“…I would like to beg you … to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves … to live everything. Live the questions now … then, someday … you will gradually … live your way into the answer.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903, Letters to a Young Poet.
For all things and every day, but most especially in love, look both ways.
The gaps will always be there — in your mind.
Live into your answers.
I wish for you and yours a wonderful holiday season.
“A poem is never finished, merely abandoned.” Or something like that. In this case, I have kept this poem in the files of my computer for more than a year as I worked and reworked it. Time to let it go.
With the blessing of Mary Oliver, as I learn to write poetry, I try to write as the masters do or did (I copy, or emulate, them). In some such cases, I re-write a poem line by line. In this case, I simply rewrote the poem with more contemporary English vernacular, changing words and lines to my liking. I hope some spirit of the original piece remains. Sadly, I’ve lost track of the original poem: perhaps it is from the Bard’s R&J. I confess to an embarrassing lack of recall.
Sorry. I tried.
Maybe someone will comment, “this may be from….”
To My Spirit Love
Would you be the love in my heart?
Then take the hard-path from deep in you, to us.
Can you be my Lover, and still be true to who you are?
Turn over your passion with love and with lust
Stay loving and gentle in all the ways deep within you
Be true to you but bring all your grace into us.
Rag off caution and care, pour love and praise on me.
Satisfy me with all the love and devotion in your heart
Remain true to yourself and loyal to our blissful passion
Bring your best love to our spot and love me today
Would a love goddess so heavenly bless me?
Shall our endless love be your heart’s eternal duty?
Look both ways in love.
The best hoped for outcome is seldom considered.
Miss not the gaps,
those unseen and unfilled spaces upon which we so often trip and fall.
all life is one.
undetached. Be alive.
Live your life. really Live it
all the way.
Love a million times, regret none.
Walk the roads, sides, and trails
into the wild. into the wind.
Come back more alive.
Run past a deer, spark a march hare.
Kiss until lips bleed and tongues fail,
Sing and Yell and Scream and Laugh
just because it feels so damn good.
Dance. passionately
Feel deep. Hear music drive
intense tones into your bones,
Make hot red blood pump more life.
Stand alone at a cliff’s edge
on a windy stormy night and Live,
arms up to face the gale
and the drum.
Fear. dangers feel more alive.
Risk is life. Live now, die later.
Sleep and Dream of pleasures.
Awaken to Live and to Love and to die.
if you must rest, just die Living in
hope to really Live it all
again.
I am atheist. I groan when I read, “as an atheist” before people make a statement. Well, guess what? I owe lots of apologies because….
As an atheist, I have been asked how we handle life when it sucks: sick kids (or grands), lost jobs, death of friends and loved ones, financial trouble, or any disaster. They rightfully ask, “How do you get through those tough times when even heavy-duty doubters pray for relief?” We do manage without god. Not only are there atheists in fox holes, some of us have died there.
I’m dealing with a cancer diagnoses and some of my doctors ask me how I feel about it. “Well, Doc, this is one time I wish you were wrong. Now, let’s do this.” I want action, science, and medicine; not prayers.
Here’s what I got for ya. Franky, baby! I love the song; both the music and lyrics of That’s Life, by Frank Sinatra. Some say, this too shall pass, but the song puts that theory on another emotional level, and I love it. I hope you do too.
Here are the lyrics. Below them, I also posted a youtube video with music, singing, and the words. Now, let’s get back up, brush ourselves off, and have a wonderful July.
That’s Life
That’s life (that’s life) that’s what people say
You’re riding high in April
Shot down in May
But I know I’m gonna change that tune
When I’m back on top, back on top in June
I said, that’s life (that’s life) and as funny as it may seem
Some people get their kicks
Stompin’ on a dream
But I don’t let it, let it get me down
‘Cause this fine old world it keeps spinnin’ around
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate
A poet, a pawn and a king
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing
Each time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race
That’s life (that’s life) I tell ya, I can’t deny it
I thought of quitting, baby
But my heart just ain’t gonna buy it
And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try
I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly
I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate
A poet, a pawn and a king
I’ve been up and down and over and out
And I know one thing
Each time I find myself layin’ flat on my face
I just pick myself up and get back in the race
That’s life (that’s life) that’s life
And I can’t deny it
Many times I thought of cuttin’ out but my heart won’t buy it
But if there’s nothing shakin’ come here this July
I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die
Before I get into this, I want to thank Chris Caldwell for suggesting so many mythological creatures, several of which I have posted so far. He also suggested that look to Aztec mythology for the letter X.
That led me to Xochiquetzal (pronounced Sho.chi.ket.sal), an Aztec goddess associated with fertility, beauty, and female sexual power. She was the protector of young mothers and a patroness of pregnancy, childbirth, and the crafts practiced by women such as weaving and embroidery.
This goddess of sex, crafts, fertility, dance, music, singing, weaving, magic, and love spells holds marigolds as sacred to her.
Xochiquetzal was also the patroness of many other humans; mainly lovers, prostitutes, weavers, and craftspeople. According to some, this was because they could make pleasure or objects that were beautiful to behold.
Xochiquetzal was the goddess who seduced a priest and then turned him into a scorpion as a mark of her power. If you want to make your mark in this world, screw a priest and then turn him into a nasty bug that stings.
She was depicted as incarnated youth, love, and beauty; and was amorously pursued by several Aztec gods. Presumably, they knew about the priest but were unafraid.
Unlike other fertility goddesses, she encouraged love-making for pure pleasure, not reproduction (thus ignoring the Pope). She had the power to forgive human sins that weren’t necessarily of a sexual nature. I am not sure why that matters, but I read it.
She was the wife of the water god, Tlaloc, and consort (girl friend?) to the god, Tezcatlipoca. She lived in the Aztec paradise of Tamoanchan. This goddess-lady was widely worshipped, and many rituals were in her honor, to include incredible acts of sacrifice (of course) and some somber confessions.
Xochiquetzal was a (not the) creator of humans and functioned as an intermediary between them and the other gods. She is frequently referred to as a facet of the female divine goddess, Tonacacíhuatl, from whose womb the first four Aztec gods were born.
Although she was a mother herself, this goddess never grew old and always appeared in the full bloom of youth. However, when one looks at Aztec art and how she was depicted by them, one can see how cultural differences can affect that.
No matter how you see this, look both ways for Aztec gods.
Just don’t try to spell or pronounce their names.
Mind all gaps.
The day 16 poem prompt of the 2018 National Poetry Writing Month challenges me to write a poem that prominently features the idea of play.
My poem is about my memory of a game we played as children – a game still played today, albeit differently. It has been played for over a hundred years by boys and girls, now also by men and women. Essentially, it is street or vacant lot baseball played with a broomstick for a bat, bases like the manhole cover or the flag pole, and most often a rubber ball.
My gang used all sorts of balls including wiffle balls of various sizes. No one wore gloves or any form of protective gear. Our classic favorite was to use those small plastic practice golf balls with all the holes in them to increase the challenge. They could bounce off any window or person with no damage. No coaches, no adults, highly flexible rules, and we worked out our disagreements without paying lawyers.
My poem is this old fart’s memories of playing the game and living totally for the moment, for the game, to be as good as we could be, and to have fun for the sake of play.
We used handles cut from broom sticks or mops. I do not recall anyone buying a ball, but it would not surprise me to learn that the ones we used were found, or “found” (as in the bottom of dad’s golf bag). The first commercially produced stickball bat came out in the early 1950’s and sold for 89 cents. Today, you can buy a high-tech, Easton T10 Thunderstick stickball bat for $50.00.
One of the problems today is that it has become difficult to find a good wooden broom or mop handle not being used, and games like that have fallen out of favor. However, I have included a photo and video about the game. In both cases, commercial bats are used.
It’s Never Just a Game
I was in the game that day
when it was a hot midsummer afternoon
when we played in the Courtright elementary school yard
when Jimmy Lipinski hit a double off of Joe Mullins’ chest
when time outs were for injury or just to pee.
I was in the game that day
when the fight broke out between Balochi and the new kid
Smitty was new and wanted us to play by New Jersey rules,
Balochi and Smitty became close friends and grew old together
and we learned to play by Jersey rules, East End rules, and league rules,
but mostly we made up the rules based on many things.
I was in the game that day
when Teddy tripped on second base and broke his nose
when the Daniel’s kid at shortstop lit a cigarette in the third
when the school janitor came and ran us all off or he would call the cops,
when we vandalized the school cuz the Janitor was a dick,
when I got my first hit, and when I hit my last.
I was in the game that day
when Lipinski made his behind the back flyball catch
when the worst player on the team hit a grand slam
when cuts and scrapes and twisted ankles were part of growing up,
when it started to rain that day and we played on anyway,
when the game was just the game, and both sides always won.
I left the game that day
when we walked away cuz it was getting dark
when we were thinking of what in life came next
when we thought there were better things to do,
when we walked away one last time
from the game we all so loved.
Let’s go play some stickball.
(Bill Reynolds 4/16/2018)
Look both ways as you play the game.
When at bat, mind you, hit the gaps.
The third day prompt of the 2018 National Poetry Writing Month: Write a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. This poem is based on a tongue-in-cheek look back at working from the perspective of retirement.
NoMo’ WorkShuns of Retiremeizations
No mo’ traffic commushuns
No mo’ Monday bluesifications
No mo’ burnt coffee offeringtoshuns
No mo’ why I’m late excuzations
No mo’ performance evauliebations
No mo’ worrying about promousayshuns
No mo’ office gossip whosaytions
No mo’ workmate envy whodaypaytions
No mo’ idiot bossbigheadiztions
No mo’ recovery vacatoshortations
No mo’ meeting bordeathpations
No mo’ engineering gobbledygookovations
No mo’ organized rejobmobettatryzations
No mo’ more with lesspraystaions
No mo’ work aggravation peepsalazations
No mo’ monthly disgruntiliations
No mo’ hallucinational goalaberations
No mo’ feckup fairy malfunctioniztions
No mo’ maybenots of probationosensations
(Bill Reynolds 4/3/2018)
Working or retired, look both ways.
Mind those workday gaps.
Our Literary Journey 