The Fall

Almost 10 years ago this Fall I learned that the bishop over my former parish where I'd first become Orthodox had been removed from his duties and put into alcohol treatment, among other things.  I spent a lot of time walking and lost in thought that day, feeling it was terribly sad, but not without meaning somehow.  After returning home from the park I wrote this poem as a kind of therapy and search for healing.

_______________________________

I read about the fall of a bishop today.
It makes me sad and prone to wander.
I took my dog to the park and let her run.

He was my first Archpastor in a new-found Faith.
He is a lonely old man with an alcohol problem.
I imagine he’s been feeling pretty small these days.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

Why do I use such shoddy materials to build a life?
I build indiscriminately, pell mell, without much thought.
It is a poor strategy, short-sighted, a flim flam thing.

How long does it take for something so precarious to topple?
I need something to come and shake it daily, a test.
Otherwise its collapse becomes inevitable, a matter of time.

I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

I think of a story of the foolish building on sand.
Of a myth where a boulder need continually be pushed up a hill.
Of the Golden Mouth praying for help to make a good beginning.

The Sacraments as stones and the Spirit as mortar.
My structure shaken without bringing despair.
The grace of God to start again, more humble, obedient, and careful.

And I hear a voice pick up the leaves like wind and say,
“Bless God for the coming of a fall…”

***

Election Day Blues

Untitled, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

My alarm clock went off an hour earlier than usual this morning to account for a side trip to vote at our local Rec Center before work. It was one of those odd experiences of being somewhere and somewhen that is completely outside of a well oiled routine, not unlike the feeling when I was a kid and an evening school Open House found me in my classroom with my parents at night.

Walking into the building I followed the "vote today" arrows which quickly brought me to a line of my neighbors, many of whom I recognized from our recent block party. We nodded at each other as eye contact was made and faces were recognized and maybe even a "good morning" exchanged but mostly we just stood there waiting our turn to sign in and vote in silence. Maybe something solemn was taking place, maybe it was just too darn early.

From where I stood I could see through a large glass window into a gym where women were doing some kind of an aerobics workout together. In another instance of odd out-of-placeness I recognized the leader as an exercise physiologist at the hospital exercise facility where I work out during my lunch hour. She was doing what I frequently see her doing at the hospital but at a place I've never seen her do it before.

When it was my time to sign in a gruff gentleman next to me said to one of the workers, "May I ask a question?" When he was encouraged to do so he began complaining that ID wasn't asked for at another voting place in the city and "shouldn't everyone follow the same set of rules?" The worker stammered a bit and said that he didn't make the rules. It was more of a rhetorical question anyway and had more to do with a busybody's need to impose their will on the universe. And why had he been at another voting place anyway?!

Upon leaving the premises I ran into a neighbor who we have not had the best relations with over the past year or two. He is normally quiet and somber but this morning he greeted me with a hearty "Hi, how are ya?" and seemed very excited to be there. Maybe voting jazzes him, who knows?

My mind then started to imagine a "what if" scenario that was in line with my own feelings of being out of place and off balance. I saw in my mind's eye someone in a tweed jacket with slacks and a stylish t-shirt wearing a rubber Barack Obama mask entering the building and approaching people, shaking their hands, and simply saying each time, "I'm Barack Obama and I approve this message." What possible motive could there be for such a thing? A prank? Mental illness? Bath salts? Whatever the motive it would probably unnerve some and tickle others. The front desk staff would likely call the police who would then explain to them that nothing illegal was being perpetrated, but if he pulls out a weapon of any kind to let them know.

My overall experience this morning is what happens when you go to vote and you don't have anyone you want to vote for. It's a sad, strange, experience that is hard to explain.

I Was Your Friend

Today is the 15th anniversary of the death of singer-songwriter and all around ragamuffin Rich Mullins.  His music was a touchstone for me in my college days and I consider his album "A Liturgy, a Legacy, & a Ragamuffin Band" a bright star from my past that continues to cast light forward into my 40's.  His lyrics were penetrating, honest, and beautifully sculpted.  The music he set them to was of a quality I'd not hither-to known possible in what has been called "Contemporary Christian Music".  I don't want to disparage other artists in that genre, but for me Rich was a singular artist and a profound human being whose influence moved well beyond his music making.

Sitting here writing this I can still feel the exhilaration I experienced when "A Liturgy, a Legacy..." was released in 1993 as I sat in my apartment listening to it for the first time.  At that time I had only recently returned to Indiana Wesleyan University to finish my senior year after having served two years as an infantryman in Korea.  I was starving for some spiritual sustenance and this music was feeding my weary soul.  When it was finished playing I snatched it out of the CD player and sprinted across campus to a friend's house and excitedly told her she *had* to hear it as I stood there panting and out of breath.

Prior to my leaving IWU for my stent in the Army I had attended a concert of his in a small chapel where he played in front of about 50 students.  It was just him and his bestfriend/traveling companion, "Beaker".  Rich rotated from guitar to piano to hammer dulcimer over the course of the concert and afterwards he came to the lobby of our dorm for a small pizza reception.  He looked pretty scraggly and had dirty bare feet.  I talked with him a bit and probably asked him a few questions that I don't remember.  What I do remember is that he was delightfully peculiar and had a loving acceptance that surrounded him like an invisible hug.

Fast forward to 1997.  It was September and I'd just started my first year of Medical School.  I had a one room attic apartment a few blocks from IU's campus and my parents had come for a visit.  We chit chatted for awhile and at some point the conversation kinda died down into silence.  I remember sitting in a green recliner that had been my grandma's while my Dad sat on a metal table chair and my Mom sat on my futon.  Almost as a "by the way" my Mom suddenly remembered something she had wanted to ask me.  "Did you hear about the singer who recently died?  I think he was someone you've talked about before."

I got  a very strange sensation that moved from my head down into my body and back up again.  Just a few days prior in my Infectious Diseases class I had caught a snippet of a conversation between two other students who were talking after class.  The words that had caught my attention along with their tone was "Rich Mullins" but I'd paid no further mind to it.  With a sinking feeling in my gut I asked my Mom in a kind of forced voice, "Was it Rich Mullins?"

"Yes!  That's who it was, Rich Mullins.  He was killed in a car accident."

I put my head down in my hands and felt absolutely numb for a moment or two.  Then I took a deep shuddering breath in and sobs started leaking out.  The more I tried to suppress them the stronger they got.  My parents just sat in silence and let me cry.  It seemed strange that I was feeling such strong and overpowering emotions about someone I'd never really known personally.  It wasn't until that moment that I realized what his life and legacy had meant to me in college and subsequent decisions that had led me down the spiritual path I am now walking.

We were both lost and lonely, looking for something beyond ourselves, wanting to be found by love and in communion with the source of that love.  It brings to mind his song "What Susan Said":

And we both feel lost
But I remember what Susan said
How love is found in the things we've given up
More than in the things that we have kept
And ain't it funny what people say
And ain't it funny what people write
And ain't it funny how it hits you so hard
In the middle of the night
And if your home is just another place where you're a stranger
And far away is just somewhere you've never been
I hope that you'll remember, I was your friend

Shed a Little Light

"Shed a Little Light" is a sermon in a song.  I can think of no other artist that has captivated me for so much of my life as James Taylor.  There has not been a single year gone by since my mid High School years that I have not listened to his music, whether his ubiquitous Greatest Hits, new albums as they've been released, or my treasured 2CD live set.  I was lucky enough to see him in concert with my younger sister during my college years sitting on a blanket in the grassy area of Deer Creek.  Now in my 40's I'm finding his early albums at Half Price Books and sharing them with my children.  I met James, figuratively speaking, in the summer of 1986. 

That summer I spent two weeks on the Indiana State University campus for a Summer Honors Seminar that focussed on Chemistry.  My best friend was also participating and it was nice to have someone along I knew and who I could share the experience with.  When it came to roommate assignments that first day of orientation we were paired up with people we didn't know though we were just down the hall from each other.  My friend wanted to ask our respective roommates if they'd do a switcharoo so we could be together but I convinced him it would be a good way to get to know more people in the two short weeks that we would be there and he agreed to stay put.

Turns out it was much easier for me to remain in place than my friend.  His roommate was a real oddball, obnoxious and frequently inappropriate over a wide range of contexts.  I remembered his name for years afterwards but only now cannot recall it.  I don't know if my friend has ever forgiven me for not making that switch the first day but I can't help but think it was somehow meant to be.  I make this strange assertion because of what happened in my friend's room that first week.  I went down one evening on a study break to see what he was up to.  His roommate was playing a tape on his boom box.

The song I heard was James Taylor's "Carolina on my Mind".  I was completely mesmerized and whatever I'd come down to do or say was forgotten as I simply sat down and listened to it.  It was sweet, heart warming, gentle, soulful, and had a richness about it that transported me to I do not know where.  I just know that I had a hard time coming back to the sweltering evening heat of that college dorm room from my reverie.  It was inexplicable to me how my friend's roommate in all of his vulgar glory could be listening to something so pure and sweet.  It was a mystery and in retrospect a testament to James Taylor's wide ranging appeal as a singer-songwriter.  So...

_______________________

let us turn our thoughts today

to Martin Luther King

and recognize that there are ties between us

all men and women

living on the Earth

ties of hope and love

sister and brotherhood

That we are bound together

in our desire to see the world become

a place in which our children

can grow free and strong

We are bound together

by the task that stands before us

and the road that lies ahead

We are bound and we are bound

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist

There is a hunger in the center of the chest

There is a passage through the darkness and the mist

And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

(Chorus)

Shed a little light, oh Lord

So that we can see

Just a little light, oh Lord

Wanna stand it on up

Stand it on up, oh Lord

Wanna walk it on down

Shed a little light, oh Lord

Can't get no light from the dollar bill

Don't give me no light from a TV screen

When I open my eyes

I wanna drink my fill

from the well on the hill

(Do you know what I mean?)

- Chorus -

There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist

There is a hunger in the center of the chest

There is a passage through the darkness and the mist

And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest

Oh, let us turn our thoughts today

to Martin Luther King

and recognize that there are ties between us

all men and women

living on the Earth

ties of hope and love

sister and brotherhood

__________________

Thanks James.  You're a one-of-a-kind gent.

To Simeon and those who love him

Thinking of Little Simeon and his parents this morning., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

in the secret place
you were stitched
by dark fingers
hidden from light

the thread spun long
but not long enough
leaving my heart
to unravel itself

the Weaver's skill
to mend in love
and communion
we grow together

You are There

I sometimes escape
into the realms
of the fantastical
as refuge from
a troubled reality
I cannot control.

I have accessed
this secret door
off and on
for 40 years
to obtain a
degree of solace.

Some people scoff
"it’s not real"
though they live
a fantasy of
their own making
deceived and deceiving.

I cannot explain
what I find
in imaginary places
but I know
even in the
depths of Sheol

You are there.

_______________________________

Out of Context

Attending a conference
a straight shot
from the Mid West
to the East Coast
having navigated the mountains
of Pennsylvania and invested
heavily in the turnpike

I am out of context

Each day my schedule is set
the night previous
sitting in my hotel room
unable to sleep
the daytime filled with
meetings and lectures
but afterwards I am lost

and out of context

Wandering the streets
of Philadelphia humming
that Springsteen song
taking pictures
of people and places
eating cheesesteaks and chinese
because taking pictures

gives me context

It makes me feel connected
showing the street vendor
the photo I took of her
in an exploding sun flair
giving the homeless man
a dollar to take his picture
ventriloquist dummy in lap

connections creating context

***

The Road to Damascus

Road to Damascus, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I snapped this photo of Anya today while we were playing on her brother’s bed. He has a mobile of the planets suspended above it which fascinates her. At this point she was lying on her back and starting to extend her arm towards it. I saw the gesture, I saw the light, and with only seconds to spare I used my phone to take the shot. Cropping and processing came later and it wasn’t until I posted it online that the significance of the photo hit me.

The photo is divided into three sections by two diagonal lines that are parallel to each other. The first section is Anya’s face. The middle section is the darkened wall and headboard. The third section is the sunlit window. Her arm dramatically cuts across these three sections extending through the darkness and into the light  with her finger pointing the way. Just behind the headboard and partially hidden is a carved cross that’s still there from when her brother had no bed but just a mattress on the floor. To the right of Anya’s arm you can see some paper icons he has in his window sill from Church School. The most noticeable one is in the bottom right hand corner and is of St. Paul. The rest are partially hidden or blown out from the sunlight.

So there it is, the story of “The Road to Damascus” in a photo where Saul-soon-to-be-Paul has fallen to the ground blinded by a great light that  is Christ himself speaking to him. The partially hidden cross represents Christ and St. Paul is there as well in his icon. This is what I love so much about taking pictures. I don’t always know why I take them and oftentimes I don’t consciously think about how to frame the shot, but once in awhile a story sort of forms after the fact and completely surprises me. It is like a little blessing or gift from the “Giver of all good things.”

[fill in the blank] Worldview

Reality floated into view:
an inexplicable undulating mass
pulsing and sparking, 
pregnant with mystery.

Scared out of my mind
I seized upon my stamp
neatly columned and lined
black with ink.

A white surface
flat and featureless
lay beneath it
beckoning for imprint.

At just the right moment
with all my strength
I splattered it flat
trapped and grid-bound.

I scribbled feverishly
filling in the spaces
making sense of it all
in a fool’s scrawl.

Now it hangs
limp and lifeless
on my refrigerator door
for reference.


***

In the Garden

Neighbor's Flower Garden, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

On the way out of the hospital today the Muzak playing overhead caught my attention with a familiar melody that I could not immediately put my finger on. I hummed along a bit as I walked and then a few words popped loose in my memory… “walks with me”… “talks with me”… sounded kinda hymnishhh… Yes! “In the Garden” came full bloom in my mind with its pseudo-romantic lyrics and its plodding waltziness. It was strange enough to hear a hymn amongst the normal overhead fare but stranger still was the fact it was being played by an unaccompanied accordion. I decided it was a sign I should call my mother.

Growing up in Southern Indiana in the 70’s my Dad was a minister and my Mom, well, she was a minister’s wife. She had a magnificent red and white accordion that she would play at church from time to time singing alto to my Dad’s lead. When it was at home she kept it in a large black case with silver snap buckles and a velvet lined interior. I remember pulling it out of their closet one day when they weren’t around and hoisting that fascinating contraption up by its wide leather straps onto my boney shoulders. It was huge and heavy. The bottom of it hit me about mid-shin. The right side was the keyboard and the left side had rows and rows of little red buttons, one of which had what appeared to be a diamond imbedded in it. When you pushed down one button several others would mysteriously and inexplicably depress as well. I was secretly impressed that my Mom could even play such a thing!

Once when my older sister was available we decided to take turns shutting each other in the case. I, with more daring than brains, decided to go first. I got into the case and assumed the fetal position. My sister shut it and then opened it a few times for me to get used to it. I then told her to click the snaps shut which she did, including the middle one with the key hole in it. You’ve probably already guessed where this is going. I stayed in the cramped and pitch blackness for as long as I could stand but then told her I was ready to get out. She couldn’t get the middle snap to unfasten. I remember yelling and beating at the inside lid in mounting panic as she ran off to find Mom. I’ve always been a little claustrophobic about tight places and it can likely be traced back to this incident.

So, I called Mom on the way home and put her on speaker phone. I told her that I’d heard an accordion playing “In the Garden” over the speakers at the hospital and took it as a sign I should call. She told me that that particular song had been very popular at funerals when we were growing up and that they’d sang and played it many a time at such. It then struck me as funny that when a baby is born at our hospital they play a snippet of Brahm’s lullaby. I surmised that maybe someone had died and so they played “In the Garden.” We had a good laugh at that (I mostly get my bent sense of humor from her). It’s been 2 years ago this week that she had her heart attack and we very nearly lost her. It was good to hear her voice and her laughter. As the song says,“And the joy we share as we tarry there...”

Here is Alan Jackson singing the hymn: In the Garden

Another World

Have you ever wondered what goes on in little minds that have not yet developed to the point they can effectively communicate what they are experiencing? It amazes me to think that in those little craniums countless neurons are growing, dividing, branching out, and finding connections to other neurons in neighboring parts of the brain at a dizzying rate. The migration of my neuronal paths ended almost 20 years ago and I have to be content with just the general upkeep of cell turnover and pruning while avoiding brain killing substances or falling on my head from high places.

Where did this sudden curiosity about the brain come from? Well, it came from my 7 year old of course. We were driving over to Great Clips to get his hair cut and passed a McDonalds that has one of those large three leveled indoor playgrounds in front. You know, the ones that kids clamor about until you give in and stop or else forces you to make vile threats to shut them up so you can drive on in peace. This time around he simply directed my attention to it and asked if I remembered when we went to one when he was four years old and we were living in Tennessee. I vaguely remembered it, but then he surprised me with what he remembered about it.

The look on his face was one I’d not seen before, like what he was remembering was new and strange somehow. In retrospect, I imagine it was a matter of him remembering an experience of something that had occurred significantly further up the neuronal pathway. Something experienced by a different kid for all intents and purposes. He said, “I remember standing at the top of the slide and I was really scared.” This was that twisty opaque tunnel slide that is the only way back down from the third level. He said we were standing at the bottom and trying to coax him to go down it. “I was really scared because I thought if I went down that tunnel I would end up in another world where I wouldn’t be able to find you or Mommy”.

What a strange predicament that must have been for the little guy! He had negotiated three levels of obstacles, some of which he could not negotiate backwards, and was now stranded high in the air with Mommy and Daddy so far away trying to convince him the only way back was through this dark hole in front of him, a somewhat counterintuitive notion for his little immature brain I’m sure. Not go back the way I came? Enter this hole and trust it goes to the right place? 7 year old Elias in the front seat of the car gave me a kind of embarrassed smile after he shared that as if to say “wasn’t that silly?”

Photographic Memory

Commute Impressionism, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I've recently come to make a habit of taking pictures on my commute home from work. It provides a kind of antidote for "zoning out" during that 20 minute time frame and forces me to look around at the world passing by and process it a bit. I think this is a good thing because there is a lot of world to experience between where I work and my house. Why should I ignore it? In olden times I would have likely been walking to work or waving and talking to folks while perched on the seat of my horse-drawn wagon. As it is, I speed along in my car but my heart can still take it in, a prayer connecting me to those I see on the way and a picture to remind me...

The Birds

The Birds, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I saw a "murmuration" over a massive conglomeration of rice paddies in South Korea in 1994 while on a cross country bus trip from Pusan to Seoul. It was not quite as spectacular as this one, but it's been a dream-like image that recurs from time to time in my memory and I initially had to re-remember where it was that I saw it to convince myself it wasn't just something I'd imagined. This video along with its soundtrack looks like something that would be in a Hayao Miyazaki animated film, but it's real!


Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.

The Wizard of Us

The Wizard of Oz , a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

While reading some political commentary from a Right-ward leaning friend today about the “real motives” behind the Wall Street protests it occurred to me that those caught up taking sides in a politically bifurcated system can do little more than purvey half-truths and try and foist them off as the whole shebang. In looking back on the earlier phenomenon of the Tea Party Movement with my Left-ward leaning friends’ critiques I see the mirror image.

Using mirror as metaphor, it is like describing half a person, but then putting a mirror up to the edge to give an illusion of seeing the whole person. This half person posing as a whole person allows for pronouncements of nefarious connections and motives that are tenuous at best as well as providing a self-serving and incomplete picture.

Is this the famous “Straw Man” of debate fame? The Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz longing for a brain? Whatever it is I think this approach does precious little to help solve the problems we face as a society, but is more a symptom of its self-destruction. Maybe we need a Tin Man approach whereby we long for a heart?

Night Swimming

I learned tonight that R.E.M. is disbanding.  The flood of memories that have come with that revelation have been almost overwhelming.  I most associate their music with the two years I spent in Korea as an infantryman from 1991 to 1993, a strange and melancholy time for me.  I remember listening to songs from their album “Out of Time” while swimming in a pool on a lonely hilltop that overlooked the Demilitarized Zone with other members of my squad.  From this hilltop the fake city of “Peace Village” in North Korea could be seen in the hazy distance adding a surreal quality to this rare moment of downtime. 

“Automatic for the People” came out some time after we'd transferred back to our base at Camp Casey, headquarters of the US Army's 2nd Infantry Division.  The song "Losing My Religion" followed me in and out of the PX and shops in the small town outside of our base as well as haunted my trips to Seoul where it played through store front speakers in Myeongdong.  Their music was a kind of soundtrack for that two year tour of duty and that song in particular encapsulated my experiences, thoughts, and feelings of the time.

I remember one night in particular.  I was walking back to my barracks some time after midnight, having just come from hanging out with Korean friends in a coffee shop outside the gate in Dongducheon. Half way there I passed the base swimming pool and found myself staring across the road at the blue glow of the water behind a high security fence. A tremendous wave of melancholy washed over me. My mind began to fill with thoughts of my situation: far from home, far from family and friends, trying to find lasting friendships and relationships in a situation that was impermanent and tenuous at best.

The feeling was so intolerably strong that I suddenly found myself headed across the road while keeping an eye out for the Military Police patrolling in their humvees. I scaled the high fence and squatted at the water’s edge looking into its depths. As if in a trance I stripped down to my boxers and allowed myself to topple forward into the water. 

I wouldn’t say that I was looking for death per se, but it was a longing for a release from the emotional pain of life that is felt in those moments when we feel utterly alone.  In retrospect, baptism would be an apt analogy, wanting to move from death to life in the act of immersion and then rebirth.

I remember the glow all around me, the sensation of floating, feeling detached from my cares. I swam for no more than a few minutes staying mostly underwater. I wanted to continue to do that until the sun rose, but getting caught would have resulted in serious consequences in that environment. I eventually got out and put my clothes back on with my boxers soaking through my pants and walked the kilometer or so back to my barracks where I quietly climbed into bed and fell asleep.

***

Vespers

Vespers, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I attended the Saturday Vespers service at St. Gregory of Nyssa Orthodox Church last night and brought my camera along. While uploading the photos to my computer later in the evening it sparked memories of the first time I stepped foot into an Orthodox Church in the summer of 1995. A friend from college had an Orthodox publication that I had perused while visiting him which intrigued me. That led to reading more about this ancient Christian church that I knew so very little about.

That reading led to looking for a local Orthodox Church which I found in the phone book of a larger nearby town and I called the priest, Fr. Athanasius. I asked to meet with him and that led to some visits in his office and even a lunch date or two. In those early meetings he patiently answered my (mostly foolish) questions, but also encouraged me to “come and see”. This was difficult because I was teaching a Sunday School class back in my hometown on Sunday mornings. At some point I made the decision to attend a Saturday evening Vespers service.

I arrived early and nervously opened the front door. The first thing that hit me was the smell of incense and then I noticed the flicker of candle flames a few feet away. There was a warm glow about the place and a few people were walking around bowing and kissing icons. The service started and I heard the Psalms being read as well as chanted in a Middle Eastern sounding tone. At some point the priest stood in front of a table (the altar) with a golden censer in hand, quiet and attentive, with his head bowed. As the chanter began to sing “let my prayer arise before You as incense” the priest began swinging the censer which jingled with the sound of small bells… “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

16 years later I still treasure Vespers as the sun sets and "we see the evening light", the candles brighten, the air becomes hazy with incense, and I feel my heart beating “hear me, hear me, Oh Lord.”

Pictures in the Dark

Drawing Pictures in the Dark, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Most nights I lay with Elias after our bedtime ritual until he falls asleep and then I quietly extricate myself when I’m sure he’s asleep. Tonight he requested his Mom lay with him and was told she would join him after getting Anya to sleep. With this assurance of an eventual bedtime companion I left his room and gave dire warnings of what would happen if he were to be seen leaving his room as he’s wont to do if he is awake and no one is with him in bed.

After some time I was pleasantly surprised to realize it had been several minutes since my exit and he had not left his room despite me hearing him mumbling things like “I’m bored” from his bed while I sat in the office next door doing meaningful work (OK, I was on Facebook). The comments eventually stopped and not sure of what to make of his unexpected obedience I peeked in on him. His bed was empty and scanning the room I caught sight of his small dark silhouette hunched over his desk with marker in hand drawing pictures in the dark.

In the Night Kastle

In the Slanted Lands

where only shadows grow

lies the Night Kastle

Asleep in the parapet
lies little Kramer Krow
high in his perch
between sheets of ice and snow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

The cry of the grubble-snout
resounding long and low
awakens the sleeping Kramer
from his dreaming undertow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

He rubs his tired eyes
and wiggles his talon-toes
sprouting from his back
two slender black wings grow

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow

Tottering on his tower
a breeze begins to blow
he tumbles into the air
to go where he does not know

Falling feels like flying

Sleeping seems like dying

It sometimes leaves you crying

In the Slanted Lands
where only shadows grow.

They’re gardening boots now...

They’re gardening boots now
Stained only with the dirt
Of my small raised garden

Seeds unsealed from plastic
Await a proper burial
Reminding me of a past

That still weighs on my heart
But gives me hope
For the possibility of new life

Reading Buck's "The Good Earth"

"The Good Earth" comes to mind
As I mow my yard and think of “the land”
This is my land and it’s not much
But I work it with sweat and care when I can

There are more weeds than grass
But I enjoy the variety that my neighbors lack
With their absolute uniformity
Of changeless blades

I add nothing to it that kills or coerces
Things that the liver must clear
To maintain the body’s health
But may revisit with sickness years hence

My son plays here where bunny burrows hide
Strange and varied flowers grow where they will
It’s my land and it’s not much
But I will not subjugate, only steward