. It’s so hard to comprehend them, to look at them,
and you think that they seem to have absorbed all of the living,
all of the emotions, from this life of yours now.

Whoever said a house is not a home surely did not live here.
Sometime, more than once, yes more than once,
the fine bones of your heart were broken,
and then mended at oddly changed angles.
Fit for the flight of a fairy’s fancy? No.
But well enough to see you to this day.
It’s the first time you ever hired a Mover to do the gruntwork.
A realization that you, your friends, and even your “kids”,
are a little unsuited for it now.

In this early summer heat, you look down at spindly arms and legs,
amazed by the smoothness of the hairless skin, by the blue tattoos
that have formed underneath, unerasable.
By the freckled speckles of liver spots,
which you imagine denote the locations of towns and villages
along your rivers of pain.

What now, when I get up from this stool? you think.
Put a damper on the coffee crowd out front?
No.
Pull your hat down a bit, wear something of a smile, grab a coffee.
Jump into the pickup with son and grandson.
Off into the unknown.
May just be….the flight of a fairy’s fancy.

number fifteen

A green caterpillar, stripy, with soft padded sticky feet.
It twirls and caresses the finger, then drops thirty storeys.
A shattered shard of mirror, six inches from point to base.
Tempted am I to challenge its edge.
A fish net, made of basket-woven reeds, with a long greasy handle.
It holds water too long. Stupid. Where is fish?
(a slimy smile, coin-eyed, with tendrils, hovers just below the ripples)
A tiny tiny nematode, directionless, inchworming under my microscoptic eyes.
How many have I, down, down in the warm bottom of the bowel?
Children of the tape worm.

All of these have come to me
in the wild eyed apprehension of semiconscious sleep.
The sweetest of dreams to thee.

 

My precious

This morning, I cried.
Over foggy coffee, fiddling with my phone,
I watched a woman in her hospital bed wake up with new lungs.
How long she bore the breathing mask I do not know.
There were doctors and family gathered ’round.
They took off her mask and said “breathe”.
Her eyes.  Her eyes as she looked from one to another.
She looked as if she would cry from joy.

I cried because she made me realize how precious our time is.
She had surely looked death in the face, and was reborn.

All of my aches, pains, complaints, all of my worldly sins,
I can bear perhaps a little more easily now,
after seeing this angelic scene.

Someone once said Go, and sin no more.
Our lives are worth so much more.

Pierce my heart with cast iron arrows

Fifty years on,
in my sad unpacking,
this time of letting go,
I find,
pressed between panes,
a polaroid.
A face is fuzzily framed
in one angled corner, and
I think it’s you.
A blur of bouncy ponytail,
laughing eyes and bunny teeth.
Looking up,
waving goodbye
to balloons released,
bound for a section of cloud
on some other tangent.
Nothing between but blue.

Was it the day
we went downslope
into the forbidden ravine,
inventing a tent out of bedrolls and branches?
Jelly sandwiches.
Red rolls of caps for fun.
The contraband camera,
the stolen tarot deck and decoder book.

My life.
My love.
There was no other.

How will I find that cloud tangent now?

The picture that bothers me

On my desktop, I’ve been in the habit of saving thousands of pictures from the internet.  I have loaded them into a screensaver so that each one dissolves into the next, after a few seconds.  Most of them have been collected because they elicit some kind of emotional response from the viewer, or at least from me.

They may be beautiful, awe inspiring, humorous, sexy, cute, etc.

One is particularly horrific, but for some reason I saved it, and have left it on there.  Out of the thousands of images in this screensaver, it seems to show up like a bad penny when I have left the computer running for any length of time.

It is apparently from World War Two, and I remember reading some of the background behind it.

Fuzzy, and in black & white, we are shown a large pit piled with dozens of dead bodies.  On the rim of the pit kneels a man in a shabby overcoat, hands tied behind his back.  An SS Officer stands over him and holds a gun to his head.  The most disturbing things for me about this image?  The man’s face at the moment of his death.  You would expect a countenance contorted with fear, but what you see is him looking at the camera with a blank expression, seeming to ask “Why?” Then there is the cold and sneering face of his executioner that reminds us of what we, as a species, are capable of.

Someone had to have taken that picture, and that leads to another disturbing thought.  Why was it taken?  As a trophy?  As a proof of body count?  As a warning?  In those days, there were no cellphones, so it couldn’t have been taken covertly.

Why have I kept it?  If it was through prurience, please forgive me.  But, I do not think so.  I was not searching for something of this nature, and it shocked me on first viewing.  I keep it as a reminder of our baser instincts, and of the need to be personally more kind to those around us.  I have seen a soul about to be lost, and the emptiness within its eyes.