PLEASE, LISTEN

An email invitation to be a guest on Saturday morning radio

The topic: How did I find my writer’s voice?

Writer’s voice? What voice? Twelve solitary hours in the writer’s chair.

No food or drink.  No ideas or marvelous lines of rhyme and illiteration.

Provacateur requests a yes or no response in the morning.

Sleepless night. Tossing and turning. Groaning. Answerless.

Suspend the sunrise. Halt the Big Ben clock. Deny the deadline.

Crouched on the mattress edge. Black coffee steams on the night stand. How have I become a “kept

man?”

Daily devotion. God you owe me. Give me magic words.

Uh oh, silence becomes darker, more profound.

Takes personal hubris to challenge God. I never learn.

Agnes turns the radio to a classic station in Philly. A morning

ritual at 7:45.

Today’s stratosphere is different. Our kitchen is alive.

“ Mary Did You Know”? The beseeching melody which brought

us to our humbled knees at Christmas Mass  on the day

Karen boarded the train to Chicago fills the airways.

Just listen..Trust. Please He begs, listen.

 

THE MYSTICAL HAND OF ART

 

Talents are somewhat appreciated, understood, applauded.

Somewhat?

Observers look at the external varnish  seeing superficial beauty

Unappreciative of complex artistry and cerebral gymnastics

Patrons groan oohs and ahhs as color schemes,

Lurid sunsets, mystical rainbows steal their superficial appreciation

of the muse talents in Apollo’s arena.

 

Fascinated by paranormal dimensions, engaged with 5^th world cohorts

Ensconced in brightly lit third floor writers dens and palettes  askew

Driven to capture the fleeting clouds of inspiration

Delighted by thoughts talking in middle night séances

Sweating to encircle darting thoughts, sunset images

Six-eight –ten hours of never tiring genius

Van Gogh, Mayer, Shakespeare are always present

Always, Always

To capture the candle scent of the masters of yore is

A blessing in ones vein.

 

Watching the ghost of creativity walk away into the

Foggy canyons of smudged palletes is a muse denied.

 

 

GOD’S PRESENCE

A glaze of snow on the mountain trail

Feeble red oaks bracing the winter winds

Too cold to trek

First day of winter?

Last sunrise of fall?

 

Snuggle,huddle,bridle inside

Hiding for 6 months

Nature smiles, humans are hiding

Animals and rodents run free

God’s country is God’s country again

 

Surrender the Poconos

Leave snow shoes hung in the garage

Surrender to the elements

Smells of hemlock hang with heavy snow

Surrender snow drifts, slashing neck burning winds

Surrender snowmobile trails

Grey tinged skies collage with the winter sun

 

To trek or not to trek. That is the question.

Cabin fever- higher level each week

House becomes prison like

Reflecting snow, one of God’s paintings

Staying inside- turning our backs on God’s goodness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BREATH

Pursuing the source of continuing energy

From whence does it come – and go?

Munificent clouds, weather trends,

Peoples of the desert, homeless in the city

 

Rolled paper fragments huddle on curbsides

Closely holding printed thoughts

Composed by 3^rd and 4^th generation authors

Huddled inside wind lashed stone cottages

Winter’s apparition paces nearby.

North Sea gales astride the House of Orange.

 

Life’s gift descends, or is it ascends?

A baby’s first breath, the final gasp of a dying elder

Molecules of words in the woods

Unknown, unseen,

Cherished and blessed

GOODBYE DEAR FRIEND

The Lord is everywhere:

Steel gray clouds

Snow, Ice pellets in a crescendo

Crunching snow foretells our every step

The Lord has set the stage.

Oh yes, he knows our every move, every thought, every emotion.

HE knows we are coming.

The morose, gray atmosphere envelopes

the cemetery.

Silence, alone.

 

Fear heaving in our chest cavity.

Harold and Jean’s gravesite awaits

 

Somehow Harold knows we are coming.

Fifteen years gone by.. he knows we are coming.

He waited. As always patient and understanding.

He knew I had, yes had, to come and say goodbye.

Facing the pain of the moment.

 

The knees weaken

Tears flow

I grab for the tombstone

O Harold I cry, O Harold.

The father I never had,.that was Harold

A man of God

Harold knows.

We are together for a brief moment

God enables us to hold each other

God’s grace. Hold me Harold. I remember your hugs, your smiles

your words of wisdom, and your good works for the poor.

One last time.

The most difficult goodbye.

 

I turn to Al.. knowing I could not have

met with Harold without fear of collapsing

and having Al for support.

The Lord gives Al the grace to be a comforter

And so we silently walk

Chocking

Hoping to meet Harold in the afterlife.

May he rest in the arms of the Lord.

WINTERTIME MISSION

Lost

Confused

A simple guy seeking simple answers to simple questions.

 

Out the door at 9 AM

A 20 minute car ride: snowy, black ice

DPW has been salting: roads are safe.

 

Through the glare of sun’s reflections

Bouncing off snow piles.

Carefully we find our way.

Driving like winter visitors in Florida

A beautiful sky this Tuesday in Wisconsin.

 

On a mission.

Boots have a hole in their soles.

Visiting the one shoe repair shop in the area.

Owners are joyful, loud, expert Italians.

And we argue about immigration?

A regular customer, I know coffee is brewing.

 

Did I say Tuesday?

Walgreens – open:

Sentry Foods – open.

Citgo Station –open

Bakery – open

 

Carefully glide into the ice covered parking lot.

Gloves, parka, rarin’ to go – out of the car.

Carefully maneuver to the shoe repair shop.

A sign –

NO – not a sign:

CLOSED ON TUESDAY.

Why? Closed on Tuesdays.

Restaurants closed on Mondays

Antique Shops closed on Thursdays.

Where is the logic?

Locals demur “that’s the way it is”.

Why?

User friendly?

Is there a reason for the season?

 

 

Breathe Deeply,Enjoy

Crisp, clean, penetrating swatches of air

October 1 is here

The beginning of the end or

the end of the beginning?

Maple trees, lawn grass, sand dunes

All are magnificent, waiting

for the beginning of the end or

the end of the beginning.

Growth has ceased: asleep,

Decline into fall, winter not yet begun

Finest days of middle age, all is well

Wordless poetry permeates

Whispering what?

Enjoy, this season is another of the Lord’s gifts

Ignore? Your life is wasting away. Use nature’s

palate to appreciate all that encircles you.

Ignore, and the darkness of life and winter surrounds, captures,

restrains the goodness of your soul.

Scuffle in the dirt, pray softly, inhale deeply,

Enjoy the gift

THE YOUNGER

Sereg, the youngest brother, observes the formless

filled daily noise of elder chatter

Trying to understand the tribal implications.

A discordant rhythm reflects a lifetime of lyrics.

Greek, Italian, African all merging, melding, cacophonous

The daily patter around the backgammon table

repeats itself..again. Unwritten melody of life.

Mirror image of incoming nighttime surf

The predictable vocal pattern reinforces

the clan as an informal brotherhood.

Again.

Shining brass clothing hooks: reserved, revered. Badger jackets

have a special place.

Unwritten seating charts. everyone respects who sits where.

Chores are understood: coffee maker: pastry chef: accountant:

discussion not required.

Messenger of news when illness strikes – shared,

Mourners at funeral parlor visitations: a solemn obligation.

Trust, trust, trust- the binding chemical constructed over years.

Again.

A family. a tribe, a clan, a brotherhood.

Common among all cultures, universal.

Social constructs which create communities of all sizes

Faith never tested. Enduring, God sent.

TOGETHERNESS FOR EVER

We Meet The River Styx

Sounds of rushing water thunder in the near distance. It’s the cacophony of the river Styx reverberateing from one side of the canyon to another.

The thunder lacks clarity, familiarity, comprehension . After all, we’ve played in canyon streams for decades. There is a comfort, a healing which comes as barefooted we cross the soft rounded stones which lead to waterfalls and natural dams.. the sound gives us comfort.

Why is our acoustical antennae disoriented. Some force from the mystic beyond is unexplainable.

Words to describe the Styx as it rushes past? Groping, we search our internal thesaurus. Lost, we’re lost.

Why are we nervous, hesitant? The closer we tread to the river bank the paranormal feels close by in the reeds and on the embankment. Brushing against us, creeping Charlies cause an instant rash, a burning.

We want to know more, hear more, understand more; then why are our internals giving us messages of uncertainty and fear?

We’ve trekked for decades . Familiar values, beliefs, comforting friends, life has moved on a predictable course. Slowly the walking path to the Styx becomes less predictable. We double check our memory bank… we are losing touch with past events.. our body aches, tires, talks to us in the dark of the night. Comforting guideposts which lead us safely to the waterfalls of the Styx are less and less present.

A hiker coming away from the river asks “ Sir, can I help you?” There it is again..Others addressing me in the context of my aging face, limping gait, the shadow of a dimmed youth. The ravages of time cannot be disguised. We are indeed old.

The trail to the Styx has no place to turnaround.. no way to return to our youth. Stopping at the river’s edge comes a recognition that there is no turning back. The Styx is the carrier of the inevitability of life’s end.

We are alone. The sounds we can’t identify – we have never heard them before. We have never seen or heard the end of life’s inevitability before. God stands in mid stream. Arms outstretched. We look into the stream. Paranormal beings tell us not to step off the river bank.. Dante waits.

Clashing, thunderous sounds emerge from the river. Just beyond is a vista of peace. How do we get from point A to point B? We are alone. Our friends and family have passed on. It is just us.

Alone.

Hurry because the clouds are gathering: night is near: how long do we have?

AN IMAGINARY TALE

Imagining what could be:

So different than what will be

A dilemma of will power

vs passively accepting the inevitable.

Imagination is rooted in truth telling dreams

Therein possibilities start in paranormal DNA where

life begins, thrives, expands , ends.

Each decision, life challenging event,  heroic victories

is embedded in our grey matter

Incalculatable  algorithmic equations  spin, turn,  evolve

to create fantasy plots of which Broadway playwrights

are nigh envious.

Imaginative scenarios reside outside our control.

The purpose to which we employ these sometimes

unexplainable tales become our legacy.