Languishing in the Land of the Loblolly

Remember when we moved to South Carolina
And I got old

Learned I was vulnerable

Starting to feel like an old house in the country

All clapboards and tin

Rattled by a stiff breeze

Slowly decaying back into the sandy soil

At the end of a rutted out dirt road

All lazy and wistful 

Waiting for the weather to change

When I was out West the desert sun baked

Till I was all hardened and dehydrated

My muscles able to lift pianos 

Hoist sofas over my head

Work and struggle and never hardly sleep

But that humidity soaked in

Softened my muscles

Soaked into my resolve

Drained my insomnia

And began to wash the color from my hair

The grey creeping up my temples

My beard a field of snowy white

Looking years beyond my age

All of the history of the land

Overcoming my sun-baked exterior

The land thick with so many trees

Stacked against so many trees

Hemming you in and holding you there

Singing entrancing songs in humming insect choruses

There is more than moisture trapped in the swamp

Mist of magic swirling around

The base of the towering loblolly pine

Drawing you deeper in 

Calling you to your older self

Cloaked in the musk of moldering flora

Couples Therapy Trip

Stuck in coach but we are together
And she has a window seat
Despite limited legroom on an early flight
And for the first time in decades we are traveling
Alone and unfettered
As one happy couple
No teenagers left behind causing gray hairs
Even if there is radio silence
Limited financial concerns
All bases covered
The phone does not ring often
And we feel like we are young again
Or at least in love if not so young any more
We two acting as one and arguments do not exist
Just posing of options
Rational discussion
Equitable outcomes
Peaceful
And we have avoided a therapist for another year
Found a solution that works
Weren't really ever in trouble to begin with
But this reminds us we can be more
We can be just us two
And we liked being us seven
Or us nine or ten or twelve 
Depending on who is around
But therapy like this is nicer than we thought
Better than we could have planned
A pleasant sigh between sustained easy silences
Your head on my chest
Quietly not rushing anywhere
While someone else cooks the dinner
For at least a few days

Meeting Elephants in Kerala

Later that night

Fireworks would light the sky

Now was peaceful

A nice breeze on a sunny afternoon

Stepping from the car the sound came

The thunder of rushing water

A deception only

As thousands of strands

Of shiny silver streamers

Caught the breeze and shook

For all they were worth

A peaceful cacophony

I follow Jayram's beckoning waves

And broad smile

"Here, here. This way!"

Walking through the parade grounds

Passing the temple

Into the shaded copse of tree

To the presence of magnificence

A beautiful creature

We are introduced

"He is Jayram too!"

Of course he would find this elephant

That shares his name

He is delighted

We are all delighted 

And we are all fast friends

People and elephant in the shade

The new Jayram eyes me lazily

As he manipulates the pile of vegetation

With his incredibly agile and capable proboscis 

Shuffle, move, grasp, break, lift

Then chew and watch and sway 

I am brought closer

Right near his smooth ivory protrusions

A photo op that I don't want to end

I catch his eye

There is something so deep

In the eyes of animals

A story untold

Prevented by a lack of common language

But some things are understood

Some thoughts are shared

It is nice and relaxing to be in the shade

This food is good

And then just something else

With no specific form

Contentment

Or close to it

I leave unwillingly

Knowing that I am

Changed

Better

Suddenly no more than a breeze

Rushing through silver streamers

Leaving something of myself

Humbled 

So Much Depends Upon an Empty Pill Case

My chronological condition precipitates adjustments

No longer do my veins course

With the elixir of vitality

Vanquisher of all concern

Lifeblood of the young

Seemingly endless in supply

In earlier years

I could eat anything

Bounce away from injury

Sleep carelessly

Run unceasingly

Never feel much pain

And that that was noticed

Never seemed to last

Illness feared me

And frailty was not in my vocabulary

And I still remember how it felt

Sort of

It I wish I did

Because parts of me still try

To act like they did long ago

And the rest of me takes exception

To any such outburst of vigor

By turning up the pain

Stuffing the joints

Accelerating angony

And turning down all endurance

Until I am little more than an ornament

Meant to keep furniture

From flying away

Thus I have become

Despite my aversion in early years

A taker of pills

An ingester of medicines

Attempting to stave off all ills

With tiny capsules and tablets of magic

They sit each day in my plastic green case

Waiting to make me live

For at least another day

But today they caught me melancholy

Because I am journeying

Far from home

And the empty spaces in the green case

Mean I am heading home soon

And I have never felt so much joy

At pills not being in this case

Never looked so forward 

To taking another portion

Never been so excited to sit at my desk

Take out the bottles

And fill up the week of doses

Vecause just in the next room 

As I clink each new pill against plastic

You will be waiting

Thinking nothing of the mundane task

Wondering why you caught a glimpse

Of me with a big stupid grin

Dropping another tiny pill

Into its waiting proper place

Baklava in Qatar

I return to the lounge

At Hamad Airport

Doha

Qatar

Out of hope

A hope to regain an experience 

Of one of my first adventures 

When I knew nothing

And planned poorly

And whiled away

Twelve hours

Exploring the airport

Stopping often to refuel

At the piled offerings of baklava 

Stacked in sticky sweet towers

Myriad varieties

Something like ambrosia

From the gods on Olympus 

Presented free of charge

In seemingly unlimited quantities 

But they are yet to return

But still I try

Because that is the better story

Than boring butter cookies

And dry crumbly mini muffins

With gross candied fruit in them

And it is more crowded now 

And the layovers are too short

To make an argument for going there

Even for a brief check-up

So it lives in a dream

A Commonplace Life

I didn't know the wording you used

To describe the little book I keep

To scribble all of my cherished thoughts

I thought it was just a notebook

If I was being classy, a journal

But this new phrase is better

As you commended my dedication

To keeping a commonplace book

And it is what it is so completely

A place to compile knowledge 

Gather my thoughts

Record impressions

Document my learning

In a common place

The same place

Thoughts gather to mingle over and over

Socialize and entwine and mix and flourish

A defined and reliable companion

This commonplace thing is not un-special

As the current understanding of common is thought to be

It is the better idea

The utopian ideal

Of all things in common

All ideas valued in the same place

And maybe we should strive to be like that book

A commonplace person

That receives and records many different experiences and ideas and thoughts

Cherishes many people and their many ways

Clings to their uniqueness

And recalls interactions as holy events

Reverenced and revered

That person who can do this 

Is commonplace

Because they give room for all

Within who they are

A collection of understanding

A reflection of the best 

They are able to see in all

Missing Valentine's Day

It isn't like that time

When I left for three weeks

And you all alone

With just a few of the kids

For Thanksgiving

Or the time I left again

And the delayed flight

Should have been a sign

Telling me to turn around

Because your sister had passed

And I thought it would be ok

You'd be busy with your family stuff

I'd be in the way

But instead

The correct answer

Is you needed my shoulder

And my helping hand

And me not to be selfish

Those other ones were way worse

And we did get to have our time

But I am still sorry

You have to spend Valentine's alone

Especially since this isn't the first time

That I have left

To the other side of the world

Especially since 

You have to babysit my mother

Probably best to not tell her

She will want to eat all of your candy

And play the lonely widow card

But to put this in a better light

You now have leverage

A more horrible set of crimes

Committed by me

How I left you alone again

Even if it is a made up holiday

Even if we would have just sat in bed

Because who has time for that

On a Tuesday night

But still

This is just to say

I'm sorry I left again

And I hope this apology

Buys me some clemency

For this poor dumb traveler

And his inability

To read a calendar

His failure 

To put you always first

Opening Up on the Open Road

Hard conversations are easier in a convertible 

All the anxiety 

That rooms and walls and still air

Can trap and capture

Causing them to fall upon each other

Each revelation smothering a little more

A stifle and a choke

These are not issues 

When the air is whipping around

And the thunder of the road

The roar of the wind

The growl of the engine

A slight whiff of petrol

Makes only the essentials exist

Snippets of the story

That wounded the soul

And the pain can’t hang around

Wicked words rise to the jet stream 

Barreling over the windshield 

Just over heavy heads

And the bad stories get told

But the all encompassing pain

Has nowhere to sit

Their grip not strong enough

In the gale force of the open road

To hold on and weigh down

So when it is time

For hard revelations 

Difficult discussion points

Sadness and trials

To be revealed 

Find a car without a roof

Go for a drive in the open air

On the open road

And cast those worries skyward

Let the winds take your worries

The road smooth the roughness

The weight of your soul

Easily carried

On four good wheels 

POEM - SOFISTIKASHUN

 

POEM - It Was a Good Start

 

Typewriter Poem - Talk a Little in Old Ways

 

Typewriter Poem - Once There was a Time for All Things

 

POEM - Mother-in-Laws Are Weird

It wasn't an easy relationship

My mother-in-law and I

I made a bad first impression

And never tried too hard to change it

And with that we settled into our roles

She difficult and judgemental

I insolent and insufferable

And both of us cordial

For the sake of everyone else

Long enough play acting and a reality develops

And although I was always dirty and poor

I was reliable

I showed up when chores needed doing

And did the job right

Ran errands 

Helped at parties

Took out the trash

Made cute grandkids

And took care of her daughter

And in order to maintain 

My established designation

She would often pay for my labors

The worst though was holidays

Subjected to various corny events

As part of her pet project

To ensure the grandkids wouldn't suffer

Because of our perceived poverty

From Zoo Lights to The Nutcracker

We attended

Graciously

Thankfully

Privately nitpicking

For our own morbid pleasure

Some clumsily contrived gaudiness

Or amateur production value

As simpering sappy slop abounded

And we begrudgingly joined in

She has passed now

Several years back

And we had been away for the holidays

For many years before that

And I find

In spite of myself

I actually miss it

Miss the sappy shows

Grow inexplicably nostalgic 

For the manufactured happiness

Feel sorrow for my immaturity

And I long to be the bain

Of that crazy old bat's existence

Realizing

A little too late

She was trying

In her own kooky way

To make things just a little more special

To give joy in a way she felt she could

To say she loved us

That she didn't mind too much

That we were still hanging around

POEM - Not Private, Just Boring

It was hilarious
Not laugh-out-loud hilarious
But so odd
Catching me cross-ways
Out of left field
Perspective restructuring
Type of hilarious
That statement floating my way

"I know y'all are private people"

Huh, so that's the prevailing opinion
The vibe that's transmitting
The tenor and tone we radiate
A sketch
Construct
Classification

I get it

Private may be how it looks
Especially to certain circles
That overlap intermittently
In an awkward vin diagram
Of interconnected space
Where our general pension for silence
Intersects with their addiction to divulging
Regardless of the occasion
Ever tiny detail
And every ache and pain
Juicy tidbit
Randy scandal
Weather pattern
Car tip
Recipe
Driving direction
And life history
On queue
Triggered on our part
By any nod or noise
Intended or accidental

But it isn't privacy that drives the silence

Private is what people call it
When you don't do your part
To fill in the empty space
Posture unasked opinions
Relate personal histories
Engage in any discussion
Regardless of your involvement
And do it all with a smile
The smile is what does it
Makes it so they can see you

But rather it is something else

Any of a list of other characteristics
A litany of personally cherished traits
Of misunderstood flavors
Shy
Indifferent
Withdrawn
Introverted
Distracted
Polite
Trying not to be rude
Avoiding participation
Being a peacemaker
Or just refraining from it all
Because no one really asked
To take on my burdens
And I'm not looking to hand them over
And I'm sure they have their own to carry

"Well, not really private...
       Just sort of boring"

POEM - The Mold is Just an Excuse

It must be September
I think as the conversation veers once again
To my mother's favorite seasonal topic
"Do you still have my shortbread mold?
     You know, a lot of people say it just isn't Christmas
          Until they have my shortbread
               And I just don't see it anywhere...."

I returned it nearly a decade before
Made a big ceremony out of it
Made sure there were witnesses
Should have taken a photo
Maybe that's where I went wrong....

Of course she knew right where it was in April
She had just found it doing Spring cleaning
Probably why it is lost now
It is with the Easter decorations
Or maybe the Independence day ones
Or the sewing
     Or the laundry
         Or the old newspapers

It is just an excuse
To cover her nagging suspicion
Based on intrinsic evidence
That her cooking isn't what it once was
That age is catching up to her
And her old stand-byes
Are starting to desert her
Like her memories
Fading off and hiding away
Niggling the corners of her vision
Flashes here and there just to make it worse

"No mom, I returned it already
But I will check once again
Maybe when I visit I can bring you a new one."

She tells me not to bother
She will just keep looking
Besides the old one was seasoned just right
And it takes too long to get a new one proper
And butter is getting so expensive
Plus it is an awful lot of work
Probably just as well
     You never gave it back . . .

POEM - When

Constructing my dreams around big plans
And the list of detailed plans are filled with modifiers
Ifs and maybes and myriad bets hedged
Little safeguards
Against failure

But Jose' always says When
     When we go to Spain
          When we fly there all together
               When we eat at that restaurant
                 The one on the cliff
                   That overlooks the sea
                     The freshest seafood so delicious you will never believe it
                       It will be the best
                            When we go to Spain.....

Jose' speaks like the plans are set
Tickets bought
Reservations and routes locked in
All the bed linens are cleaned and pressed
Tucked in neat and tight
Waiting for me to rest my head
And breathe in the intoxicating Spanish air
And When leads the way
And other words grab on excitedly
Like they've lassoed a tidal wave
And anything is possible
If is left in the wake of When's tide
Crashing on Spanish shores
Or exploring the streets of Mexico
Or any of a thousand adventures
     When we are back in Mexico City
         When I get my place there, amigo
             When you bring your wife there
                  Then mi casa es su casa forever
                        When we drive to Acapulco
                              You will see the villas so perfectly placed
                                   Against the seaside so beautiful you could cry
                                        Bluest waters crashing on the shore like heaven is real

When you and I are brothers
When we rule the world
You will see amigo
I promise
Believe me

                   When...

My Dinner With Fletcher

When did you get so old?
     How are you still alive?
How did you get fat?
     What's with the hair?
I wish I could grow that beard
      I always envied that you got Rat
I knew your voice buried in this strange face
      You didn't hesitate to embrace me
I'm working through my demons
       Yeah, and I'm glad you still are
My dad can't believe we are friends
       My mom doesn't like you either

That's ok she hated Linda too
My true loves never get her approval

My dad is sure you should leave the church
Cuz there is no way a Mormon can be cool

He doesn't love your loves either
      Yeah, parents still just don't understand

This is not my typical environment
An Irish dive bar in a ghetto outside Philly
Talking
Just talking
For hours and hours and hours
And now I am better for it
Just knowing
That this could always just happen

Sometimes the moment is just perfect
And you don't answer all the questions
And the wives will be upset
That the details weren't cataloged
That we got lost in the moments
That somehow in six hours of talking
I never explained my job
I never got your apartment number
I didn't fill in the blanks
In the 20 year pause in conversation
Never took one dang photo

Sometimes you don't ever explain

Sometimes
   The moment is so perfect
      You don't take the selfie

POEM - The Day Starts with Water. The Day Starts Good

Yesterday was only rain
Only seemed ready for bed
My mind only able to almost wake up
That type of water

Is the water of sleep and melancholy
It is out of balance
And a soaked and weary wretch was I

Today some balance returned
The sun glanced through
A gentle high cloud covering
Feeling better
My mind could begin
Prepare for possibilities

And with my traveling friends
We wandered on unknown roads
Relaxed
Driving where the whim directed
Turning or not turning
Sauntering

Again we found water
The large purposeful river flowed
Soothing because it was in its place
Taking familiar paths
Contributing to the balance
When all of nature collaborates
And the day started with water
A small tribute paid
And the day started good
Gathering the river's stories to me
Dropping my cares in its flowing current

Start the day unburdened

My pulse flowing

Like the river to the ocean

POEM - Cafe Poland

"It's just past the church"
He explained in vague tones
"An old, low house.
Red trim with no porch
And complex aromas
Invade the inconspicuous street."
An unexpectedly poetic guide
Pontificated freely

The embellishments were appropriate
We were later to verify
But in the overcast pre-arrival world
In which the oratory occurred
It was only the kismet of the moment
Serendipitous coincidence
To find such eloquence
Randomly roaming
That was precious
Taken as a good omen
Intrigue assured

There is comfort in comfort food
It is a warm embrace of familiarity
Even when completely foreign
The rapidly aging matriarch
Within the low, red trimmed aromatic shop
Set the proper tone
And the menu on the wall
Profferred the offerings
Typical Polish dishes
With mostly unfamiliar names
The attached list of components
Igniting a familiar longing
To climb inside and cozy up
To each new and intriguing dish

A selection was made
A table located
A brief wait
A shuffling arrival
Then heavily ladened plates
Gently arrived
A small grin of anticipation
We dig in hungrily
And you begin to understand a people
When you befriend their cuisine
This food spoke of long days
Of food from the land
Of not being able to fussily conjure
Frivoulous, pretty edibles
This was serviceable food
Meant to stick to the bones
Warm the spirits
Embrace and comfort
After a grueling day
Delicious and peaceful
Perogies filled with gentle moments
Cares and concerns easily thwarted
By the power of kraut and potatoes

POEM - Deliberately

Arriving at the pond
Deliberately
Acting on a sign
Found along a wandering snowy path
While lingering
Entranced by frigid water swirling
Perpetual carving
Conical paths
The Basin grows

Years ago Thoreau would visit
So says the placard near by
Today I am at more water
Also tied to Henry David
In relative solitude pausing
Left to wander the banks aimlessly
I’m surprised to find on the rocky shore
Plethora of round, flat stones
Begging to gain brief flight
Before taking a cool dip
I oblige as I am know to do
Fling small stones just so
To skip lightly across the surface
Five or six times at least
Before succumbing to friction
And slipping out of view

Did Thoreau’s skips number as high?
Surely he had to have tried
Found a deliberate moment
Among deliberate living
To liberate a deliberate stone
And found the essential essence
Of a life lived

But had his father taught him
To pick only the flattest and roundest stones
Held just so
In the crook of the index finger
Leaning over
Staying low
Extending the arm out in a wide arch
Flicking the wrist sharply at the end
Again and again
Each stone a little further
Until no more worthy projectiles can be found
Did he discover
In the end
That he had lived