On the Shore of the Sea

Standing on the shore of the sea
while seagulls feed from my fingers,
watching the waves lapping, lazy-like.

The smells on the breeze are heady
like the thoughts in my young mind,
so much time left to enjoy this life.

The water rolls back pulling at my ankles,
the sand being sucked off of the beach
uncovering colorful shells, toes...bones.

The sands of time recede like my hair,
like my gums, my skin looking more
blotched and mottled by the day.

Searching for shells, patterned, pretty,
something to fill the pockets of my soul
to leave an echo of love to my children.


***

Conceal & Carry

Conceal & carry a humble spirit over your heart
keeping the safety off and a round chambered
so that jostling causes it to go off unexpectedly.
May it wound the foot of your self-centeredness.
May it rip through the ego and leave it to bleed out.
Carry it everywhere and let no disturbance or
perceived insult pry it from your passionless hand.

***

A Little 80's Magic

Last night I met up with an old friend I hadn't seen since my High School days.  She brought along two of her three sons and we grabbed some dinner at Baja Fresh in midtown Atlanta.  Afterwards we wandered around reminiscing about our teenage days in the 80's.  Then, as a kind of soundtrack to our conversation, I heard "Power of Love" by Huey Lewis and the News wafting from somewhere nearby.  This brought up the movie "Back to the Future" which was the defining movie of that time period and the origin of this song.  

I loved the music of Huey Lewis in my early High School years and I had their "Sports" album on cassette as well as the Back to the Future soundtrack on vinyl.  I did a report on his song "Bad is Bad" in my freshman English class and made some quip about Huey Lewis being over 40, but still able to rock out.  The teacher was an uptight mid-lifer and she took offense at my attempt at humor.  She also could not seem to grasp the concept of using the slang term "Bad" as a positive descriptor and then turning it on its head again as was done in the song.  In retrospect, she may very well have been feigning ignorance and being intentionally obtuse.  Truth be told, I don't think she liked me very much or my style.

After saying goodbye to my friend and her sons I went back to my hotel room and subsequently learned that the music festival going on near where we were walking had actually featured Huey Lewis and the News that very night.  It had sounded much too tight to be live and so I had not put two and two together.  What are the odds that the quintessential song of our High School days would be playing live nearby as we walked and talked?  A cool coincidence to be sure.

Vonnegut's House

Not too long ago a story popped up on my Facebook newsfeed which noted that Kurt Vonnegut's boyhood home in Indianapolis was up for sale.  It struck me as odd that the city had not purchased it and made it into a national monument of some sort or a tourable pilgrimage site for us Hoosier ex-pats.

I then began fantasizing about buying it and sharing the space previously occupied by this man I hold in such high regard.  Maybe I would brush past his ghostly form on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, tendrils of smoke lifting from his transparent cigarette.  Possession would not be an altogether unpleasant experience if my writing improved, though the nicotine cravings would likely be insufferable.

So the logistics of such a thing... I don't make enough money to purchase such a house.  This is something that could probably be remedied by a boost in ambition and time spent working.  It would also likely include my wife working as well.  But then I read this today from his collection of essays "Wampeters, Foma, & Grandfalloons (OPINIONS)" while sitting in the Columbus airport:

There is an almost intolerable sentimentality beneath everything I write.  British critics complain about it.  And Robert Scholes, the American critic, once said I put bitter coatings on sugar pills.
It's too late to change now.  At least I am aware of my origins---in a big, brick dreamhouse designed by my architect father, where nobody was home for long periods of time, except for me and Ida Young.

Just prior to that he writes about this black woman, Ida Young, who was the cook for his family and whom he spent most of his growing up years with.  He describes her thus:

Her name was Ida Young, and I probably spent more time with her than I spent with anybody---until I got married, of course.  She knew the Bible by heart, and she found plenty of comfort and wisdom in there.  She knew a lot of American history too---things she and other black people had seen and marveled at, and remembered and still talked about, in Indiana and Illinois and Ohio---and Kentucky and Tennessee.  She would read to me, too, from an anthology of sentimental poetry about love which would not die, about faithful dogs and humble cottages where happiness was, about people growing old, about visits to cemeteries, about babies who died.  I remember the name of the book, and I wish I had a copy, since it has so much to do with what I am.

My fantasy was dismantled by this telling excerpt describing his life in a practically parentless house.  I am incredibly lucky, dare I say 'blessed', that I can be home every day by dinner time and find my family there---my wife, son, daughter, dog, and fish.  Not to mention the squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and a nesting robin that live in our backyard.  As far as fantasies go, this is pretty darn fantastic.  And as a kind of consolation prize, we live in the house where central-Ohio-celebrity Flippo the Clown lived for forty years and built our lovely gazebo which he called his "gazooby."  God bless you, Flippo the Clown.  And God bless you, Kurt Vonnegut.

To Heed or Ignore

I have to steal time to write, to think, to feel.
If I am not careful I begin to feel like a
disembodied eye floating in the head of an automaton,
a hermetically sealed lumbering tower of selfishness.

Writing is a way to ground myself in the reality
of my connectedness to the world around me,
to sense the overlapping rings of water from
raindrops hitting a river that winds through my days.

It is harder to bullshit my way through the day
when I have to organize my thoughts, sharpen my vision,
and lay a line of words like bricks and mortar.
What am I building? A bridge? A dam? (a wall?)

The scarcity of time forces me to focus on what is most
essential for me to live and for others to be able to live with me.
The pen is a sword cleaving inner demons and freeing the heart
from constricting scars and cobwebs, but it is up to me

to heed or ignore.


***

Baseball Fragments

If nothing else,

the beautiful backdrops

and big skies 

of baseball diamonds

have filled my

heart with good things.

This is Elias's third year of playing baseball and it is a sport that he has grown to love. Unlike basketball, he did not initially derive a lot of pleasure from playing this game but it has grown on him and, to be honest, it has grown on me as well. I went from a kind of begrudging involvement to really enjoying the lazy passage of innings, the smack of a ball in a mitt, the pinging noise of a successful bat swing. The thing that hit me today is that every baseball diamond we play at has its own unique personality, but they all share the same big sky with a wide variety of weather patterns that unfold overhead as clouds pass and the sun arcs to the horizon. They are memories that I will treasure even when our mitts are gathering dust in some future attic.

***

thirst for love

A wall of wit
holds back a
sea of sadness

(directing, misdirecting)

wallowing in mud
from the seep
of derelictions

(giving, withholding)

just one man
with a terrible
thirst for love


***

The Paschal Matins

As midnight approaches the entire church goes dark.  All sources of light are extinguished and the people stand in complete blackness.  It is a moment of pregnant silence surrounded by those you can feel but not see.  Then, somewhere in the altar, a single light appears and moves ghost-like to the royal doors.  They open and the priest appears with his lit candle chanting "Come receive the Light from the Unwaining Light and glorify Christ who is risen from the dead."  He is soon surrounded by eager hands holding unlit candles that catch his fire and the flame quickly spreads from the front of the church to the back, person to person.  It is a beautiful part of the Paschal service and a powerful metaphor for the mystery of the Resurrection.


***