Why I am Here
Are we united? One,
indivisible nation
facing all that division
and diversion
has to offer.
When politically
trapped rhetoric becomes
the dark knight, when
lies form gospel,
when logic is lost, when
hate becomes faith,
we form our own
deep “Troubles”
dis-united.
On this Vet’s Day,
let us remember,
and never forget,
why we are here.
Look both ways and work for peace.
Mind the gaps as we make it a better world.
We were
crew mates and friends,
Tom and I.
He came from
South Carolina,
via the
University of Hawaiʻi.
Partners.
A team of two.
For a couple of years,
we had laughs.
But it ended.
Lieutenant Tom, an enigma,
half of a nuclear bombing team,
a pot smoker,
beer drinker (me too),
almost certainly
a skeptic.
A kind of Buddhist,
politically left,
a sky diving
motorcyclist, and
the class clown.
We were different.
Tom deeper,
more spiritual,
and funnier.
After the Air Force,
Tom became a teacher,
back in South Carolina,
and a renowned
BASE jumper.
An avocation
that brought
an early end to Tom’s life
at the bottom
of a high SC tower when
his parachute gear
failed.
I’ll not forget.
I wish it had been
different. I’d call him.
Look both ways and remember even brief friendships.
Mind the gaps, they sometimes hold truths.
Many thanks to the wonderful Rochelle for herding us cats on Friday Fictioneers. We write micro-stories inspired by a new photo each week, provided by very creative and imaginative compatriots. Here is the photo and my story for this week.
Genre: Satirical Epistolary Fiction
Wordcount: 100
Dear Mr. Bill,
Back in 1969, you agreed to our soul safekeeping if you got lucky with one Fancy Fox.
Enclosed herewith please find your damned, odoriferous, devil-moth eaten, blackened, rotten soul.
Our Diabolical Board of Demons directed soul safekeeping be returned to original owners since repossession is inevitable.
Due to Texas PowerGrid uncertainties, the ravages of our dark virus experiment, and subsequent chip shortage, we are terminating soul safekeeping, forthwith.
Please store your stinking, grain alcohol-soaked spirit in a warm, damp, moldy place until we confirm by certification your final demise.
Insincerely,
Wormwood Chinaski,
Human Soul Safekeeping Division
Look both ways, keep smiling,
mind the gaps of the damned, and ride the soul train.
The Weight of Truth
Your question cuts to my core.
You long for unnuanced truth bathed in heavenly light.
Who am I, naked, closeted?
Yet, you ask for the dark light, to know my vulnerable,
captive, and bound heart.
Will my truth set you free?
Shall my vulnerability be set back upon me?
My silent deception belies both truth and trust.
Long sleepless nights.
Regret, haunting wonders of who I am.
If I answer your question the world will hate me.
My truth is heaviness mankind cannot hold.
Look both ways before you answer.
Value truth but weigh the gaps and consequences.
Many thanks to the wonderful lady, talented artist and writer, and patient friend Rochelle, for herding us cats on Friday Fictioneers. We write micro-stories (fact or fiction) to a new photo each week, provided by some very creative and imaginative compatriots. Here is my story for this week.
Happiness Is
The outdoor social party was to welcome new arrivals to the senior center near Seattle. Bill, a newcomer, volunteered to serve special lemon-flavored ice cream.
“This is the best party. Everyone is happy to meet you, Bill,” said Marilyn, the Social Director.
Bill said, “Have some ice cream, Dear, everyone loves it.”
Back at their condo, Yolonda said, “Gawd! I can’t believe you spiked their ice cream. I hope no one finds out.”
Bill removed the bottle of lemon-flavored drops from his pocket. “A little THC never hurt anyone. We’ll need a big bus for next week’s pot shop run.”
Look both ways and share the love.
Mind the gaps and quash old fears.
Our Masked Morons
The Kadiddlehoppers:
Abbottomy the bot,
dirty Dan,
and Perrywinkle,
planned four Guard brigades
of water boy warriors
to battle back
Obama’s invisible invading
legions, thirty already here.
Save us
from such morons.
Look both ways for details and the big picture.
Mind the gaps and trust none of them.
For a moment,
I close my eyes
and the moment’s gone.
My memories rarely
remain for long.
Soon enough,
today’s moments
are done.
This is Thursday.
It can only be today,
whatever the name.
Today
will never be tomorrow.
Wait and see.
Sun’s third planet
spinning in artificial time,
a wee bit in vast nothingness,
at the whim of some god,
or controlled by
meaningless unmeasured chaos.
I can’t
taste or smell Thursday.
Today sounds are unheard,
there’s nothing to touch.
It’s another day.
And yet,
like a spirit,
unlike
physical, practical things,
each moment of every day
flashes by—
irreplaceable,
never lasting,
instantly
forever gone.
Today is
most valuable.
It’s now.
It’s all we have.
Why can’t it stay?
Look both ways, but all we have is today.
Mind the gaps.
Enjoy life.
“Father” Tanner, had a lovely wife, two wonderful daughters, and a future as church rector. Young, bright, athletic, and handsome; he inspired the congregation’s vibrant teen and Boy Scout groups. Eventually, he was ordained to the priesthood.
However, Tanner’s sexual relationships with teenage boys were discovered. He was defrocked, dismissed, and ordered to therapy, without legal action. Soon “cured,” he was again hired as Sexton and advisor to parish youth groups.
Thirty years, over 450 victims, and 2,500 counts of sexual assault later, Tanner was imprisoned, where at 67, he died of natural causes; shamed and disgraced, but never cured.
Look both ways.
Be alert for predators where least expected.
Never expect victims to confess.
Mind the gaps, remain skeptical, and verify if you trust.
My White Rabbit
I like beer, pizza, and poetry.
And those mysterious rabbit holes.
Poetry is to life
what hearing is to sound,
what thunder is to lightning, what love is
to marriage,
what sex is to love,
what water is to thirst.
I like dark beer, such poems
I love to hear. Poetry
is to me what color is to art.
It’s the butter
upon life’s devolving bread.
Poetry is to life as dreams
are to sleep, like light is for day,
poetry is rain ending a drought.
Life and poetry, infinity woven
together like two heads for sister.
A poem is my White Rabbit.
Life without poetry is sad,
dysfunctional and ignorant,
like breathing without air.
It lacks reason and purpose.
Poetry is as human as skin,
as thoughtful as mind, it goes
deep – beyond any abyss.
No culture is without poems.
The poem-less are like sailors
without songs or sirens,
poetry is a beacon for living,
it’s an eternity for the dead.
Not every poem is perfect, but poetry is
the ancient sound of a beautiful gift
waiting at the core of a newborn,
as the eye of a painter or a touch
of the sculptor forms art,
the words of the poets
are the pipes and drums of humanity.
Look both ways.
Be skeptical of all you see but shed foolish ignorance as soon as you smell it.
Mind the gaps. They didn’t put themselves there.
And this, just cuz I can…
Good Company and Not
Four forty-sixers
Clinton, Dubya, Donny Bone Spurs, and me.
Holy shit! Same summer. Folks ask
what happened? Me not being Prez and all.
I ask, what happened to them?
Boomers all, but jeez Louise.
Serial killers Bundy, Tobin,
and Harold Shipman, shake
the skeletons in our closet.
Our birth year black sheep.
I’m proud of our singing and acting 46ers
like Cher, Liza, Rocky, sweet Dolly,
and the late Freddie. Linda Blue Bayou
sings no longer, sadly. Buffett from
that sleepy little town of Pascagoula,
Mississippi is resort Jimmy.
(I didn’t make the talent cut either)
Sajak, Barry (the last Gibb), Andre the Giant,
Glover and Cheech (we smokin’ dog shit?);
I thought Al Green moved on, but no.
Entertainers all. What’s Donovan doing?
And the Deepak guy who gets pissed
when the argument suggests
he makes a killing writing woo-woo.
May he forgive my snarky snicker.
It must not have been a good year.
Brit poet (the late) Peter Reading
was even born
on the exact same day as me.
I am still here
writing poems
as good as
(my neighbor)
Dubya’s paintings.
Look both ways from birth year to death days.
Even Reggie Jackson still loves October and minds the gaps.
Our Literary Journey 