 
**Notes to Mom**

Gil VanWagner

Copyright Gil VanWagner 2012

Published at Smashwords
Dedication
Preface

It began as a book of poems and became so much more personal. A gut wrenching, soul sharing autobiography. The poems were written over many years. A first cut of the book was something different. Rating the poems. Ranking them. A count down. Top 100 or so. That one disappeared. Literally. Poof, electronically speaking. That led to soul searching about what the book was meant to be.

The book became a love letter to my mother. The stories of my life shared with her in the way she and I spoke all the time. On calls at 9 0'clock Sunday mornings. During her many visits to wherever I lived. Mom and I were close. Are close. Will always be close. A book of poems and the poems were merely the embers for the passions of stories and sharing with my Mother.

As with many books, the title changed once the writing was done. All the way through, it was called "Clean Underwear". After all, Moms want us to wear Clean Underwear....just in case. Well, Mom, my underwear is clean. Not conventional but clean. A clever title. Cute. Catchy. Then on the day the book was done, the truth showed itself. "Notes To Mom". Much more accurate.

Hope you enjoy it. It is my life. A life of love and a love of life. Hope you find laughter, inspiration, tears, and sweetness in it and in life. We all deserve to be happy. I am very, very happy. Hope you are too.
Five Story Walk Up

The bricks challenged.

Façade with an attitude.

More came before you.

More will follow.

Seven blocks from the ocean.

One bridge away from Downtown.

A place passed if even seen.

Forlorn and forgotten.

Just another five stories no one hears.

They remembered.

Dark things.

Little ones that quit breathing without reason.

Two that had help.

Fights that never really stopped until blood flowed.

Some that went on even after that.

Lonely people gone before others noticed.

Days sometimes.

Weeks one time.

Bricks remembered.

Tagged and repaired.

Tagged and repaired.

Weather beaten and all the heartier for it.

Hit by a Volvo guided by a blind drunk in sixty-three.

Newer bricks came and still showed their difference.

Still, red is red and you had to know where to look.

The bricks were cold.

Sun kissed too little.

Shaded too much.

People noticed the Maple Tree.

I noticed the bricks.

The bricks noticed me.

They didn't care.

Perhaps they never will.

It's been a long time since anyone cared.

They fit right into the neighborhood.

Note to Mom:

This poem reminds me of you, Mom. It is about Brooklyn. Well, a building in Brooklyn. I like to think it is a real building that crossed time and space so it could have me feel and write its story. Just a few blocks from the ocean. Lots of tales on each of the five stories.

Brooklyn is a special place to me. It is yours. Sure, Dad lived there too and so did Aunt Margo and a bunch of people. For me, Brooklyn is all you. You had a Brooklyn Passport in your drawer. Remember that? I sure do. It was in your red jewelry box, well your only jewelry box. About the size of a two-sleeve cracker box, it had a white top. You have a bunch of jewelry in there. Likely it was what you said was costume jewels. They looked like diamonds on you.

A Brooklyn Passport. Made that Borough seem like its own country. Special. The Brooklyn Bridge is my favorite bridge. Even more than the Golden Gate and Dad's Guinea Gangplank.

The first time I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, I really needed it. You were buried the day before and it left a hole in me. Took the ferry from the Highlands to New York with Krissy.

You'd love her, Mom. She is strong and beautiful. A great mother. She loves her kids and pushes them hard to do their best. They love her and are just a bit afraid of her. She got that from you. In their hearts, they know her love is unconditional. They just don't want to piss her off.

Krissy and I headed up to the City. I didn't know why. Didn't know what called me to do it. Did know it wasn't avoidance. Wasn't running from Jersey and the pain of the day before. Just needed the City.

Knew why as soon I saw the Brooklyn Bridge. Turned to Krissy, "That's why." I pointed to the famous arches. "That's what we are doing today. We are walking across the Brooklyn Bridge." We did.

It helped. I felt that long ago day you took me to Brooklyn to see your old house and then onto Coney Island. It made me sad. Prospect Place looked dingy. Dirty. The ten-year old me didn't want the ten year old you living there. It wanted you in someplace like the Burg. Someplace like my home.

You tried to reassure me. Said it used to be nice. Used to be safe. I didn't believe you. It made me sad to think you grew up there.

Years later, I got to see a lot of Brooklyn. Even your old neighborhood. It came back. It was nice. Made me feel better. Needed to see a hint of what it was. You deserve the best. Brooklyn is a magic word for me. It is where Mommy was born.
The Drinker

A pop-top away from Jesus

Who are you to say?

The key is in here somewhere.

Let me have my day.

One more swallow and I'll know.

Leave me alone. Just go.

I'll pay in cash and risk my ass.

Who are you to say?

He made me promises. I heard His words.

Just let me drink. My words are slurred.

Soon I'll know.

Soon I'll see.

Soon I'll be okay.

Who are you to say?

Leave me be. Let me see.

Jesus waits for me.

Who the fuck are you to say?

Peace be with you.

Now go the fuck away.

Note to Mom:

Pretty obvious, ain't it? Alcohol is not a good thing in my life. You and Dad both drank and still were good parents. Still raised Jack, Sis, and me. Still functioned. Yet I learned by example how with booze you lose.

Booze was all around in the Burg. Thirty-Six bars/liquor stores in one square mile. People just drank. Beer with anything. It was just the way it was. People got together and got drunk. I did it as a teenager and even later. Yet, it scared me. I wondered if I was strong enough to actually stop.

Remember the time Dad took Sis and me to church while he was drunk on his ass? Falling down drunk and he took us to church so we could be holy. Almost fell out of the pew. Then he drove home and got pulled over by a cop two houses from home. Argued with the cop about his ability to drive.

We told that story hundreds of times and laughed each time. Laughed at how stupid it was. It was just one of the many stories centered around someone being drunk and the funny things that happened.

Well, my name is Gil and I am an alcoholic. Went through recovery with Dad only Dad was already dead at the time. That is the power of addiction.

This poem is anyone. It's me. Sitting with a glass of helplessness and pushing away the world. Mad at God. Mad at anyone. Mad at myself.

Pretty obvious, ain't it? I need to remember how obvious it is. How cunning and sneaky the disease is. This is about me, Mom. That's who I am. My name is Gil and I am an alcoholic.

One More Try

Here I am again.

Here I am starting over.

Square One.

Square One, one more time.

Just knew.

Just knew it was coming.

I Swore.

Swore this was all far behind me.

Here I am.

Here I am, one more time.

Hey, can you help me out, brother?

Hey, can me spare me the time?

Hey, can I stop spinning in circles?

Hey, can I survive it this time?

Thought.

Thought it was over.

Prayed.

Prayed. the worst was long gone.

Aimed.

Aimed to do better.

Aimed to be better.

Missed.

Missed the mark one more time.

Hey, can you help me, sister?

Hey, can you hold me tight?

Hey, can I stop spinning in circles?

Hey, can I just do what's right?

Here.

Here I am spinning.

Back.

Right back where I was.

Thought.

Thought this was behind me.

Not.

Now, I'm back where I was.

Hey, can you help me out, Mother?

Why do you feel far away?

Please, can I come to you, Mother?

Please, make it safe here today.

I saw.

I saw it all coming.

It came.

It came anyway.

Help.

Is it really all over?

Shit.

Did I just piss it away?

Hey, can you help me out, brother?

Hey, can you spare me the time?

Am.

Am I just spinning in circles?

Is this?

Is this the last time?

Is this?

Is this my last time?

Please.

Please, be my last time.

Please.

Please, be my last try.

Just one.

Just one more last try.
Note to Mom:

Put this one right after "The Drinker" to emphasize how easy it is to fall back into the addiction. Dad fought the battle and lost it in life. "Dead Drunk" was my time with him as he worked his recovery from the afterlife. Talk about a disease that keeps you in its grip. Wow.

Dad was the everyman I met in AA meetings. His story is the story of that struggle. I am glad he won the battle and even prouder to be part of his recovery.

Addiction means forever knowing and feeling the addiction. It has a dark call and we have to work, literally every one day at a time, to remain out of the disease. This poem is about that personal war.

It is also about forgiveness. Our Higher Power is infinitely patient. It waits for us to be ready. To be truly ready. The message is we can't not fail for we will succeed as soon as we choose to succeed.

In AA meetings, they speak stark truths. They will tell someone to go back out because they are not done yet. Go back out and hit bottom. Hit it hard. Really so hard you have no desire to ever hit bottom again. Maybe then you will be ready to really recover. This poem is that moment. The moment we are on our knees and beg that we are really ready.

We have to beg so we hear ourselves and believe we have to do the work.

That's what this poem is about, Mom. One more try. Until we succeed.

Penny King

Everyday Epics.

Stop counting the change.

Flow with the flowathon.

What's in a name?

Show spoken Words.

Bend into the curved.

Straight one in five.

Roads will be heard.

A few minutes with.

Turn of a phrase.

Play circus music.

Parade unafraid.

Floats like flotillas.

Tortillas are bread.

What's going on there?

Inside that head.
Note to Mom:

Remember the noon whistle? Right across the street from the house. Well, of course you do. It went off every day at Noon and anytime there was a fire. It is part of my special memory. My memory of 1 Maple.

It was a daily reminder. It made me smile. Almost every time it went off, I thought of Aunt Thelma's son. Can't remember his name. Jeff? Maybe that was it. Jeff was little and the Noon whistle blew. He had no idea what it was. He ran through the house yelling, "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat?" Maybe it was "What dat?" I hear "Who dat?" in my head so in my story it's him running around yelling "Who dat?" over and over.

Makes me laugh.

The Noon Whistle is also Sky King time. Well, at least on Saturdays...and when Dad was either out or asleep. If he was up, I was either doing chores or had escaped before he caught me. Sky King was on right after Roy Rogers........once they moved Roy from 9:30 to 11:30. The show would start, "Out of the Western Sky comes......" The Song Bird would divebomb the camera as the announcer proclaimed, "Sky........" The Noon Whistle was Sky's middle name.......his last name......and whatever followed that.

Makes me smile.

The Fire Whistle memory. More Noon Whistle since it was part of the routine. Our routine. Those fabric of life things. You gave me a lot of those. Dinner at Five come hell or high water. Sis and I doing the dishes while you and Dad watched the news with Kevin Kennedy and Gloria Okon. Questions about homework, bath time, clothes for school, and more.

What the heck does this poem have to do with all that? Noon Whistles. Sky King and his Daughter Penny. Everyday Epics........Inside that head..........and all the stuff from there to here and then till now.

I am who I am because you are who you are, Mom.

Thanks.

He Helped

He shared.

He washed the feet of his followers.

He turned the other cheek even at the darkest moments.

He welcomed the outcasts.

He forgave sinners.

He healed the sick.

He cried.

He went into the desert to ask deep questions.

He enjoyed the company of his friends.

He helped me tonight.

Note to Mom:

Thanks for making me go to Church. Even though you and Dad stayed home, Sis and I had to go. You insisted on it. We had to bring home proof....in the form of the Holy Grail of evidence, the Church Bulletin. I spent as much time looking for the Bulletin as I did for Jesus.

Still, there was lots of good learning. Roman Aerobics. There is something special about ritual. Gathering. Honoring our linkage to God, Jesus, and all the angels and saints. Penance. What a wonderful lesson. Come clean. Admit your sins. Pay your dues. Lessons for life. I remember how Holy it felt to be dressed all in white and receive Holy Communion. Then how grown up everyone felt just a few years later when it was time for Confirmation. Rituals. Rites of Passage. A good foundation for life choices based on learning and living. Being Catholic prepared me for being spiritual.

Thanks for making sure I went to Saint Ann's School. It was a great school. Heck, I was a Junior in Keansburg High before they taught anything the Nuns hadn't already taught me by 8th Grade. To this day, I can recite the prepositions, conjugate verbs, and diagram a sentence in a pinch. Parochial school prepped me for Trivial Pursuit, Jeopardy, and life. Knowledge is power........and you made sure I had the tools for power.

I learned a lot in school and church. Learned even more from you and Dad......everyday.

You gave me Jesus. What I do with Him is up to me.

That's really all that matters when it comes to parenting and religion. You made sure I had something........and trusted I would find my thing.

I did.

Jesus stayed me as my path moved me beyond walls, doctrines, and dogma. He is part of my life. You made sure of that.

I shall Honor My Mother and Father. The proof is in the living. Don't need a Bulletin for that.
Hallmarked

Thou shalt love.

Thou shalt honor.

Thou shalt do it on this day.

Thou shall do it in this way.

Thou shalt do it as we say.

Thou shalt give this to show thy love.

Thou shalt give this so they know your love.

Thou shalt give this to prove your love.

Thou shalt for this is how they will know.

Thou shalt for they deserve to know.

Thou shalt and then thou will know.

Note to Mom:

Sometimes, I get a bit of an attitude about obligatory love and celebration.

Valentine's Day.

Mother's Day.

Father's Day.

Grandparent's Day.

Sell more cards, flowers, and candy days.

Put it on a calendar and lay on the guilt. If we ignore the celebrations, we ignore those we love to prove a point. If we honor the celebrations, we are showing our love on schedule. Lose-Lose? Maybe.

It can be win-win, too. We can honor that day with gifts of self. Touch. Time. If we are the writer, write. Painter? Paint. Chef? Cook. Use your natural gift to honor the intended rather than profit the creators.

Thou Shalt. How Thou Shalt is up to Thou.

I love you, Mom. On Mother's Day. On every day. Want to know my special Mother time? 9 AM on Sunday morning. It was the time you and I called each other from wherever we were. Long distance, scheduled connection. You expected.....even demanded the call. Sometimes it was square filling. Who was doing what? How was everyone feeling? What are the kids up to? In fact, it was usually square filling.

It was heart filling, too. Sunday at 9 AM........I remember. Even more. Every Sunday.

Sometimes, I get a bit of an attitude. It passes. Love remains.

Know

Dark, fear, and depression.

Snarl, growl, and whimper.

Truth beneath the deception.

The path that is yours.

The feel of your laughter.

The square root of seven.

Ice cream in all its joy.

The slow roll of your eyes.

When to rest and if to push on.

What to say and to do.

Things that were and that can be.

What comes has yet to appear.

How badly you've wronged.

Ache, anxiousness, and pain.

Friends that speak from darkness.

To let go of what is not meant to be.

To dance as if making love.

Free flowing rivers.

The sting of a bee.

To sing in the shower.

What loss means.

You reap what you sow.

To say you are sorry.

How fear tastes as it dies.

The glory of sorrow.

To care through it all.

You can't go back.

What you really do control.

To share and care.

The ache of wants.

There are more unknowns.

All will be forgiven.

When to speak.

The comfort of silence.

To stop complaining.

Each voice truly matters.

You are one of the many.

Everyone feels alone.

Gifts are to be shared.

Together all things are possible.

Note to Mom:

Pretty deep stuff in this one. That's an everyday thing in my world. Life is all around us every moment. It ain't later. It's now. We have to know. Know how to feel. Feel gratitude with each lick of an ice cream cone. Celebrate nature as one leaf dyes for any to see. Purr when someone itches your back.

You purred pretty, Mom. Real pretty.

Moments are what matter. Each of them. 500 Rummy. Your fancy table setting the one time Uncle Larry came to Thanksgiving Dinner at his sister's house. The sound of your laugh when I poked your side while everyone else was asleep on the bus from Germany to Holland. Our road trip in the Isuzu Pup from Utah to LA with an overnight in Las Vegas. I took a similar trip with Sis years later. Road Trips are important. Real important.

Dancing. With you. You with Dad. Dad doing the Twist with abandon. Me doing the Twist like Dad. Slow dancing with you at Michelle's wedding. Maybe it was Denyse's. You were a bit older and didn't want to dance. I made you. Dad would have wanted it......and I needed it. I think it was the last time we danced together.

We don't regret dancing. Regrets are sitting out when we could have. You and I could have. Lucky for me, we did.

You danced pretty, Mom. Real Pretty.

Every moment matters. Especially the ones we feel. Like dancing. I felt every dance, Mom.

In Memoriam

I looked upon the tombstone but saw no smiling face.

Knew what I was looking for was far from this dead place.

Artists paint still portraits yet life is there within.

Names upon the granite only what once had been.

You are near where they were when they said good-bye.

Let others see you clearly before its time to die.

Look into the mirror. The pictures on the wall.

See them in your children. In leaves raked in the fall.

Share your light in laughter and lessons life did teach.

Hike into the mountains then play upon the beach.

Savor well the sunsets and rise and kiss each day.

Greet the seeming strangers when you pass their way.

Let things be even better that you once were here.

Memories should be smiles, so much more than tears.
Note for Mom:

I cried like a baby at your funeral. Well, actually at your burial. Was really good at the viewing and the funeral and all of that. You would have liked your own funeral. All dolled up. The center of attention. M&Ms in the box with you. It was an awesome turn-out. Folks loved you and they showed up in droves at the funeral home. I delivered the eulogy. It was really good.....folks let me know. Probably have a copy of it stashed away somewhere. Hope you liked it.

You died just before I got out of the USAF. The mourning was in uniform. Did you plan the timing? Heck, you could have stayed around longer and just asked me to put on the uniform for you. Would have done it. Well, up until I gave it to Maurice for his burial but that is another story.

So anyway, I was big and brave right up until the burial. When they lowered that coffin into the ground, it was all waterworks for me. It all hit me hard and kept hitting me for over a year.

For a year, I was walking wounded. Thought the world knew better but the only one fooled was me. Life was less. Listless. Mommy-less. Each Sunday at 9 o'clock, the silent phone broke my heart. Each holiday was diminished by one.

You died and took a big piece of me with you. It finally was too much to bare. Headed out to hike it off on Antelope Island. To physically burn through the emotional pain. A quest to let you go. Nine mile loop. To be flooded by my dammed tears. The fence was locked. I kicked it. Thought about climbing it. Ripped out of the parking lot, tires spinning dirt and gravel with anger, and ended up on some other path. A path that took me to a butte. A Butte. A trap of not enough space. Not enough running. Not enough just going anywhere. So I paced back and forth and let you have it. My rage was caged. The cage burst and the rage raged forth.

It had to stop. I had to move on. You were dead and I was here and there was too much of me missing to keep missing you. You heard me. You had to hear me. My screams were loud. Screams from my hell all the way to your heaven.

Things got better. Life went on. Soon, you were back. Like you are now. With me in new and wonderful ways. You show up in the mirror all the time. I see you in my kids and grandkids more and more. Love is like that. It hurts to lose it..........right up until we realize it is ours forever.

I love you, Mom.

Kiss Me With Your Sameness

Kiss me with your sameness.

Gift me one more day like this.

Kiss me with your sameness.

Tomorrow won't be missed.

Leftovers dished for two.

Breakfast for dinner.

That thing you do.

Another cup of coffee, heavy on the cream.

Know what you're doing.

Everything's been seen.

Yesterday can be tomorrow.

Let today be just this way.

Deju vu, me, I want to stay.

Kiss me with your sameness.

All my dreams come true.

Kiss me with your sameness.

Nothing else will do.

Nothing else will do.
Note to Mom:

A love poem about sameness. The bliss of routine. Magic of the promise that tomorrow will be like today. The joy of today being yesterday's twin.

There is a hint of hell in that for some. Imagine the trap of repetition. Tortured by knowing what is around the next bend and the next. They made a movie about that. "Ground Hog Day". A man trapped in living the same day over and over.

For me, this poem is sweet. It reminds me of how wonderful those cookie cutter days can be. Knowing dinner would be on the table at 5 P,M. Chicken for dinner. You and Dad got the white meat, Sis and I got a leg and wing. The night played out scripted and re-run.

That same routine with me playing the part of Dad. Spilled milk as the one special effect varied only by the spiller in that evening's performance. It was my cue to complain that some night we would eat the entire meal without sopping up.

Sharon revived that show recently for your great-grandson, Will Van Wagner. It is a table for four and family is redefined. Will likes the sameness. He insists on dinner and a story from his Pop-Pop.

Each of those nights, I am that kid passing the potatoes with Dad at the head of the table, you at the other end, and Sis across from me. In that same moment, I see the three little faces that look at Sharon and me from that same place of trust. Each of those nights, all of those moments join us at the table.

We need sameness, Mom. Knowing that home is home and people there love us. The comfort of a bathrobe we can find in the dark. OJ waiting in its assigned spot for still waking hands.

Sameness is a kiss. A kiss of love, safety, and so much more. Thanks for the sweet kisses, Mom.
Winter Boardwalk

Mistress Fortune Teller asked me why I'd come.

Jersey made burrito satisfied me some.

Most stands shut and boarded.

Tourists gone, season done.

Matched my mood exactly.

Midway tween here and fun.

Ocean within earshot.

Not today, easer of deep pain.

Your answers are too taffy.

This is my domain.

Ferris's Wheel sits chairless.

A loophole waiting spring.

Killed cats there for some dollies.

Held hands and wished for sin.

Quiet bumpers whiff of ozone.

Rides no longer in.

Wind whipped up the litter.

Bit me in the face.

Walk this empty splendor.

To slow a losing race.

King of the Winter Boardwalk.

Crown so far from old

Seashores know of changes.

Each and every soul.

Here I was the hotshot.

Bullet proof and bold.

Yesterdays embrace me.

Warms me in this cold.
Note To Mom:

Thanks for living in Keansburg, Mom. I love the town. Every season. It shows up in my writing and it is home for me even all these years later. Have decided that part of me belongs in the Burg forever. Perhaps cremation and a memorial service when people are ready. Learned that example from Jeanette.

Take some of my ashes and put them halfway up the mountain on the hike to Waterfall Canyon. Put some more in the yard right here in Utah....by the rock river, Trinity Bay, and the moon cage. Then let folks come down to the Main Street beach and put the rest of me in Raritan Bay.

The Bay almost got me once. Let me go with the flow. Kiss the boardwalk. Float under the Verrazano. See Manhattan from the river and wave to Yankee Stadium as I turn around and head out passed Brooklyn and Coney Island, beyond Sandy Hook to the Ocean. Sea Bright. Asbury. Atlantic City. Cape May. Virginia. The Carolinas. So many places I was. So many places to visit and smile at, to paraphrase Jackie Gleason, "How Sweet It Was!".

We had our own boardwalk, Mom. The kiddie rides I loved to ride as a kid, loved even more to drive as teenager, and savored putting my own kids on when I showed them my hometown.

Our own boardwalk. You let me have the run of the town. I knew that town inside and out. Each street. All of them hold memories. Memories made by a kid that had freedom and safety.

It was so sweet to know that level of love. Love where everything was going to be alright. Love where I ran and played fully. A world where kids were kids because the adults were adults.

Thanks for the Boardwalk, Mom. Thanks for the whole damn town. Home is forever.

Word

He handed me some words and said not to mess them up.

I looked at the Bible but it kinda just lay there laughing.

In the mountains there were wonders and sounds.

The pack had room for a knife and a compass and a snack.

When I came back, the words increased along with my tears.

Into the desert with some water, sunscreen, and prayers.

The moon dance freed something and I slept.

The dreams turned to weapons and mourning came early.

Somewhere is calling and here we stand.

How many of you are there?

So many questions not to be asked.

Water tastes funny and I try not to laugh.

Change floods the floorboards of things gone past.

Fun house pranksters good step by and buy and bye.

Solitary came fine, man. Further from zero and closer to one.

I can name that tomb. Roll the rock away.
Note to Mom:

I went to Burning Man a few years back and it changed my life. More than Catholic School and Church combined yet it had to be when it was and after all the things that came before to prepare me.

It was solitary. Just me. Alone and far from lonely. With almost 50,000 others there for reasons of their own. There were moments of great clarity that opened me to truths that were all mine. Truths to be lived and shared by quiet and sometimes not so quiet example.

One night, make it the morning since it was close to 2 AM, I wandered in quest from one thing and then realized something else was what called. Something unknown that would show itself. It did. In the form of a drumming place.

Ironically, it was a drumming and tequila place. I went for the drum and let others shoot their pain away.

Drumming is something natural for me. It was supernatural that night. In a place of calliope, the drumbeat was one of so many other sounds. Yet, I drummed. Honored the drum as pulse. As steady rhythm. Some folks noticed. Only a few. A smile. A thumbs up. In the chaos, my drumming was consistent.

Then something happened. It scared me at first. I questioned it. Somewhere along the way, all the other sounds kept pace with my drumming. How could that be? Thousands of sounds. Seekers in the tens of thousands. How can that one beat lead? As one might expect, I tested it.

Picked up the pace. Everything followed. Slowed a bit. All else obeyed. I was the heartbeat of Black Rock City. Sounds marched to that tune. Dreams penetrated. Souls soothed. Seekers fed. I was the heartbeat for so many and for so much. It humbled and inspired, Mom.

Walked back to my tent having been in that moment. It was one of the most beautiful moments of that life-changing trip.

There were others. One about you and Dad. They burn the man at Burning Man and that is the main theme. The day after the burn, they burn something else. A Temple. Built specifically for that event. A place of worship and ritual. A place where we let things go. Forge things forever. People write or scratch names of important things on the very walls and in each nook and cranny of the Temple.

I visited the Temple several times and knew it as place of love and healing. Some wrote entire messages. Flowers, drawings, hearts, and more decorated this gathering place. It was the third day that my hand moved and placed something of great importance to be burned into the cosmos forever. A heart with two names in it. "Kay and Bud".
Yet here, Laertes?

"Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame!

The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are stay'd for. There, my blessing with thee,

And these few precepts in thy memory

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,

Nor any unproportion'd thought his act;

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar;

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel,

But do not dull they palm with entertainment

of each new-hatch'd unfledg'd comrade; beware

Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,

Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee;

Give every man thy ear, but reserve thy judgment;

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

For apparel oft proclaims the man,

And they in France of the best rank and station

Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be,

For loan oft loses both itself and friend,

And borrowing dulleth the edge of husbandry;

This above all, to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell; my blessings season this in thee!"

Shakespeare

One More thing, Laertes

Love paired with respect is parenthood.

Respect paired with love is partnership.

The strongest will survive the weakest.

The weakest must survive self.

The strongest will stand alone should it be.

The weakest will flock together quickly.

Even the weakest seed will thrive in the strongest hands.

Even the strongest seed will struggle in the weakest hands.

Survival takes strength.

Strength will survive.

Hands out in want plead.

Hands out in need trust.

Strong hands close reluctantly to fists.

Weak hands close eagerly to hide.

In the darkest dark is the sweetest light.

In the lightest light is the deepest dark.

From the heights, the depths are clear.

From the depths, the heights disappear.

The melee draws many to it.

The silence is heard alone.

Bravado is cowardice strutting.

Silence is bravery speaking.

Each finger that points away has three mapping truth.

Truth vectors only the truest North.

Hope for the Best.

Plan for the worst.

Sail on. The Winds of Change call to you.

Me.

Note to Mom:

I dared to write Shakespeare.

Remember Mister Currie? He was my English teacher in High School. Should have talked about him more at the dinner table. You would have liked him. Liked that he pushed us to learn things. He was a big fan of Shakespeare. Made us read and even memorize portions. To Be Or Not To Be, of course. Seems that is the standard quotable stuff when it comes to The Bard.

Mister Currie liked the "Yet Here, Laertes" one. I am glad he did. It is awesome life advice. Advice good for any embarking on that out there place. The leaving home and striking out on your own place.

It reminds me of heading off to join the Air Force. My first ever plane ride. Virgin traveler off to penetrate the unknown.

Was wrapped up in the adventure. Confident in that naïve way we are at that age. Didn't think much about you and Dad. Didn't bother to wonder the way it impacted you.

Jack was ten years on his own by then. Karen was married with kids. I was the last of the bunch. As a parent and grandparent now, I understand the mixed emotions of the youngest kid exiting the coop. Bittersweet celebration. Will miss you. Now get the hell on the road. Yahoo!!!!!

Yet, off I went. Shakespeare's words are great life advice. Advice I dared to continue in my own way. Advice I learned, of course, in life. Much of it from you and Dad.

Sure, you said some things very directly. Yet much of what you showed me, you showed me by example. Doing your best even when life hit you hard in ways that would cripple some. You handled breast cancer at a time when the treatment was damn near barbaric. Cobalt? Battering the body with damn near gamma rays? !!

As a kid, I just knew you were in the hospital and had an operation. As the years passed, more of the details emerged. Not in the "hey look at me" kinda way. More in the "did you know what really happened?" way. A way that showed me how you faced challenges with quiet dignity.

The world doesn't need martyrs. It does not need any more victims. It needs heroes. Heroes who handle the hand they are dealt and tend to themselves and their family.

You didn't have to sit me down and tell me how to handle the world when I headed off to be whatever I was to be. You showed me. Everyday. Thanks.
Danish Rules

Rage incarnate, harnessed and shown.

Three rings mark, what can't be owned.

Flames of Fears draw the Moth.

Hovers near, despite the cost.

See the wings, singed to nub.

Would be king, spans the rub.
Note to Mom:

Ah, there's the rub. Shakespeare loved irony, Mom. What goes around, comes around. My life is that irony. I learned things by going full circle. Climbed high up the ladder. Headed for the throne of maleness. Learned more when I kneeled and tasted servitude and the sweetness of obedience. Sharing my gifts freely and trusting that my Higher Power would meet my needs. Be a servant to the world.

It was likely you along with the Nuns that did it. I learned by example how strength can be nurturing as well as strong. Inspired by the Feminine. Women that ruled their worlds and everyone in it. You demanded the best of me everyday. So did the Nuns. I went from a Matriarchal house to a Matriarchal school and then slept under a Matriarchal roof. You ruled the roost.

Your son had much to learn in the world. Learn how to be a man who loved and respected life. Sensed there was some reason. Important reason. Something vital to do. Then I surrendered and the flow showed me. Write. Share. Write more. Share more.

To be or not to be, is not the question, Mom. The question we will be asked is the one we need to ask ourselves every day. "Do I do my best?" Working at it, Mom. I am working at it. Honest.

Jailer's Sentence

Words penned in a yearbook.

Something for me to do.

"Wake up."

Two Score two later I stir.

Slept through the alarm.

Learners can be slow.

Teachers are forever.

Note to Mom:

You didn't know about Mrs. Jailer. Shame on me. She is another teacher I should have mentioned at the dinner table. Ninth Grade English.

Ninth Grade was a turning point for me, Mom. Almost ran amok. Did actually. Public school was so much less structured than parochial. The difference between Thompson Junior High and Saint Anne's was huge. It was culture shock before that term had any meaning for me. The Nuns kept tight reigns on yours truly. Thompson meant a different teacher for each class, material I knew without opening a book, clothes based on choice, facial hair, and freedom. It was a recipe for disaster. It almost was a disaster.

Kept my grades up for the most part. Did so while worming my way out of projects, running a poker game in the sheet metal shop storage room, skipping more than a few days of school, and being a bit of punk. It could have been a turning point on a path to something nowhere near as cool as it felt.

Mrs. Jailer was a good teacher and knew I had more than I invested in her or any class. She pushed. In a nice way. In hindsight, she knew pushing too hard would just give me an excuse to prove something stupid. She pushed while encouraging.

It really didn't work. I did the bare minimum and usually at the last minute. It was more about having fun than doing work in ninth grade. (Well, tenth and 11th too).

When it came time to leave Thompson, I asked her to sign my yearbook. She did. "Wake Up, Gil!".

It stung a bit at the time although I didn't let on.

It stayed with me. A long, long time.

She was right.

I took her advice. In time. Isn't that how we each do it? We realize wisdom only when we realize our own stupidity.

This poem is about her and for her. It is also for all the teachers like her. Most teachers when it comes right down to it. They want their students to learn. To grow. To do their best.

Hopefully, sooner rather than later or never.

Wake Up Call

Woke up and now its tomorrow.

Wonder when it all got this way.

Woke up and felt all the sorrows.

Did we do and did we just say?

Why did we sleep?

Do you still weep?

Did the world ever stop needing saving?

We felt and we cried out in sorrow.

We ached and cared with our souls.

We protested and handed out flowers.

We questioned the things we were told.

Why did we sleep?

Do you still weep?

Did the world ever stop needing saving?

Does your heart still know of passion?

Can you do what needs to be done?

The clock ticks faster than ever.

Were the flowers merely for fun?

Why did we sleep?

Do you still weep?

Did the world ever stop needing saving?

Look around and see what has happened.

Feel what has come to the door.

Live like we care for tomorrow.

Come on. Let's go save the world.

Why did we sleep?

Do you still weep?

Did the world ever stop needing saving?
Note to Mom:

I didn't realize the irony of "Wake Up Call" and how much it related to "Jailer's Sentence" until right now. Thanks for that, Mom.

Ninth Grade was 1968. Elvis's Comeback. Viet Nam. Hippies questioning. Riots in the streets. We were a nation looking to the Moon and falling apart at the seams.

Some folks headed north by the light of burning draft cards. Women fired up their awareness along with their bras. Everything said change was here and it was to change core things about the United States and the world.

My generation was to be the catalyst. The doers. Shakers and movers spreading peace and love around the globe.

Then we sold out. We headed for the cash registers and spent our passions on stuff. Greed was good......again. We outspent the Evil Empire, spoke of Star Trek and Woodstock, and measured our success in portfolios.

I was that and more, Mom. Then I really woke up. Really changed. In ways I understood at fifteen only in theory.

The world still needs saving, Mom. Even more now that we slept walked closer to oblivion and took everyone with us on the American Dream.

Waking up is easy.......even after decades with our heads up our asses. Now it is time to do what we should have and could have. The world needs saving.....from us.

Declared Denials

I want to judge and complain and blame.

There are things I want to do that I cannot do.

There are things I will have to do that I do not want to do.

I am sad and feeling sorry for myself.

I want to be mad at the SOURCE and want the SOURCE to know it.

I want things fixed with some magick wand.

I get tired of all of the lessons.

I want to be outside all of this.

The answers are too damn easy now.

The questions are too damn hard now.

The easy way out is the old way.

The new way is slow and frustrating.

Something's gotta give.

Inside the sadness and anger and pain is the truth.

It is taking longer than I want to undo the old me.
Note to Mom:

A rant of sorts. Sometimes I just get mad, Mom. Mad enough to complain. Maybe to even whine. I own it. Then spew it and get over it.

Traffic. Bills. Politics. Liars. Life has lots of opportunities to bitch. When we bitch, we feed it. We become the crap by whining.

Have to own it and then be bigger than it. I think about how some folks turn tragedy into heroics. People lose a limb and become more. They go about their business and set an example in everything they do. The old adage about complaining about shoes until you meet the person with no feet.

We can be heroes, Mom. Dealing with whatever life deals you is how we do it. Some wallow and sit down on the pity pot for the rest of their days. That is a choice.

Screw pity pots. Let's make the most of who and what we are. I am getting better at that......and need to get even better. So I spew it and move on.

Just like you taught me. "You'll get over it". You said that many times. It sounded a bit harsh and cold. It was right.

There was a big hurricane that slammed New York and New Jersey, Mom. Think Donna cubed. It was brutal. One neighborhood in New York caught fire and one hundred houses burned. Ironically, many fire fighters and cops had their homes there. One fire fighter stood in the rubble of what had been his brother's home. "We'll figure it out."

Screw pity pots. "We'll figure it out". You told me "You'll get over it." I did, I will, and will keeping doing my best. Even when it gets to me. It will only get to me for a while. A blip. A moment of weakness. Then I will get over it.

Just like you taught me.
Paradise Lost

Triple crown molding and glass doorknobs.

Black and white memories in Hollywood style.

Speeches into comas, prayers from aching heart.

She returned for a while and softened depart.

A piece of her is me although she really died.

The boy still misses Mommy and has been known to cry.

It was only a movie. What state am I in?

What delivered me this angst? Why's it feel like sin?

Keep all your pity. I'll dry my own tears.

I felt her tonight, across too many years.
Note to Mom:

This one is you, Mom. Triple Crown Molding. Glass doorknobs. Those things meant class to me because they meant class to you.

You had a dignity about you that understood station even when life had you in our blue-collar world. I remember a trip to Uncle Gil's house and how his house intimidated me at the time. It felt like the set of a movie where people gather and smoke cigars and have brandy in the evening. High class. High society.

I knew you would be at home there as sure as you were anywhere. Part of me wished you had those things. The things that said academia, success, and more.

I pursued those things for a while. Things that implied success. Had some moments of pretension.

Things changed. Success is much different for me now. It is peace. Hope. Love. Light.

My favorite room in the world is a glass enclosed porch. It is welcoming. Everyone that has ever visited has said they felt at home in that room. It is a place of gathering as well as solitude. It is what is needed at the moment for whoever is in the room.

It is home. Home where we are loved and safe.

There isn't any triple crown molding or glass doorknobs, Mom. Those are really just things. You were in a class all by yourself, Mom.

I reached to you on your deathbed and you returned to say good-bye. I knew you would. It took hours. The Intensive Care nurses watched quietly as I spoke into your coma. Into your heart. Into wherever you were headed. They watched as I urged you to come back and wrap things up. Sis was asleep in the lounge after days of vigil. She accepted you were gone and gave me time to say good-bye. I had other plans. Good-bye in coma was less than you and I and Sis deserved. I knew you would come back for Sis and for me. Knew it. Love is bigger than death. Love pushes from this place to that place and says hi. Or good-bye.

You came back........to say good-bye. Katie, Katie, pin a rose on me. In my tears, my first question to you was "How the heck are you?" In your style, you let me know. "How the hell do you think I am?" Sis, you and I had that time together. One more magic moment in a life of so much magic. Then you closed your eyes forever.

I feel you on the porch, Mom. See you in the mirror. Love you all the more all the time. That is who we are to each other. We can fit in anywhere. We are better off at home. Together. Forever.
Slightest Touch

Your slightest touch.

That magic touch.

Your slightest touch.

It is enough.

It is enough.

It is enough in the morning.

It is enough every day.

It brings me back to safety.

It makes the bad go away.

Your slightest touch.

That magic touch.

Your slightest touch.

It is enough.

It is enough.

When the days grow dark and dreary.

When skies fill with clouds and rain.

When my heart feels dark and lonely.

When my soul struggles in pain.

Your touch kisses like sunshine.

Yours touch makes me feel whole.

Your touch is enough to help me.

Your touch makes things okay.

Your slightest touch.

That magic touch.

Your slightest touch.

It is enough.

It is enough.

I reach and know you wait for me.

I reach and know you are there.

I reach and know you are safety.

I reach and know you will save me.

I reach and know.

I reach and know.

I reach and know.

Your slightest touch.

That magic touch.

Your slightest touch.

It is enough.

It is enough.
Note to Mom:

I didn't write this one for you, Mom, but could have. It is about love. About how much just a touch can mean. The little boy in me misses your hugs. Touch means so very much.

Sometimes we realize that after the fact. That wasn't the case for me. I realized my love for you and Dad and for all the people I love. Realize it at the time. Love is sweet. I love deeply, often, and forever.

Yet, I love even more later. Maybe this poem is about that. About longing. Longing for the beauty of what we had. I love it while we have it. Love it even more after it is gone.

Maybe this poem is about that. About the ache to hold you and Dad once more.

Love grows. It is enough. It is forever.
Gardening

I watched a Father and his son in the garden this morning.

A garden I thought I began for me now tended by another.

The boy played in the dirt, safe and happy.

The man toiled in the garden by the fruits of his future.

Another man watched the hope of tomorrow in the boy that he knew.

There was another man there as well.

One now gone that tended his garden long ago.

His seed sprouted today while I watched.

A nice crop, even after all the struggles to see it bloom.

Our plants are forever when we tend ground together.

Note to Mom:

This is about Patrick and his son, Will. Well, maybe it is about me and Dad, too. It was one of the moments of clarity that wrap us in peace and kiss us with happiness.

I have a garden in the back yard, Mom. A really cool garden planted in tire planters with an area called Three Sisters that honors Native American ways. You would love my whole yard, Mom. Rock Rivers complete with islands and more. Rocks hand gathered from a local field, washed by hand, and placed over years. The yard is as different as the family that lives under the roof.

Like the home you made. Where people visited and stayed as long as they needed. I remember Dad making up a cot in the shed for Tom when he was on the skids. That's Thelma's Tom, not Uncle Tom. Tom stayed there for a few weeks if memory serves. A bed in an unheated shed and food from the table is a lot better than homeless and hungry. We had Helen that spent everyday at the house. We had the well-intentioned disaster that was the Brennan's living with us for a few months. Your friendship went from forever to never again after the quarters shrunk a bit more each day. Still, people came and went and family was much more than name.

It is like that in our house. Doni is there more nights and just spends time enjoying TV with company rather than alone. Sheryl moved to Roy to be nearer and she is the one that keeps the garden productive and beautiful. The rock river and yard is largely to her credit. Sharon and I live a life of love and inclusion. It defies definition and explanation. It just works....really well.

Pat moved back under the roof a few years back and Will is here much of the week. As with anything, it had a few downs while the ups won out and still do. This poem is part of that.

I stood at the window and watch them working in their three tire planters. It was about them being together. What was planted, and even if it grew, was of little consequence. They had their hands in the dirt together and planted stories and more forever.

Our life is the garden of all we plant, Mom. My life is a paradise.

It Ended

It ended.

With a whimper.

An anticipated yet stinging silence.

It ended.

Freedom initially tastes sad.

A lessen of connection.

Something that was and is no more gives pause.

Death confirmed.

Hope unmasked.

Not so good good-byes.

It ended.

Let the silence heal.

Shed the burden with each tear.

Lighter in the darkest moments.

It ended.

Note to Mom:

Things end. Lots of things. Relationships. School days. Jobs. Sometimes they end in pain. The pain of emotions as people hold on to what is dying. Regrets seed early and the roots are watered with tears and the gnashing of teeth.

That is what this poem is about, Mom. It is about getting over it. Move on. Suck it up. Put on your big girl panties and quit your bitching.

Maybe it is gentler in poem form. The message is the same. Move on, people. Show's over. Nothing here to see.

Why this one after one about the garden? I wondered that myself, Mom. Things move on. Things end. Yet they live on because we are all we were and our children are all we were.

You are in the garden with me just as I am in the garden with Pat and he with Will. We have to move on once things are over. More things are coming.

Dance with Infinity

Dance with Infinity.

Watch slight of hand.

Juggle so easily.

Eight forms the band.

Dance with Infinity.

Give it the lead.

Rainbow lit pathway.

Swirl spinning seeds.

A one and a two.

A three, four, five.

Dance with Infinity.

Feel so alive.

A one and a two.

Do what you do.

Dance with Infinity.

Jump and then jive.

A one and two.

A three, four, five.

Dance with Infinity.

Alive, Alive, Alive.

Whirl in the dervish.

Things well in hand.

Dance with Infinity.

Strike up the band.

A one and a two.

A three, four, five.

Alive, Alive, Alive.

Feel so alive!

Alive, Alive, Alive.

Feel so alive!

Dance till we die.

Dance till we die.

Dance with Infinity.

Whirl quite the turn.

Dance with Infinity.

Savor the burn.
Note to Mom:

Can you hear Lawrence Welk in this one? A one and a two.... The Bubble Man himself. This is about the ballroom dance of life. Dancing is so beautiful.

I liked when you and Dad danced. You showed your full class when dancing. A lady. Something so dignified in the motion. It was fittingly, based on this book and that my poems ended up being gifts to you, poetry.

What ever happened to Ballroom dancing? What became of folks making a night of it? Dressing up. Showing their style and moves. We need some more of that.

Like with anything, it is ours whenever we want it. This inspired me to make it happen. Walked away from the keyboard and dug out your Reader's Digest Record collection of Big Band Hits. The records were scratchy. It was the one set you and Dad really played a lot.

Hadn't played them for over thirty years and today was the day. Danced with your great-grandchild, Adelynn. She learned to twirl a bit, spin under and back out, and feel the pace of the music.

Sharon came in to watch. Susie came back from a meeting and caught the last two songs. Adelynn and her Pop-Pop danced to records decades old of music decades older. Had some Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, and even Guy Lombardo.

An hour. One simple hour. One that will live on forever because we danced. Guess the poem is pretty damn accurate when it comes right down to it. Dance with Infinity. Dance with your Pop-Pop. Dance with your granddaughter. Dance like you did with your Mom and your Dad. A one....and a two....

Summer Squall

Rain clouds highlight the pond of my tears.

Lightening flashes pulse at my fears.

Summer is hiding behind the decay.

Just stuck in a moment, just not okay.

Brave is more common, don't like the morose.

No, I'm not crying. Things have been worse.

Just the life changes, choices I live.

Storms still coming, this one just is.

Feeling real human, totally raw.

Cape at the cleaners, more fur than claw.

This will pass quickly, that's my decree.

Ignore my emotions, just being me.
Note to Mom:

I feel so deeply, Mom. How can I feel so deeply? Care so much? Ache so often? Knowing that it will pass because Love is stronger than all the pain of feeling and caring and aching. The healing bursts from me in screams.

Faith. Trust. Belief. I have all of that and more. Surrender is the key to sanity for your son. It is that place where it is possible to withstand the things of this life that would divert or slow our movement to love and eternity.

How did this come to be my path, Mom? How did my soul become so present that it pushed into this world and said it has to be here?

I am nothing and in that nothingness is everything. Until we see Jesus in everyone else, he is just another character in a fantasy. Once we see him everywhere, he is in the mirror. The mirror where we ask ourselves if we did our best today and know the truth. If we did not, we are forgiven. Arise tomorrow and do your best. If we did, arise tomorrow and do your best. Each day is a do over. Each sunrise a chance.

Did you teach me this, Mom? I think you did. I don't think you know you did. Maybe that is what I am supposed to say to you right now. You did that, Mom. You taught me my best was good enough, my fuck ups can be fixed, and everyone else is a good as I am.

Some nights it is hard. The emotions are so intense it overwhelms. Annie, your great-granddaughter was baptized today. Not like I was or you were. Like she was and like her parents were. Maybe that is like you are and I were, just labeled different by some council of twelve in a secret quorum of do we have this right? Maybe it is same. A day of innocence and eternity.

That was part of the emotions but only part. For me it was time with other grandkids. Meghan, Annie's younger sister, was a cuddle bug and spent most of the time on Pop-Pop's lap. It was perfection. Heaven in the moment. Cleansing moments. Then another grandkid, Sammy, Annie's brother, nuzzled in and cooed as only babies can and then slept while I sang "Danny Boy" as "Sammy Boy".

Sometimes the emotions overwhelm me, Mom. I let them. You taught me that, too. The waters are better at the deepest end of the pool of love.
Skewered Sabbath

Opening wider and wider in the solitude.

Vector checks confirm the isolation.

Mind games of solitaire from penetrations.

Pushed into and through and then away.

Exposed to the nothingness of primal instincts.

Bound to be fed the fuels of hungers.

Pumped full of them reaching beyond.

Pulsed with raw energy at the base.

Pressed and filled in celebration.

Plugged in to currents of cravings.

Piped full and drained eagerly.

Rocked and then cradled to rest.

Note to Mom:

Speaking of religion.......*smile*. Don't talk religion and politics, right, Mom? Well, I tasted both and survived.

Lessons of Sundays. The Sundays Sis and I went to church and you and Dad stayed home. Later, the Sundays Sharon and I went to mass with the kids. The Nine a.m. calls to you were as routine as sacraments and more rewarding.

Towards the end of your days in this life, you hated Sundays. Said so. Stuff was closed, shows were off, and everybody was somewhere else. At best, you tolerated them. At worst.......you dreaded them.

Sunday. Sabbath. Remember to honor the Sabbath. Thou shalt. Sabbaths are right up there with Mothers and Fathers. Only two of the commandments are positive. Mothers and Fathers and Sabbaths. I like Thou Shalts.

Sabbaths are holy days. Days to be honored. Sacred Days. Those times when we are closer to our Higher Power.

Well, one seventh of our life is too little for that, Mom. Each day is to be revered. So I surrendered and my soul bursts forth at will. It soars on the wings of music. Winter cold inspires it. Summer nights warm it. Life is holy, Mom. Each day is a Sabbath.

I have two Sundays each week, Mom. Two Saturdays, too. Went to a three-day work week and traded in my Tuesdays and Thursdays for two more weekend days. Why not? Who said thirty days has November, April, June, and November when we all know they have twenty-eight and sometimes one, or two, or three more? Time is relative and I kissed cousin and renamed my days.

Honor the Sabbaths. Deal. Today's and Tomorrow's. I won't be passing the collection plate but take what you need if I have it.
Words

If the words are of pain, I shall eat them and let them be shit as they are.

If the words but complain, I'll not secrete them for their path is really a fall.

If the words are not there, I can't make them for fake they would be if so forced.

If the words lash out at another, the lash shall be mine till pain lost.

If the words are used as a weapon, they will bite my hand without launch.

If the words do not come, I can't force them with guess or with panic or hunch,

The words come when they're ready and I get to be there at birth.

The words are my joy and my passion and I will ensure their worth.

The words are from deep within me and minded very close to my core.

The words are here for your pleasure; your reading is truly reward.
Note to Mom:

There are some laws I follow, Mom. The Law of Attraction is one. We build our world with our very thoughts and words. Folks gather and share aches and pains and emerge with more of what brought them together.

The world has enough negative in it. The story of Mother Teresa and how she said, "have a peace rally and I shall attend.", inspired me. She knew that being anti-anything merely fed that energy. We achieve peace through love and gathering for peace.

This poem is my reminder. To myself as writer and messenger. It is my place to spread the positive.

It can be a challenge. It is easy to go negative. I do glib and sarcastic pretty dang easy. Come on. I'm from Exit 117. It's in my gene pool.

The words are my legacy and smart asses stink even more when they are dead. So, this poem is to remind me.

Nice guys finish first even when they are the last to know it.

Jewel

Beaten and bruised and littered with doubt.

Fucked, she conceived, and lived with her lot.

Pushed into dark, she hid well her light.

Wishing for touch that knew her true might.

Smile her mask and beauty her shield.

She battled her cry, refusing to yield.

The bitch then did something they did not expect.

Words became diamonds that outshined their best.

Girl turned to woman then woman to mom.

Pain increased beauty and peace replaced harm.

Healing continues, each stanza, each rhyme.

Yesterdays gone and today she is fine.

Note to Mom:

People tell me just about anything, Mom. Sharon is amazed at how strangers will come to me and bare their souls. It is something I accept and do my best to honor.

It is the storyteller in me that comes to the surface and wants to clarion. (Great word, ain't it, Mom? Clarion. I knew you'd like it. Just like you did "pensive" when I sprang it on you one night. It was fifth grade and Miss Talty gave us a word a day. She said use it three times and it is yours forever. The word that day was "pensive". You were sitting on the couch reading the paper. It was the perfect usage. "You are pensive tonight, Mom." You eased the paper down over your eyes and looked at me.......impressed. Asked about the word. I remember the talk even now. It impressed you that I knew it and used it correctly. Boys like to impress their moms.)

The storyteller in me wants to share the victories. Like this. She was a jewel that survived abuse of the body and soul. A single mother in a country where women are measured and valued as commodities. She rose above that and shined in her words of truth and life of example.

She showed herself to me and the beauty inspired this poem. Each of us can shine. The world is to be adorned with the gems we each are meant to be.

People tell me just about anything, Mom. I think I got that from Dad. He was a gem, too. Maybe I should have told him that a bit more. Maybe I just did.
Journal

To journal your soul and show the world.

Who dares?

Who cares?

Who will read?

Will it matter?

Questions keep some from that place.

Answers draw me to that place.

Bold keystrokes slay many demons.

Solitary warrior exposed to any witness.

Ink.

Yes, I shall.

Note to Mom:

I tell the world basically everything, Mom. Feel it. Write it. Share it. Kinda hanging out there in many ways. Turns out it matters.

There are people that read almost everything I write. Folks around the world. Some folks from the Burg. Other folks from places far away. The Middle East. Bangladesh. Morocco. Turkey. Ghana. Plus twelve steppers. People in recovery like my work. Go figure.

So I share. Fully and freely. At first it was a bit scary. Wondered who would think what. Feared their judgment a bit. Feared their disapproval. Then it went from scary to bold. Tapped my resolve and said this is me and how you take it is about you. Had a bit of an attitude about speaking the truth. Finally, it moved to the freedom of exposure. Free because I was shown and known. People liked it if they liked it and didn't if they didn't. My truth was my truth regardless of their attitude about my truth.

It feels right, Mom. To learn and live truth is a very good thing. I highly recommend it.
Season of Surprise

Snow snuck in the back yard while I was busy getting clean.

It surprised me with its blanket's fall.

The warmth inside my smile was as warm as summer's eve.

Winter wrapped my garden today. See you in the spring.

Note to Mom:

Do poems have to be long, Mom? Must they rhyme? The garden had me way poetic when snow blanketed it one day. Moved to realize how the season snuck up on me while I was busy with life.

So the poem came. Short. To the point. Pretty. Maybe it needs a photograph or painting with it. Perhaps it is meant to be words and music. Images and more. Perhaps. Yet I read it and smile.

Read it now even though it was written then. Feel it now even though it is about some other time. A flash of insight. A poof of passion. Presto. One Poem.

The season said here I am. Boo.

Seasons are cool. They have a feel to them. I remember the importance of the porch windows to seasons in the Burg. When we took down the screens and brought out the windows, winter was coming. It was a project. Dad and I did it together for a few years. Took down the numbered frames with the screens in them. Washed them and prepared them for storage in the shed.

The house looked funny with the screens out. Exposed. Naked in a way. Vulnerable. Made the house feel like it trusted me to take care of it and put the windows up quickly before it caught cold.

Each window was washed and then Dad handed them up to me so I could hook them in. Maybe I handed them up to him. Not sure. Not sure it matters. He did part and I did part and together we did the whole thing. All the windows were the same size yet only the right numbered window fit in its opening. Wondered about that as a kid. How did they know which opening was theirs? Things that make you go hmmmmm. Soon, we had the windows in and the screens away in the shed. Another season over. Another season coming.

Took a few days to adjust to the windowed porch. The sound had its own quality. Echoey. More inside world sounds. Outside was more outside when windows replaced screens. Inside was more away. There was something new to keep you safe from what was coming. It said snuggle in....cold and dark was on the way.

Reversed the process when Spring arrived. Somehow, the screens were more exciting when they arrived. It meant the beach, boardwalk, lightening bugs, hamburgers on the grill, and school vacation. Screens meant more outside and less inside.

Windows and screens. Just moments in time. Maybe a poem about a moment in time is just right after all.
The Neighborhood is Shrinking

Death by Cop stops a Purple Heart.

Jet falls broken on foreign soil.

Wave drowns countless dreams.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Sing to me, Mister Rogers.

Yodel me yesterday, Cowboy King.

I believed in black and white.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Rainbows are my family.

Candyland rotted my teeth.

My weasel pops all on its own.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Sing to me, Mister Rogers.

Yodel me yesterday, Cowboy King.

I believed in black and white.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Retrogrades and addictions pumping.

Less is more needs a lot more.

Our garbage has nowhere to go.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Sing to me, Mister Rogers.

Yodel me yesterday, Cowboy King.

I believed in black and white.

The Neighborhood is shrinking.

Note to Mom:

I love the feel of you hanging out in the yard on a summer evening, Mom. Dad and you in your lounge chairs. Mr. and Mrs. Connolly coming over for a cold one...or two or three. The woman and her identical twin daughter stopping their bikes to say their awkward hellos. Old Charlie waving as he went by if he had money and stopping for a cold one...or two and three if his pockets were empty. Cars would toot their horns and nine out of ten times you knew who it was. Life was one big neighborhood and everyone knew your name before that became a line in a theme song.

The Neighborhood is shrinking, Mom. It is getting smaller and smaller. Smaller because we know more and more people from more and more places. My neighbors stop by electronically and I know their names. We talk the things you and everyone in the yard talked. Life. Politics. News. Weather. Family. We share stories and get to know each other just like you and Dad and the folks in Keansburg did decades ago.

We are linked globally in the same way now. One big family that realizes we better get along with everybody because everybody has to live in this town. I know you and Dad didn't care for some of the folks in town. You still got along with them. You didn't decide they were the enemy and had to change. You just tolerated them and accepted there were things about them you didn't like. When push came to shove though, you would help them if they were in need because they were neighbors.

Keansburg got clobbered by a hurricane just the other day, Mom. All of Jersey did along with much of New York and other places. Keansburg was hit hard while other areas were hit even harder. Keansburg made the news though....for their recovery efforts. The Governor came to town to basically say, "wow....this is how it should be done. Neighbors helping Neighbors."

Other towns make the news for other reasons. Keansburg makes the news because neighbors help neighbors.

The neighborhood is shrinking.......because the whole world has to get along just like you and Dad and all the neighbors did on those summer nights.

The Mister Rogers in this poem is Roy. He was one of the good guys. I try to be one of the good guys too, Mom. Just like you taught me.
Declaration of Interdependence

We hold this truth to be self-evident---all life is linked.

We will respect all life.

Will work as one to ensure balance in all things.

We will live in peace and respect the peace of all.

We will focus on our commonality and celebrate our diversity.

We will share resources.

We will use our resources for the betterment of all life.

We will foster positivity in all we do.

We will be a global family.

We will ensure all that represent us honor these values.

Note to Mom:

I sat down with full intentions of re-writing the Declaration of Independence. How is that for arrogance, Mom? How is that for frustration? I am bigger than the flag and want America to lead the world in ways that help the world. Lately, we are a nation about greed and fear. We are shining an example of people who are more worried about themselves and their stuff than anything else. We lost our way, Mom.

Washington is supposed to follow and we are supposed to lead; by example. Governments are following the money rather than whatever truths they hold to be self-evident. So I decided to re-write one of the United States founding documents.

It didn't work. It meant tweaking what was and expecting something new; something bigger. Something that people could read anywhere and say, "Count me in."

This is that document, Mom. I am proud of it. It is important and can stand for time well beyond my time on this planet.

This one I will support and defend. This one I will live. This one I will spread as far and wide as possible. This is your son at his very best, Mom. This is the little boy that pledged allegiance to the flag and felt what it meant. This is the young man that swore to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, both foreign and domestic.

Pogo said it. "I have met the enemy and he is us". Time to realize we are citizens of the world and interdependence is how we are to live. Gotta do my peace and speak my peace to have my peace, Mom.

Peace. It is ours for the making.
Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

I was unaware. Should have cared.

Should have dared. Help me bear.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Stayed inside the lines. Help me rewind.

Losing my mind. I'll do better this time.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Knew the shooters. Aimed to change.

Missed the mark. Feel the blame.

I saw them die. I really cried.

Then climbed that ladder and damn near died.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Throw me a line.

Save me this time.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

I'll get it right.

Save me tonight.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Help me. Please.

I'm on my knees.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from this Goddamn River.

Pull me from the Goddamn river. Drowning in Denial River.

Drowning in Denial River. Help me from Denial River

Drowning in Denial River. Save me from Denial River.
Note to Mom:

Sometimes, I wish I could sing, Mom. Wish music was something I could do as much as feel. Some of the poems birth as if they were songs. Come to think of it, they are songs. Just songs someone else needs to sing. This is one of those.

It was born on a morning walk, a day after more news of the inhumanity of mankind. People killing other people. I would say for no reason, but what is a valid reason? There isn't a valid reason for killing. Yet we kill. I would kill. Could kill. To pretend that we would not is denying the depth of our capacity for feeling. To pretend we could not is to deny our primal roots. We could and we would. Each of us.

Yet killing is wrong. It is a failure of self to understand we are more powerful than our emotions. It is weakness trumping the strength of the human spirit to rise above any darkness. It is flat ass wrong.

Innocence pays the price of such failure and weakness. Shame on those that fall so far and so hard. There are options. Much better options.

I own my darkest nature, Mom. Own it and learn it. Then I return from that place more human. Filled with more love. Shining more light.

The Denial River is a cesspool of pain, death, and hate. We are much better than those waters. Each of us. All of us.
Manimal

Manimal sniffs the pungent stink of weakness.

Breathes in the rank smell of putrid decay.

Resurrecting skills long thought forgotten.

Howls swept forth on the winds of change.

Inside, primal feasts on terrified human.

Outside, beast barely contains its rage.

Death perfumes life's pathways.

Cold blankets the mountains of choice.

Beasts draw stealthily to the huddle.

Time to hunt rather than die.

Pain warms the tongue in the licking.

Scars sweeten taste for the prey.

To some this is merely delusion.

In truth, it is a brand new day.

Note to Mom:

This is about that dark place where I am savage, Mom. The place of my own darkness. It is animal in feel. That life form that will kill if needed. Where we hunt to survive and see threats in all the shadows.

It is a place of strength beyond our imagination. We burst with it akin to Popeye and Spinach Power. Roar! SHAZAM! Bang! Zoom!

I go there, Mom. Primal. Savage. More animal than human. Sometimes it feels like wolf; canine. Other times it feels like something not in the known food chain. An it. That thing remembers who I am in its way yet it is only tolerant of the human and human limitations. It is bold and alive in ways that nature intended.

Dad knew this place. He obeyed its call in ways that diluted his humanity. He headed to the bottle. He knew that place and was afraid of it while loving it. I have his nature in that way yet understand that we are out of control when on drugs. Savage is one thing. Savage out of control is something different, something much less; weaker.

We are to be proud that we are linked to the primal nature of animals. We are to honor our darkness and show our light by living above the impulses and emotions that drive inhuman actions.

Remember Dad during full moons? Heck yeah, you do. If a full moon came on a Thursday, we knew Dad would not be home for a few days. Thursday was payday and a full moon with a full paycheck was his call of the wild. He howled at the moon in his way....as a drunken lunatic.

His son is a lunatic, one that howls at the moon undiluted by alcohol, a Manimal.

The moonlight feeds me, Mom. Bold words. Stark truths. Manimal feels. Then the poet writes and shares.
Exit Stage

Lightless Dark.

Soul displayed.

Questioned choices along the way.

Sixteen shows.

Too many towns.

Major Name.

Warm-up clown.

All important.

Deeds well done.

What were you smoking?

What have you done?

Well concealed?

Dream or Fake?

Was it real?

What was the deal?

Smoke the crack.

Roll the pot.

Salute the flag.

Miss the boat.

Open truths.

Believed lies.

Heroes tarnished.

Villains rock.

Hard on you.

Bitter Truths.

Wise man knowing.

What came to pass.

Now is now.

Then was not.

I dance much better than I sing.

Still the song feels like the thing.

Words from poets.

Crack cocaine.

Silent wisdom.

Lyric'ed pain.

Jumpsuits glittered.

TVs popped.

Come the Rising.

Vegas drop.

Center Stage.

No Encore.

Live your demons.

Ignore your foes.

Clip your wings.

Check the time.

Spin the records.

Name that tune.

Dance the jig.

Here

We

Go.

Note to Mom:

Inspired by Elvis. Can we live up to expectations? Should we? When do we go from on the way up to how the hell did it end up like this?

There are as many temptations as there are excuses. Easy to settle in while the world strokes our ego until we climax. Egos love attention that way.

This is about that struggle. Wrestling with fame. Stepping into the ring and duke'ing it out with success. Rose colored glasses can skew your vision even when someone else is wearing them. Add in sex, drugs, and rock n' roll, and you are having too much fun dying to realize you are dying. So many took that path.

Elvis did yet survived even his own excesses. He remained Elvis to the end and then became something else. A light so bright it shined through his own darkness.

I cried when he died. Cried more when the evidence said he was tarnished at his own hands. Got over the crying and felt the message of knowing and sharing our gifts.

He questioned a lot. Why me? Elvis asked himself why he was Elvis. He understood he was bigger than life and questioned that. We are all bigger than life, Mom, you are. Each of us is a gift to everyone we touch. I felt your gifts every day you were here and feel them everyday I am here. We go on through each other.....provided of course we share our gifts because they come here with us to be planted. Planted, they bloom and we live on through them. Unplanted, they die with us and the world is lessened because our gifts went unshared.

Thanks for sharing your gifts with me, Mom. Elvis inspired the poem. You inspired the poet.
Name That Tune

What's the buzz, tell me what's happening.

There's a man with a gun over there.

Someone left the cake out in the rain.

Hate your next-door neighbor but don't forget to say grace.

She said, "There's no reason and the truth is plain to see."

Revolution, Evolution, Masturbations, Flagellation, Regulation, Integration, Meditations.

And the story it told of a river that flowed made me sad to think it was dead.

As the elders of our time choose to remain blind.

Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step.

Waiting for my boot heels to be wandering.

I got a feeling. Down in my shoes.

Get your motor running. Get out on the Highway.

Tell them a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call.

Oh Mother, tell your children not to do what I have done.

There's a whole generation with a new explanation. People in motion.

There must be lights burning brighter somewhere.

Note to Mom:

I had more fun writing this poem than any other work. It started, as most of my poems do, on my morning walk. I came home with several lines from different songs in my head. Not the entire songs, just lines. Not related songs, just lines. So I went with that. Decided to let the creativity flow.

Thought about writing each on a different piece of paper and let them flow at random. Actually started doing that. It felt slow, or wrong, or something. So I moved to the computer and just typed them in. As I did, I thought of more and then googled a few to ensure I had them right. The creative juices flowed and soon I had the lines and was ready to let them go when I saw a flow within them. A flow only slightly off. So it was time to rearrange them and let the story be told. So it is as you read it here.

It was fun writing this poem. Of all the poems I wrote, this one generated the most feedback. Fun feedback. People tried to get all the songs right. This was poetry as fun and I loved it. It is also a poem of message.

Music is important to me, Mom, and always has been. This poem played with that love. Love of songs. Love of messages. Love of lines and words and more. Here are the songs behind the poem and the story behind each song. Here is what they mean to me:

" **What's the buzz, tell me what's happening**."

From Jesus Christ, Superstar. This was probably the line of a song that was most in my head the day I wrote this poem. Seemed fitting since it was the apostles that sang it. They sang of knowing they could make it if they tried. I can make it so I try.

" **There's a man with a gun over there**."

From "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield. This song has come to symbolize the unrest of the 60s. It was actually inspired by some questionable police tactics on the Sunset Strip. It fit much broader though to the later events of Kent State, Viet Nam, and more. It fits again in this time when the United States acts in ways that are almost beyond question now...ways that feel more Police State than the Land That I Love.

" **Someone left the cake out in the rain**."

From "MacArthur Park". This is a song that almost defies description. This line always resonated with me. It speaks of beauty left to succumb to forces just not intended for such things. It is one of the most effective metaphors I ever heard. I like the song itself, as well. Richard Harris' version should be wrong but it just works. This song played a key role in helping me understand Elvis and his message. Just before he taped the '68 Comeback Special, Steve Binder asked Elvis what he would do if he was handed this song. Elvis said he would record it. Binder knew then Elvis understood he was a messenger and moved Elvis from movie songs to a depth of music that was some of the best Elvis ever recorded.

" **Hate your next door neighbor but don't forget to say grace."**

From "Eve Of Destruction" by Barry McGuire. One of the angriest songs ever recorded. I saw a video of Barry McGuire performing the song to pitch some CD set or something. He performed it angry and it showed. It was one of the most in your face songs I ever heard with a powerful message to wake up. This line spoke of the dichotomy of our daily existence in a way that I honor as I use it here.

" **She said, "There is no reason and the truth is plain to see**."

From "A Whiter Shade Of Pale" by Procol Harem. I love this song. I love that I can't figure it out. Read of the Beatles and how one night they all ended up in a car, stoned, and determined to figure out what this song meant. Word is, they didn't succeed either. Still this line of that song spoke to me. As someone in tune with the Feminine, it would. I use it here and hear the rest of the song when I do.

" **Revolution, Evolution, Masturbations, Flagellation, Regulation, Integration, Meditations."**

From "Give Peace A Chance" by John and Oko. I think of the Beatles, John specifically, when I used this line. My respect for the Beatles and their music increases every day. When living in England, I did a tour of Liverpool and am forever grateful that I did. Saw the Cavern, Eleanor Rigby's tombstone, where the Beatles lived and played, Strawberry Fields, and so much more. My favorite part of the tour was standing on Penny Lane and seeing the song. Each place they listed was there to see. That touched the writer in me for they turned their hometown into a story. (Please see "Jersey Sure", available at Amazon.com and BarnesandNobles.com for my own Penny Lane.) I think that trip was when I truly began to appreciate the talents of the Beatles. They loved their neighborhood just as I loved mine, Mom. They knew their neighborhood and the people in it.

This song was more about John and his passion for his mission. John was not my favorite Beatle. In fact, there are aspects about him I did not really like much. He was a man with that lived his Truth though and that was why this song meant so much. I feel his passion and his caring for the world in this song. John struggled with his gifts and how to use them in the very best way for the whole damn world. Bravo, John. You did well. You did very, very well. You did your best.

" **And the story it told of a river that flowed made me sad to think it was dead."**

From "A Horse With No Name" by America Another song that exceeds its own definition. Something about it resonates and I really do not understand why. It feels so global to me yet as if the traveler is deep inside self and working to understand things cosmic. This song transcends time and space for me and I do not understand it. It just feels good and right and true. So I honor it here.

Your granddaughter, Susie, loves this song, Mom. She is a free spirit and the message of this song touches her soul. There is a magic in her, Mom. You would be proud...and maybe just a bit envious. She lives her truth.....boldly.

" **As the elders of our time choose to remain blind."**

From "Atlantis" by Donovan. This song is just weird. The older I get, the less weirder it gets. Maybe, I just get weirder so this song fits more. Who knows? The message is so powerful. It is even more timely now in the 21st Century. I shall not wait for the elders to see. I shall do my best now for what comes.

" **Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step**."

From "American Pie" by Don Mclean. Quite possible the most poetic song of Rock N Roll The Buddy Holly Story as it relates to everyone. Sure he takes a shot at Elvis in one line but the song is powerful. When heroes die, we grow up and it ain't always easy. Of all the lines, this one spoke loudest to me. I could picture the newspaper laying there and the stun as the headline reported. I knew that feeling from some events in life. News that knocked the wind out of my sails. When I heard Elvis died, that was how I felt. This song is a song that I can hear over and over and it sounds fresh.

" **Waiting for my boot heels to be wandering**."

From "Mister Tambourine Man" by Dylan (and the Byrds). A song with an attitude. Kill some time. Play a song. I am here and I will not be for long so play a damn song. Not sure why this line but once I properly flowed the poem, it became a major segue.

" **I got a feeling. Down in my shoes."**

From "You Were On My Mind" by the We Five. A song of the 60s that was uplifting. Had the single and played the heck out of it along with "96 Tears", "Kind of a Drag", and a few others that you got to endure, Mom. As a group, the We Five was pretty lightweight. They did music jingles and light stuff yet this song had a Peter, Paul, and Mary feel to it. Like poetry.....light, right up until you look closer.

" **Get your motor running. Get out on the Highway**."

From "Born To Be Wild" by Steppenwolf. The ultimate motorcycle rebel song. Each time I hear it, I see Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in "Easy Rider". I suspect this song sold more motorcycles than any other. It is the song of the wild and it speaks to me more and more.

You'll be happy to know I did not ever get a motorcycle, Mom. My instincts said that it would touch the primal me and the road would be something addictive on a bike.

" **Tell them a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call**."

From "White Rabbit" by "Jefferson Airplane". For me, this is the ultimate drug song. Take Alice In Wonderland, add Grace Slick, and light your joints, boys and girls. Messages here. Try and remember them. Try and remember that you were even here.

" **Oh Mother, tell your children not to do what I have done."**

From "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals. A song about a whore house and coming of age. This song is carnal. It touches the male in me that loves flesh. It is cheap and needy and real. It stands the test of time because somewhere out there, there are always fifteen year olds.......and they lust just like we did, and sometimes still do. Fitting that the Animals recorded it.

Dad would love and know this line well, Mom.

" **There's a whole generation with a new explanation. People in motion**."

From "Are You Going To San Francisco" by Scott McKenzie. A song of hope. It sings of a city that has its own sort of energy, an energy of openness and love. This is a flower child song. I was not a flower child. I was something else. I am a flower child now, with an attitude and answers. This song applies.

" **There must be lights burning brighter somewhere.**

From "If I Can Dream" by Elvis. This song is Elvis' greatest message song. He sang it at a time when he was almost a footnote in the story of Rock N Roll. After years of the movies that made money and showed he could make any song sound good, Elvis was to do a live show for the first time in almost seven years. Quite frankly, he was scared, deeply so. So much so that he had to be coaxed out on the stage at the last minute. He was littered with doubts of self.

What many do not know is that Elvis was a man of the world and wondered, just as many of us did, what was happening all around. He had deep questions when Martin Luther King was shot in his hometown. Elvis was a man isolated and wondered what happened to the world he knew. He knew he had gifts and wondered if he used them correctly. He was more spiritual than most knew. When he did the 68' special, he wanted a message song. This one was it. When he recorded it, he did it alone in the studio to the tracks the orchestra already recorded. Those there said it was like watching magic. All alone in the studio, Elvis performed this song. Those that watched from the sound booth were stunned. Some of them had been with Elvis for years and saw a man touch something in himself they had not truly known. They saw a new Elvis sing that song. He reached into his soul and sang from a place he almost forgot he had. The event touched him and all those that witnessed it. He vowed to scrap the movies and only record songs that meant something to him and what he was to be.

Elvis failed in that vow. In his humanness, he helps me every day as I remember his gifts, his magic, and his truth. I did not know this line of this song would end a poem that was a joy to write, yet delivered a clear message of hope and truth. Thanks, Elvis. Like you, I will just keep singing the songs. (Only in the shower though....let the books and poems be my message.)

One poem.......lots of stories and messages, Mom.

Music is really important to me. Has been from the very start. Kinda ironic since my voice is one of those where people would pay me not to sing. Still, there is magic in music and it touches me.

You must have known. You and Dad gave me my first Victorola. Yes, record players were still called Victrolas back then even though they didn't have the gramophone thingamajigs. It was before stereo though...well, slightly. Records came in mono.

My first record was 50,000,000 Fans Can't Be Wrong. Elvis in his gold lame' suit. That and his Christmas Album began the quest for song. Played the heck out of those albums. You had to hear. The music surely carried from my bedroom upstairs to anyplace in the house.

Ran the extension cord from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom since that was the only outlet upstairs. Remember that? One plug fed three extension cords so Sis had one three-way plug and I had another. Safety first!

Upgraded to a stereo system years later, one from Collingswood Auction. Sharon and I made a day of it on a Saturday and returned with a state of the art stereo record player, speakers and everything.

Returned home ready to rock the house. Seems there was something wrong with the brand new record player. I hooked it up carefully, put a record on, and went back to the bed to settle in for the show. As soon as I sat down, it stopped playing. Tromped back to the new toy and fiddled with the plugs and more. It began to work but then it stopped as soon as I returned to sit on the bed.

This went on for quite some time. Odds are, I cursed. Odds are really good that happened. Soon, I was ready to throw the damn thing through the window.

The sound of laughter stopped me. Dad was downstairs laughing, loudly. The son of a bitch listened for my footfalls and turned off the fuse as soon as he knew I sat on the bed. He was having a blast at my expense.

We told that story a lot over the years. It took a while for me to see the humor in it. It was funny and gets funnier over time.

Music is important to me. So are moments like the new record player and a prankster father on a Saturday afternoon that lives forever. This poem is about music and messages.

Thanks for letting me play.....and hear as well as feel, the music, Mom. It mattered. It still does and always will.

Unfinished Sympathy

(Music by Massive Attack...words by me)

Balls clanged as the blind, Seeing Eye dog itched to attack whoever saw.

Pump action playboy shot his wad for the camera.

Her angelic voice choired streets in dire need of music.

Window shoppers accepted the possibility of tomorrow today.

Father and son walked as if just another day in the park.

The man with wheels where feet should be rolled behind the scenes.

Cart full of garbage treasures moved from here to nowhere.

Ignored flyers accepted the blow off and went lower to outstretched hand.

Boom box jammed in a party for one on the corner.

Parked horses made inviting saddles for well-ridden whores.

Barrio girl came from the Barber Shop cube where round should be.

Caged windows spoke of nights when the streets were no place to be.

She peeked and then moved her core issues into the alley along with the groceries.

Cigar Store Indian ended up well west of anything ever expected.

Trash barricaded the telephone poles and attacked with its stink.

Knew what was in the brown bags they brought up to their lips

Love swapped spit in the dirt just before the vegetable fight ensued.

Dry cleaning passed over dirt to someplace that promised clean.

Lots of nothingness made for so much to see and share.
Note to Mom:

People matter. They ache to be seen. Crave to be appreciated for who they are and what they do. You and Dad taught me that everyday. You both saw people; Cashiers, Gas Station Attendants, Toll Takers, Waiters and Waitresses.

Whenever Dad hopped onto the Parkway or Turnpike, he went to the booth with a person in it....even when he had exact change. He said that was their job and who was he to deny them work. It was more than that, much more. Dad liked people. He said, whatever job you had, do it to the best of your ability. Be a first class ditch digger. If you shoveled shit, shovel it with gusto. It wasn't about what you did. It was about doing it well, really well.

Dad and you knew that in the big scheme of things, people are what matter. Any time we went to a diner, Dad made sure he saw and spoke to the waitress, by name. He made eye contact with the cook. Spoke to the cashier, made small talk with other customers. To this day, I love diners. Diners are real people eating real food with real people. It is a life experience.

Many of my stories are about Keansburg and the people in that wonderful town. The people I knew growing up, the faces of people in the CBS, all the faces. Henry, the Owner. The Cashier and her daughter. Other customers. The summer folks and the winter folks. You made sure I saw people and let them know I saw them. Ron the Barber, Mr. Eisenberg, the shoe repair man. Mrs. Tanner, two doors up.

People like Old Charlie. He knew he could hang out in the yard and have a cold one any and every time he saw you and Dad. With his crutches and special shoe because one of his legs was shorter than the other, Charlie needed a place to catch his breath. The house on the corner of Maple and Main was one of his stops. He sat on the stoop when you and Dad were at work. Told stories. Then headed on his way and stopped on the way back to catch his breath again. He was a good man. Sure, he had some issues with alcohol. I didn't like being around him when he was drunk. Still, he was a good man.

You taught me to see people. To be present and notice life all around as we did our daily things. This poem is from that learning. It is about a video. A music video that has a girl walking down a street in Los Angeles while she sings the song.

The video is chock full of life. People doing what they do. It is a blue collar area of town, shoppers, folks hanging out by bars, window shoppers. It spoke to me like walking around Keansburg spoke to me.

Everyone has a story. Each of us wants to be seen. Thanks for showing me how to see people and life, Mom.
Royalty Whore

The crowd paid their money to hear of the old.

The songs they remember, the hits that you sold.

They love all those moments and know all those songs.

Don't go and be different. That would be wrong.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Go belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

So what if you're hurting? Who cares of your pain?

Here is your money. Sing more of the same.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

Sing our old love song. Rock till you drop.

Belt out those beauties. Don't dare to stop.

That one is so special. That one is alright.

Sing all those oldies. Let's party tonight.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Go belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

So what if you're hurting? Who cares of your pain?

Here is your money. Sing more of the same.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Go belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

Time is a wasting. Crowd's on their feet.

What you were then, has filled every seat.

Strap on that guitar. Reach for that mike.

Yesterday's calling. Pretend you're alright.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Go belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

So what if you're hurting? Who cares of your pain?

Here is your money. Sing more of the same.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Go belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

Be the same. Just be the same.

Please be the same. We call out your name.

We grew up with you. You are so mine.

Please be the same. Things will be fine.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.

So what if you're hurting? Who cares of your pain?

Here is your money. Sing more of the same.

You're just a singer. You're nothing more.

Belt out those tunes. Our Royalty Whore.
Note to Mom:

Billy Joel, another Jersey boy, had a line in one of his songs. "I'll be put in the back, on the discount rack, like another can of beans." When does doing what we love become doing what we must? Does it have to become that? Is that the path we travel when we find our gift and then become only that?

I ask these questions of the world, beginning with myself. Do we have to sell out? I almost did, Mom, and was happy as a lark as I did. Sold out for stuff. Cars. Trips. Clothes. The newest this and the latest that. On credit. There would always be more money to be made.

It is easy to lose our way. Too easy. Easy to become something and then live up to the expectation. Live up to the image. Elvis was asked how close he was to the image. I watched that interview, that very segment of it, many times. His face speaks before he does. It speaks very loudly that the image was bigger than him. The image hid him or he hid in it or from it.......all the same outcome. "The image is one thing and the human being is something else. It is hard to live up to an image..."

Selling out is sad, Mom. We begin doing what we feel is right. Even what we love. Then it becomes that thing we do. It gets us stuff and then we have to do it because we want more stuff. At least we think we have to do it. At least, we think we want more stuff.

That is why I started giving stuff away, Mom. Because words and what I can do with them is a gift. People like reading my stuff. They see things in the writing greater than what I thought was there.

During my period of biggest change in my relationship with money, I questioned if I could even afford birthday and anniversary cards, never mind gifts. At first it embarrassed me. Holy Shit, I was so broke that cards were an expense that challenged? Then it angered me.

Finally, I accepted this was my reality and asked what the learning was. That is when I realized I had gifts to give. Words. Stories. Deeply personal things that, ironically, money can't buy. My birthday writings soon became something folks waited for each year. Not just the birthday girl or boy. Family. Friends. Strangers becoming family and friends.

Wish I could say I did it out of some noble calling. Actually did it because it was a last resort. It became a noble calling. I am more than another can of beans, Mom. Everyone is more than another can of beans.
Pink Moon

Beyond the grave, he fingered my thoughts.

Words penned back when at harrowing costs.

A person now gone that I did not meet.

Soared once again above the defeats.

Strummed from the ashes, weaved into my soul.

Sharing of places I've yet to go.

Faceless and ageless but no longer nameless.

Youth and belief trumped aged and famous.

Where was I looking? Why didn't I hear?

Perhaps I was not ready to know well my tears.

Air in my billows pumped from his phrases.

Three minutes laced with wisdom of ages.

Death from a bottle and a life gone crazy.

Sang from the dark and lonely and hazy.

What have you left behind when you went away?

Will you be heard when they hear what you say?

Will they be ready and make things okay?

In the nick of time, let's save the day.

Peek behind the sun, that's the way.

Could have heard sooner, heard you today.

Dedicated to Nick Drake
Note to Mom:

This is about Nick Drake. He was a singer that lived and died long before I even knew he existed. Should have known, his music was around the same time as me. He was basically a contemporary yet I was unaware of him and his gift.

It was like that for quite a few artists. Leonard Cohen. Etta James. Writers like Thoreau. Well, he was way before my time yet his book, "Walden", remained hidden from my narrow view until I was ready to see.

Walden was inspiring, humbling, and embarrassing simultaneously, Mom. It arrived when I was really writing rather than occasionally playing with words. I wasn't someone that wrote every so often. I was a writer. My writing became freer; important and urgent. As if a voice spoke because I was finally out of the way. Wrote and shared, then wrote and shared some more. Clear, and distinctive in message, yet aching to say it all plainly. Then I read Walden in my 50s. A book written over 150 years earlier. A book that was me. It was truly as if it were my words. It had been there all along. I guess I was just not ready to see, to know, to believe.

Nick Drake was like this, only with music. I heard his songs in my 50s for the first time, too. Songs he released when I was in high school and then entering the Air Force. Songs that showed him ripping his soul apart as he spoke his truth. He felt so deeply that it consumed him. He sang songs like I wrote stories. From the inside out and then back inside for more.

So I wrote a poem about him. Quite frankly, it isn't one of my best. It is one that reminds me of him and reminds me that people do feel as deeply as I do.

Nick succumbed to his demons. He questioned so much that he finally stopped asking. That is a shame, Mom. The good don't have to die young. The good shouldn't die young. Artists need to feel and share and know that their truth will reach those that need it. Well, once they are ready to see it.

Folks

Dylan and Biaz, Springsteen and more.

Mitchell, and Simon, and even Shankar.

Folksy reaches deep inside of my knots.

Heroes and Causes and hoping a lot.

Poets turned singers with wooden guitars.

Foot on the barstool, reaching for stars.

Words of the soulful and passionate ones.

Inspire the actions of daughters and sons.

Penned on napkins and the backs of old books.

Written at midnight when passions slow cook.

Deep from their own truths and into the sun.

Spur us to action for battles yet won.

People of purpose exploring their souls.

Sing me a folk song, help me be bold.
Note to Mom:

Remember when you were afraid I would be become a hippie? Well, it happened, Mom. In my 60s, I became what you dreaded in the 60s. The folk songs from back then finally got through to me. Yes, Rock and Roll is still my touchstone. The messages of let's fix the world, change the world, and more songs, are now heard and actually lived.

A garden, Rock Rivers where there used to only be grass because grass takes more than it gives. Peace; spoken of and lived, and more. Love as the main focus of my life. Long hair; well, the hair got tired of waiting and headed elsewhere. Other than that, I am that hippie you worried about me becoming all those years ago.

We had the answers in the our hands and I took the path of saluting smartly and living the American Dream according to General Motors, Wall Street, and keeping up the Jones. Than I woke up and heard the music.

Woodstock came and went without me. Had my own Woodstock at Burning Man, forty years and thousands of miles later. It was an awakening, Mom. The world has a lot more toys and stuff than the world of the 60s did. The issues then; War, Pollution, Prejudice, and more, are still the issues now, only with more urgency to fix them. We need to be the people we almost became because the people we became are like the people we questioned.

The folk songs speak to me now. I shall do my best to live the message.
Music, Man

Elvis is my home, where I feel my roots.

Between that then and now, Cohen became my truth.

Joel speaks to me, Springsteen speaks of me.

John the one of four that showed me how to be.

Music touches deep inside and lets me hear my peace.

It sometimes takes Sinatra to soothe this savage beast.

Cooke lobbied for the change and reached inside my heart.

Dylan called the shots on things falling fast apart.

Fringes are now mainline, songs even heard in ads.

Thought things were getting better but now they're really bad.

Music is a Sanctuary and sometimes there I hide.

Drinking deep the rhythm for strength enough to try.

Dabble with some Coltrane, King and his Lucille.

Play the rock and roll, its time for me to heal.

Note to Mom:

More about music....music is really important to me. Yes, Elvis is my go-to guy. I did my Masters and PhD on topics related to the King of Rock N Roll. The first book I finished was an altered history story about Elvis living beyond 1977. It was called, "Long Lived The King". In it, he had to face his addictions and more as his world unraveled. Wish it had come to pass in a way. In another way, he had to die when he died. In death he is even bigger than life.

When Elvis died, John Lennon said, "Good career move." I thought that was a heartless and callous thing to say. Turns out, John was right. In death, Elvis became to many, what he was in life, a superstar of amazing talent with an important message.

When the Beatles first arrived on the scene, I tolerated them. They were compared and then contrasted to Elvis as if each contradicted the other; as if there had to be a choice. I chose Elvis. In time, I heard the Beatles. What an amazing songbook. What talented artists in the message as well as the delivery.

I visited Liverpool while stationed in England in the 80s. Saw where they were born and raised. It's interesting that John showed up as a bit of a punk; a guy with an attitude. My likes turned more to Paul. I respected John. Just didn't care for him much. Suspect much of that had to do with my resentment about his comment when Elvis died.

In time, John became the Beatle that most spoke to me. One time, I posted the words to one of his songs. "Watching The Wheels". As with many things, it remained from view for many years and then surfaced and spoke to me, directly to me. Posted the words and Sharon thought I wrote them. She said it was very clearly my story.

Music is like that, Mom. Other folks sing a song and they speak not just to us but for us. A line in the song "On and On" says, "Put on some Sinatra and start to cry." I get that, many times over, Mom. Some times we need to hear Melancholy Baby just because we are.

Music, Man. Music.
On the Mississippi Going To Vegas

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

It's really going well.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Oh, the stories I can tell.

Come ride with me. Floating free.

Being what is right.

This here's the boat, to stay afloat.

Water day and night.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

The river knows the way.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Come enjoy the day.

The banks are green and the water high.

People wave as we go by.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Making real good time.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Life is really fine.

Trash the map, I write my own.

Born a river man.

Paddle wheel or motor boat.

Any way we can.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Headed to my dream.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Just not New Orleans.

Please not New Orleans.

Just not New Orleans.

I'm on the Mississippi going to Vegas.

Can't you hear my screams?
Note to Mom:

A song. It arrived as just what it was, Mom, a song. Delivered on a morning walk, my footsteps were the drum beat and I sang along. Could feel the river. Moving to New Orleans. Have been there several times over the years. It is town of much darkness and magic. It got clobbered by Hurricane Katrina. An American tragedy in how it was handled before, during, and after.

Yet the poem followed the Mississippi on the way to Vegas. Not the route that is really even possible if we stay on the water. The Mississippi steers well clear of Sin City. It passes right through Memphis though, and Memphis is Elvis. From Memphis to Vegas. That album surely touched the source of this song for the fan.

This one links to the Denial poem. Look at the naiveté in it. The stubbornness as what is in plain sight is ignored. Row, Row, Row your boat....life is but a dream.

We can go with the flow. Sometimes we have to see the flow headed for the waterfall and swim like hell for shore. Perhaps we jumped into the wrong waters. Deciding to continue despite the evidence is not trust......it is persistence and that can be us knowing where things are to go.

So we flow and realize where we are will not get us where we hope to go and where we are will take us somewhere we just don't want to go. That is when the screaming starts. The lives of quiet desperation as we keeping doing what we do where we are while wishing we could change course.

All that on a morning walk from a song that felt like blues, sounded like jazz, and came from rock n' roll roots through a guy that can't carry a tune in a bucket.

Just another day in my life, Mom, just another day.

Blues Are Calling

The Blues are calling.

Comfort food ain't all the same.

I said the Blues are calling.

Comfort food ain't all the same.

The sky is clear and sunny.

Inside me there's too much rain.

So the blues are calling.

Come on in and share the pain.

Let me kiss your boo-boo.

Let me tell you it's alright.

Let me kiss your boo-boo.

You can stay here for the night.

Cause when the blues come calling.

Nothing else will make it right.

Cause when the blues are calling.

Ain't nothing left to fight.

Cause when the blues come calling.

Nothing else will make it right.

When the Blues are calling.

It don't pay to be alone.

When the Blues are calling.

Best just to sing along.

So let's just sing along.

Can you hear me sing along?  
Help me sing along.

Don't make me sing alone.

The blues have come a calling.

I just gotta sing along.
Note to Mom:

Your little boy sings the blues, Mom. There is some black in this soul when the lines begin the birthing into songs of lament that have the second line the same as the first. It feels like I might just understand a little bit of the journey of folks a lot different than me.

If I were black, my attitude would make Jersey look vanilla and safe. I would be angry. Felt prejudice just one time for real, and a few times in bare whiffs. The one time was enough for me to understand that living with that shit everyday would piss me off royally.

It happened, fittingly enough, in North Carolina in 1972, just before I joined the Air Force. Did you know that there was a sign at the border of North Carolina that said "Welcome to Klan Country" Not just a sign, a billboard. Complete with a white robed zealot on a white horse with a cross holding a cross towards the sky. Jesus would be embarrassed. The just out of High School and first time out of Jersey alone me, was shocked to even see the sign. I thought that stuff was just in the history books.

Pat O'Herron and I were on the way to Florida for my last hurrah before military service. My hair, and his for that matter, was the longest it would ever be. Welcome to North Carolina was about to something real. We stopped for gas. Just gas. Right on I-95. There was a guy right out of Deliverance sitting on a chair in front of the station. He watched us pull in, get out of the car, and stretch our legs. Didn't move a muscle nor say a word. He just looked. A look laced in judgment and disdain.

It was not a self help place. This was before those became the norm everywhere but Jersey. It became a self help place that day. I pumped and went to pay him. He sat, spit out a wad of tobacco spit, and said, "Cash only". Paid and left.

It was one time and it made me realize that if I encountered that behavior each day, it would have me militant and pissed at anyone and everyone. One time and I understood why people get so mad.

I went back a few years later. Stopped at the same place and knew it was the same place as soon as the car stopped at the pumps. Knew it was the same guy, too. Only this time he came out, pumped the gas, and was as sweet as apple cobbler. Had my military haircut and realized that was enough for him to treat me right.

So he pumped, passed the time, and then came to the car window to wish me well...in a nice Southern way. Then he said, "Travel Safe. Y'all come back now, hear?" He actually said that.

Suspect he didn't quite understand why I said, "Not likely" and then drove away.

It wasn't a big victory, Mom. It was a big lesson. It helped me understand the blues.
Stasis

Thought you would be somewhere. Now you're where you are.

Hoped to do those some things. Used to have a car.

Words were pushed right through you. Now you have to wait.

Everything eludes you. Trying not to hate.

Time to do those dealings. Not quite ready yet.

Alpha turned to zebra. Caged and tamed to pet.

Called for all the topping. Held within some grip.

Trust is your sustainment. Bite that shaking lip.

Drought within your spirit. Time upon your hands.

Wind blows all around you. Tough to take a stand.

Sad is not the feeling. Happy not as well.

Headed onto heaven. Struggling like hell.

Used to be in motion. Clipped those mighty wings.

Reach and ask more humble. Learning many things.

Burn your inner demons. Reach and try to touch.

Tomorrow is still coming. Patience trumps dumb luck.
Note to Mom:

Somewhere along the way, I changed a lot, Mom, a real lot. I loved my life, every single day of it. Just questioned if I did the big things right; the global things, things that mattered in really big ways. Measured and found myself short.

Chased the dream; the dream measured by income and advancement. I did really well, actually. Well...by that measure.

What woke me up was something the IRS and my accountant said. Yes, Mom, I had an accountant and everything. You would be impressed.

A job went away and there were bills to be paid. I had enough money in savings and retirement funds to pay off my debt. However, the IRS and Accountant said to declare bankruptcy rather than liquidate. Said the fees and penalties for withdrawal would be too high so it was better to go bankrupt.

Well, that shocked me, Mom. You and Dad taught me to honor my obligations. I incurred debt and needed to pay it. To declare bankruptcy while there was money in retirement funds was wrong. It was stiffing people who trusted my word.

That was when I knew the American system was broken. To recommend we walk away from the very debt we incurred was counter to every thing I knew about responsibility. It was then that my backbone stiffened. I said no. Liquidated everything and paid off all I could. It was also my moment to turn away from the American Dream and to question everything.

It was my awakening, Mom. My stepping up and realizing how much everything had to change in order to fix the world, a world that was paying the price for selfishness and greed.

You and Dad lived within your means. You made due with what you had. You waited until you could afford things until you actually purchased them. You honored your debt.

Remember the day you had me walk to the bank in a blizzard? The tellers were shocked when I walked in. Here is a snowstorm that shut down everything and a little kid walks in to pay bills for his Mom. They laughed when they saw you were paying April's payment.

We need to pay our payments, Mom. A system that says don't is broken.

It hasn't been easy. The fees and the penalties were large. It will take years to pay them off. It hasn't been easy. It's been right though, Mom; real right.
Jack In The Box

Crafted, hollow puppet.

Chameleon limp in strings.

Fingered from the Cosmos.

Poet, boy, and thing.

Danced to needed music.

Used for fun and games.

Channels for the flipping.

Costumes pre-ordained.

Computer chipped emotions.

Programs laced with pain.

Hung in exposition.

Felt if pre-arranged.

Packed well for shipping.

Prize in every box.

Matinees on Sunday.

Two shows every night.
Note to Mom:

I am at my best when out of my own way. This piece is me. Pinocchio. Dancing to the tune of my Higher Power. Just stating the obvious. Doing the jig in that place of surrender. It is peaceful here, Mom. I just trust and move in that trust. The doing is much easier when we do our best with the gifts that are ours to share; freely.

Why give away these things? Why let it go for free when there could be a buck in it? I learned some mighty important lessons in life, Mom. Did the Air Force thing while you were alive. Traveled the globe. Met wonderful people. Did some amazing things. Shortly after you died, I headed off to corporate America. Even more money. A place where greed is good. More for me. Lots more. Stuff. There was always more money ahead. A place where worth is a thing you can measure; in dollars.

Ended up in business for myself. Had about a dozen people on the payroll including some family and more. It was amazing. Was hired by one of my clients and made even more money. Resources were plentiful. There was always more to be had. Money could buy and fix anything.

Then I woke up. Resources are to be shared. What is here is here. There is enough to go around for all of us. It ain't about greed. It's about love.

Started writing. Really writing. Life changed in ways that stunned me. Made some choices that shocked some people. Choices to share. To live within my means; apply lessons you lived in taking care of what we had and living in gratitude. Along the way, I surrender fully to the Force that made us all. I call it SOURCE.

Your son is a puppet, Mom. A happy, content puppet. Whodda thunk it?

Poetry 101

Too happy for the moment. Too chipper for the art.

Death a better topic than Ode to a Pop Tart.

Hate makes easy rhyming, pain has tons to tell.

Graveyards speak in volumes, birth should only yell.

Keep your happy mumbles, shut your mouth of glee.

Let's be dark and lonely, that's the way to be.

Drugs are for escaping, lows outlast the highs.

To truly be a poet, laughter must go bye.

Rhymes are oh so gouache, dark is really rad.

Stay inside your sorrow, your artist will be glad.

Note to Mom:

I walk in the dark and feel the fear of those that hide from the demons they think are outside and keep them inside. It is as sure as the stereotype movie set with the mystic fog of what is really out there. Part of me remembers huddling away from here. Looking away and pretending such things are unimportant, or even worse, unreal.

Pain lurks out there and wonders if we will look for it or wait until it has us in its grip. Just over there in the shadows are the things we hoped would go away but knew they were merely tucked in the closet of our denial. This place is a graveyard of those gone before and the place that says it knows when we will die. Here there be dragons, and that is on the lighter days.

I go here because I can. In here is more light once we harness and saddle break our demons. When in this place, my words flow through clenched teeth and are fueled with rage. I need this place, Mom.

Some go into the bottle or to the needle, even both, to run from this place. Yet those are keys that open us to it and it comes running in loaded with self-pity and sadness. When you run from it, it finds you even easier. In your hiding places, it grows. So I open the gate, walk in, and say "I'm back. Take your best shot."

It beats the shit out of me sometimes, Mom. Batters me with my own ego. Rubs my failures in my face and says, "Let's review." It laughs when I cry, laughs even more when I laugh. It is evil and wants me to be less than I am because then it is the world for me. It is bigger and makes me smaller and that is exactly what it wants.

So I go there and return changed; stronger, wiser, calmer, even. Each visit changes the words. Emboldens them, hones their truth. It is easy to go to this place and return with a chip on your shoulder. It is better to go to this place and return with love to be shared; much, much better.

The dark is where we learn, Mom. The light is where we grow. Your little boy is still growing up. I ain't afraid of the dark. I just do my best work in the light.

Thanks for tucking me in and making my world safe from the boogieman. Turns out he looks a lot like me cutting corners or pretending I am more than I am. As Popeye said, "I am what I am and that's all what I am." That's enough to keep the boogieman in his place.

Moon Kiss

Yesterday is closer than tomorrow.

Far away is right at your side.

Calm amidst all the Chaos.

Alive is proof you've not died.

Her fullness is three days behind you.

The penetrations opened you wide.

More comes so get used to it, honey.

Your screams came in with the tide.

Note to Mom:

Another howl at the Moon. Seems She routinely has Her way with me, Mom. Three days before full and three days after. Three days before dark and three days after. Two weeks a month, She has me dance to Lunar tunes. Keeps me pretty dang busy.

In the moonlight, I feel. Raise my arms and let the insights flow. Time is clearer. Space is wider. Infinity is all around and all my troubles pack themselves in a kit-bag and be-bop down the road. Vulnerable and invincible are the same thing in Hecate's embrace. My truth is sunlight in the night.

"Yesterday is closer than tomorrow." Come on. I ain't that wise. That one line can fill books of learning. "Alive is proof you've not died". Man. I wish I said that. It was merely me typing. Those are words from the Oracle of Knowledge that surrounds us and waits for us to learn. This is finger licking good stuff and I am the kid with an amazing lollypop of so many tastes that the nice Lady gave me.

Yes, my screams did come in with the tide. Highs and Lows. Neap and not so neap. Swimming with the fishes and tasting life in its fullness. Such is the moon for this boy you birthed, Mom.

Did you feel the moon? If you did, you were stronger than its dark siren. Dad felt it......and obeyed. I feel it....and obey. I think you felt it....and knew we would because we are who we are. Did you feel the moon? Makes me wonder. Are you the moon? Makes me wonder. You are that much of a force in my life, Mom. Maybe you are the moon. Maybe you always were and I had to say it aloud so I knew it. Maybe you are, and were, and shall always be that to me. Isn't that how sons are? Suns and Moons. Sons and Mothers. Sons and Daughters of the Goddess that shines in the heaven and says "More comes so get used to it, honey."

Mad as a Hatter

Open a can of dog food and feed it to the cat.

Dance in your pajamas and sleep in a top hat.

Have breakfast for dinner and cereal for lunch.

Save while you still borrow and spend before you have.

Smile while you panic and tell the world you're glad.

Bizzaro is real easy, truth is fucking hard.
Note to Mom:

Right to the point. Blunt. Brutally honest. Once we accept the strangeness of life, things get to normal. Normal. What a word. What a concept. Normal. Normal is safe and easy. Normal is for suckers. I stopped for a while at Normal. Nice place to visit. Then I left town and haven't looked back.

Every so often, I stop and try to understand my life. Understand how it got to where it is. Understand how it heads to wherever it is going. Makes my head hurt. I could explain it. Connect the dots to show the twists and turns that map the route from way back to there to this far out. I could. It just makes my head hurt. It doesn't make sense, Mom. It ain't normal. It is so far from Normal that Normal is on some other map; yesterday's map. Measured by some other scale of inches to insights. This place is off the known map.

Even where I am on the known map defies logic. Utah. It is the single most conservative state in the union. Mormon central. Have lived in many places, Mom. Virginia, Texas, Massachusetts, North Carolina, New Mexico, Florida, Alaska, and, of course, New Jersey. Even had rooms in Arizona and Oklahoma for a while. Lived in so-called foreign countries...England, Germany, and Turkey. Been to over forty states and thirteen countries, Mom. Foreign? Utah is more foreign than any of them.

The culture shock here lived up to its name. Been here over two decades....longer than anywhere else is my life, even New Jersey. Now it feels like home.. Yet I am Heinlein's stranger in a Strange Land to this day. Maybe that is exactly how it should be. Must be because that is exactly how it is.

The square peg jammed into the round hole and made to fit. Soon, other pegs wonder what other holes they could call home. Crazy, ain't it, Mom? We have to bloom where we are planted. I bloomed in New Jersey and then Johnny Appleseed'ed my way to Utah. All three kids and the grandkids live within miles of the house that itself defies description. Crazy ain't it, Mom? I know crazy....and normal is crazy. Truth is the way to go....anywhere and everywhere we are.
Morsels of Truth

I feed upon her darkness.

Drinking in her screams.

Laugh upon her teardrops.

Dance into her dreams.

Sex is but the keyhole.

Doors blown far from hinge.

Exposed and dangled clearly.

Seen well beneath the sins.

Feeble, fake resistance.

Truth opens denied dark.

Roar in lessened wonder.

Words become mere bark.

Rage since it so calms me.

Fear makes sweet dessert.

Pain is pleasure scarlet.

Strength comes after hurt.

Huddled, barely human.

Back from maiden voyage.

More will be your question.

When able spoken word.

Eyes speak of Thanksgiving.

Flesh marked with Souvenirs.

Crave what just departed.

Digest your mortal fears.

Note to Mom:

Your son can be an evil bastard when it comes to the truth, Mom. People from the around the world knock on my door and ask for guidance. Some knock electronically while others knock in person. I answer the door because it is something I am supposed to do.

Sharon calls me the "Guru". Debbie said the Mother Ship will just come pick me up when I die. They are only partially kidding.

People are really different now, Mom. The Neighborhood really is shrinking. I remember how things like politics, finances, family drama, and more, were kept behind closed doors in days of old. Well, for the most part. That made things simpler. It also made things smaller. It was a world of secrets. Those few in the know and everyone else that must be kept in the dark.

I am not big on secrets. Secrets separate. They keep us hiding our truth first from those we don't know and then from those we do and eventually even from ourselves. Secrets give others dominion over us. We are afraid they might see us and then even more afraid they will tell others when and if they do see us. Soon, we live in distrust of almost everyone and wonder why we are so lonely.

So people come to me and ask for guidance as they seek their truth. Well, I haven't got their truth, Mom. I only have mine and it changes and evolves as learning feeds me. They ask how they can learn and live theirs. I usually ask them if they really want to know their truth.

Then we begin. Diving back into the soul. Asking why we are like we are. Understanding that anything we feel and think about anything or anyone else is actually about us all along. Owning that we make our world like it is and that we affect everyone else with our choices. It is the ultimate responsibility and the ultimate freedom. It is full disclosure to self and whoever cares to ask.

Quite frankly, it scares the shit out of many folks. I scare them and they run to anywhere else but this path of hard work on self that continues for the rest of our days. A few stay....some for a while, a few even longer, and even fewer so long that everything in their world changes.

This poem is about that. It challenges. Honors something I tell these seekers. "Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it."

Arrogant, ain't it? Each of us are that powerful and together we can change the world. So yes, I can scare people. Big deal. More important than that, I can help them, and will, each and every time they ask.

Blood Shot from Their Eyes

Gifts of much needed words.

Prayers not to mess them up.

Master sized questions not to be asked.

Buttons, Buttons, who took the buttons?

How many of you are out there?

Somewhere call and there they stood.

Flesh covers naked questions for a while.

Bottles dull longing and creative juices.

Jackpot of popped cherries.

No deposit, no return.

The Bible laughs and the mountains whisper.

Pack a knife and a compass and a snack.

Canteens of tears.

Into the desert with too little sunscreen and too many unknowns.

Dance with the moon and sleep like a baby.

Dreams turn to weapons and mourning comes early.

Water tastes funny but try not to laugh.

Change floods floorboards thought gone past.

Prick our souls and watch us bleed.

Drain the pools of quiet knowing.

Lilies thirst for quiet waters.

Light needs to shine away the dark.

Beyond the limits of inner and outer.

Move along, there's nothing more to see.

Note to Mom:

A story of transformation. Holiness that takes the feeling of Holy Communion, Confirmation, and those moments of "hey, I get it" to a level sinners turned Saints know. Where that inner light is molten and explodes love all over the planet. This is what I feel almost every day, Mom.

Magic. Healing. Light. Where our human existence is small. So small it can be put in a cage and watch what happens when we move in ways some would reserve and others challenge. Let them challenge. Let them say what they will.

Magic. No tricks up my sleeve. Magic. All the angels and saints and more saying yep, we are you, you are me, and we are all together. It exhilarates. It frustrates. We have so much love to share that we want everyone to feel the joy we know inside. We want it to be so beautiful out there because it is so beautiful in here.

In that transformation, we are no more. We have died and gone to heaven. The shell here is merely echo of self. The world thinks they see us and we are not even there. Presto. Chango. Alakazam. Elvis has left the building.

This is about that, Mom. About that thing that happened to me, and hints of the steps. Burning Man. Leaving the military and finding my passion for peace. Turning away from consumerism and a too costly American dream to freedom.

Words were a key for me, Mom. Felt them early and loved them lots. Respected them and those that used them. Learned to use them properly at the hands of knowing and demanding Nuns. Used them throughout and realized later how much more there was to them. Played to the audience and handed out what could be handled as well as understood. Wanted their approval and applause. Earned the sheckles that turned to shackles until I surrendered ego and the words overtook me. Pushed me aside and spewed forth in truth.

"Move along, there's nothing more to see." Gifts of needed words gifted, outlive the writer. Live long and prosper. The truth set you free.
Blades of Truth

The twins are not related.

At least not by blood.

The hut's made of rice.

It just looks like mud.

Lone Ranger loved Tonto.

Much more than a bud.

I was wrong about success.

Really, I was.

Sometimes you gotta do things just because.

We need more agreements and a lot less laws.

Open the windows and unbolt the doors.

Love one another like you're all whores.

Trust you will have it and you'll get even more.

Come out of hiding and go back on tour.

Random can comfort with sweet allure.

Truth from the pen, drawn as my sword.
Note to Mom:

This is a jigsaw puzzle of a poem for this poet, Mom. It assembled itself and let me feel where the pieces came from yet didn't let me see the puzzle until it was done. Dreams gave a few pieces. It is odd when fragments of different dreams end as one or two lines in a poem. Like watching a movie made up of other movies and saying how the heck does this all relate.

One part of the poem spit out as if to calm me during the birthing process. "I was wrong about success. Really, I was." That was me speaking to me in words from somewhere else. That whole puppet thing. Can puppets talk to themselves? In my world, yes. That line calmed me and then the voice spoke to many others in the targeted audience with broader directions. Things about laws and love and trust. Advice things.

Odd process, isn't it? Dreams become lines, lines become stories, words to me and then to others, and the poem builds itself like a machine following its own blueprint. Is this artistry? It is magic? It is something. I feel the words......yet they are not mine.

There is a story about Michelangelo and his David. He felt the marble slab. Just felt it. Took a while. Someone asked him what he was doing. Michelangelo explained he was letting the marble tell him what was in there. The marble let him know and all he did was chip away the marble that hides the statue. Sure, it is probably fiction. Yet I know much of it is true. We just let it be shown. Let it reveal itself.

These poems make my pen the sword. Excalibur. Magic blade. One blade, along with the others, that is drawn to reveal the truth. Blades of Truth. The right title for this piece; shows the why.

**Night** **into Day**

At the wrong table and lunch is long overdue.

She'll struggle to find us this far off the map.

Dusty old shelves in vague Memory Stores.

Was someone else but they did not get the joke.

Song after song when she asked what was my gift.

Words already spoken still to be shared.

No longer strangers but not who they were.

Hard on my dreams while softening curves.

Up a bit early to be home when it's dark.

Birth is a Womyn and death is a man.

First ones are here with more coming soon.

Blood in the closet that hate hoped to hide.

Note to Mom:

A journey, Mom. An adventure. The flow of this one is movement in the dark. Word shadows cast strange images. The traveler moves with much unknown in the dark. Surreal. Yet important. Wispy images just beyond our grasp of understanding. Dream like. Dream state. Dream statements. This is one of those.

It felt like a dream in the writing and reads like a dream. To sleep, perchance to dream. To wake, perchance to dream as well? Do dreams come true? Is life but a dream? Dream, dream, dream. All we have to do is dream, Mom. All we have to do is dream.

I am a dreamer, Mom. This poem speaks to the dreamer in me. It taunts a bit. It is right there, an inch from the reach of my understanding. Yet I reach. Need it, ache for it. It allures and eludes and smiles at me the whole time. It says, "Trust". It knows I don't quite know. It knows I don't quite understand. It says, "Trust" and moves...knowing I will follow.

"Birth is a Womyn and death is a man." That is the sweetest taunt. The tastiest tease. The whiff of magic perfume that has me floating on the scent of flowers from the garden of insights. That one line is so very important, so very true. It is the key to the code that unlocks the treasure chest with all the answers. It is right there.

I recognize it. It is that taste that is familiar yet what is it? What is it? The name is on the tip of my tongue. The answer is......give me a minute.....it is.....damn, it is so easy. It is right there. Why is it eluding me?

"First ones are here with more coming soon." Wait a minute. Maybe that is why the answer remains just out of my reach. Others are coming and we need to remember together. Maybe that is it. We are not learning the answer. We are remembering the answer. Together.

This is that kind of poem, Mom. This is that kind of journey. The trip from Night to Day. Things that go bump in the night must just jar us awake. Must just jolt us from the slumber that keeps us from making dreams come true. After all, life can be a dream. We just have to row, row, row our boat gently down the stream of consciousness.

Mourning Due

You're but a book on the shelf and your pages are numbered.

One in a million in this million to one shot.

The high and the mighty are playing a foursome.

Gnash well your teeth and practice your canine.

Slow when the rains say it's time for reflection.

Dash as the whip crack seers well your bottom.

Buck as you pay for all your un-doings.

Cry really loud and twice bake your own skin.

Echo the truth deep in your openings.

Well-lit caves head in many directions.

Surf dances slice the sands of tomorrow.

Today passes quickly so wave your good-bye.

Note to Mom:

This one reads like a preacher and hellfire and brimstone. Say's "Hey, you are gonna die so you better start being good now!" Not an uplifting message. A message many need all the same.

This was originally called "Morning Due". Mourning is the much more appropriate spelling. Death tends to be followed by mourning.

Life can be full of sin and suffering. Why the heck would we do that to ourselves? Why suffer? Sure, we will screw up now and then. Learn from the mistake and move on.

Hellfire and Brimstone is fear. Fear is our enemy. Roosevelt was right. Once we get over fear, what do we have to fear? I like my fears, Mom. Inside the fear is learning. On the other side of learning is strength. Fears point the way for me. The way to growth. The way to happiness. Fears give some people an excuse to look away from what they fear. They identify their fear and then build their world to handle it.

We do way too much because of fear. Afraid of something? Pass a law to ban it. Afraid of something else? Attack it and kill it so it is not part of your world any more. Afraid of something after that? Get guns, build walls, and keep it as far away from you as you can. Fear is the Boogieman and we are still children hiding under the blankets hoping it goes away.

Fear does go away once we face it and understand what we fear. The ultimate fear is death. We have to get over that or live a life diminished by the very fact that it ends. It ends. Death is a pop quiz and we have to be ready everyday. Our final exam will arrive and we will be done with learning in the school of life.

When we are ready for that test, the pop quiz doesn't frighten us. We are wise enough to pass it and even wiser enough to wait until it actually arrives. After all, there is another pop quiz after that pop quiz. Now, that makes me wonder. What will that learning be? Interesting thing to think about but it's all speculation. Is there life after death? Only if there is life before death. If we don't live before we die, why the hell were we born?

Live and let live. Die alone. We all die alone. We are actually all born alone too. The lucky ones are welcomed and loved immediately. I am one of the lucky ones. Thanks for showing me a world full with love. That's a lot better than sin and suffering.

Night Calls

The ache is quiet. That's when it screams the most.

To truly feel coming death and all moments lost.

The bullet of time shoots itself steadily your way.

Launched at birth, it runs its course and knows your final day.

You already know of nature's gun and feel your own crosshairs.

Live in denial except on nights when lonely's everywhere.

Children laugh and carry you beyond your mortal flesh.

As you did those who brought you here and long ago did pass.

Close your eyes and go to sleep and feel your coming death.

Perhaps you'll wake. Perhaps you'll not. Try and get some rest.
Note to Mom:

Melancholy with a capital M. This is one of the middle of the night moment when death reminds us we will be memory someday. You died and yet you are still with me. A part of me. Inside. Just like when I was a kid.

Wherever I went in town, you were with me. You kept me company. You kept an eye on me. It wasn't that you could keep me from harm. It was that you could kiss my boo-boos away. Mommies do that. They kiss the boo-boos.

We don't outgrow our need for boo-boo kisses. I am closer to the exit than the entrance and still am the little boy that needs to know Mommy can make it better. Some folks will think that is strange. A Pop-Pop that still needs his Mommy. That ain't the strange part. The strange part is that you still make things better. You have the boy wrapped in your love and that love warms the man I am.

There are things inside my body right now. Things pending testing. I already suspect the outcome and am perfectly alright with wherever it goes. Sure, part of me feels like my body betrays me. Had a biopsy the other day and handled it in my way. Some put their tail between their legs. I put my tongue in my cheek.

Biopsies should come with foreplay. Well, at least the kind I had for whatever is going on in my nether regions. Maybe the Doctor should have whispered in my ear and THEN got to know me in that way. He could have dimmed the lights and put on some soft music to set the mood for intimacies that had me sunny side up and quivering with virgin naiveté. Perhaps some roses now that he had his way with me and sent me on my way so quickly after. Does he really know me? What about my mind? Did he even notice I had one? At least he insisted on seeing me again soon. Must have been something that caught his eye. Plus he kept those mementos. Jeez. Maybe the only time I wish I had hair so he could have just had snipped a bit of that instead.

Sharon was there. She watched the whole thing. We have that kind of a marriage.

It must have been good for him. His body went into spasm immediately after. When you got it, you got it. I was recovering the fragments of my dignity when he said he might have to ask my wife to punch him. She was more than ready. I was more than ready to have her do it. His needle had nowhere near the calming effect he promised me.

She knew the exact spot with the first blow. (Wish I could say the same for him. At least that made the image of him as Sharon's punching bag all the sweeter.) She pounded him hard and often. Poetic justice reigned supreme behind those closed doors this morning.

He thanked her and left the room. She handed me my clothes. I dressed and went home to lick my wounds. Ooopps. Strike that. The band-aids just don't reach my boo-boo.

How many others were there after me? Did he talk about his blender with them, too? Did he laugh that laugh he did for me when he commented on my generous prostate and I blushed and said I had been working out? I bet he didn't. I need to believe he didn't. After all, there wasn't any foreplay so it is all up to me to recover from the experience. It is in my hands. Ooopps. Strike that.

You get the idea, Mom. Death is a reality that ain't gonna infect my dreamland where each day is what we make it and laughter is the best medicine. Yes, I get melancholy but I get over it. Just like you did, Mom.

Pulse

Mistress Muse snatched and I opened wide.

Hard to the touch when squeezed until squeal.

Primal tastes human and human tastes fine.

Lower is higher and savage is mine.

Gave myself directions then curled for a nap.

Enemies turned comic and feelings went deep.

Words wash my hands and dance in my brain.

Lowered allowance and tossed well in bed.

Many more calendars mark fewer days.

Work until Midnight and sleep through alarms.

Toys loved to hurt and brought to the cage.

Here I am shining and kissed by the dark.

Shown in full truth and shared like a meal.

Does it all matter? Yes, quite a deal.
Note to Mom:

She made me do it, Mom. Honest. *smile* Sound familiar? Guess I did try to blame Sis on a few things that were not her fault. Only a few though. She actually did some of the stuff.

Siblings are like that. Sis and I went from friends to enemies and back to friends again. We stayed friends. There were a few years though when we just did not get along. That changed. Sis understands what family is and I know the welcome mat is out at 1 Maple for as long as she breathes. She knows it is the same at my home.

This poem isn't about that. It is about doing what is right. Sometimes when we are forced. The Nuns made me do a lot of things. You made me do a lot of things. Maybe that is why I feel my Higher Power as a Female. A higher power of my own understanding as they say in AA meetings. My Higher Power is you, the Nuns, all the angels and saints and more.

She makes me write. Makes me hone and share my gift. She ensures the words are spread far and wide for any to see. I obey.

Imagine God inside of us. Ruling. Guiding. Holding us accountable. Speaking to us loudly when we need to listen, and whispering when we need to be calmed. Imagine that and you have what happens inside of me.

God got in, changed gender, and rules the roost. Hey, if God can't do that, why have a God?

This poem is about that. Not God The Father, God The Son, nor God The Holy Spirit. God the Pulse. The Pulse of all my creations. Will be the case right up until they go to take my pulse and it ain't there.

Blocked Start

Spring loaded for actions.

Habits of old aching to do.

An innocent word here.

A quiet suggestion or two.

Whispers quicken too slowly slipping sands.

Signs shown and felt link to cards already dealt.

Surely a nudge obeying a hunch could do little harm.

Accepting but guessing the verdict still pending.

Seen becomes expected and expected is delayed.

Instead I kneel and wait in trust this October day.

Note to Mom:

Impatient? Me? Nah. No way. I was never impatient. Right, Mom? Well, alright, maybe just a little, maybe now and then. Patience is a gift acquired slowly and some folks just don't want to wait.

Sure, there were moments. Times of impatience and even temper. Remember the day outside the Officer's Club at Hurlburt Field? The car wouldn't start. Sharon and you waited, I popped the hood and pretended to know what the hell was under there and why it might not be working.

My mechanical ability came from Dad. He was clueless, too. He just didn't know he was clueless. In my case, the cluelessness is accepted and even honored. Yet, it might have been something fixable with a paper clip or duct tape so I had to look.

Needed Sharon to pump the gas a bit so the car would start. With my head under the hood, she did. Pumped the gas she did. Once. To the floor. She held it there.

The acoustics were perfect if you were designing a torture chamber. The trees overhead and the hood up held all the sound right near my ear as the engine raced and then raced more. I waved my hand for her to slow it down. Yelled for her to slow it down. Waved and yelled with one hand on the butterfly jobber-dooby for her to slow it down. Hoped she would slow it down. Prayed for her to slow it down. She didn't slow it down.

The sound increased and battered my head. I jumped back away from the torture and yelled, "STOP!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU??? DEAF?? WHAT THE FUCK??" There may have been more. It was pure adrenaline. Pure temper.

You and Sharon thought it was hysterical and laughed. You laughed then, later in the day, for the rest of your visit, and the remainder of your life. You thought it was really funny. How loud I screamed was great amusement to you too.

Temper is like that. It is comical. To onlookers. Sometimes to the temper's owner...but later. Much later, if ever.

Patience is much easier. Harder to laugh at someone willing to wait. Willing to stay calm.

This is about the wisdom of waiting. Letting things flow. Your son the poet wrote it. Your son the mechanic does not endorse it. He still throws wrenches. He also knows that working on cars takes patience....and skill. I have more on one and not enough of the other so someone else can fix the cars. I kneel and trust.....and walk if the damn car breaks down.
Disease

Disease discomforts in discombobulation.

Energy borders on soulful isolation.

Deep in a world better not shown.

Mapping dark dreams of the unknown.

Witnessing birth while Superman slumbers.

Feeling missed calls of undialed numbers.

Quarantine, nectarine, unbridled screams.

Tea is for healing, so is ice cream.

Passages, Rituals, Routines, and Rites.

Failing to fly upon tale-less kites.

Answers beyond grasp of weakened hands.

Twisting the turns of uncharted lands.

Fever burns hot fighting for life.

Head in the pillow, hidden from strife.

Spinning in place a movement of kind.

Reaching to others, pain driven mind.

Zombied in life and few even care.

Painful to be, just sit and stare.

Gods are all quiet, breathing is panting.

Belief is still there, passion is wanting.

Silence is sickness for those of words.

Here is your pain, let it be heard.
Note to Mom:

When at my very best, I am still the kid you knew; a kid that believes. Believes in the best of people, that the world is wonderful, and heroes come to the rescue. Some might read this poem and wonder what the heck it has to do with that. They need to read it and realize my trust is still that deep.

Walking. Dreaming. Hiking. Kneeling. I go to a place of such intense emotions it is scary. Scary because I am there alone. While Superman slumbers. No heroes will come to my rescue. The point of no return in the fires of my hell and heaven. All the clichés apply; every day. I go that deep. My belief in love is that strong.

Howdy Doody is still Howdy Doody here. Superman is actually me. To be anyone else's hero we have to believe in ourselves. Be willing to go it alone. I am Superman, Mom.

Our only limitations are those we place upon ourselves. I said that in Grammar School and live it. Believe. Each of us is a hero. Magic is real. Kids become adults and the best adults are still kids. Kids see with innocence.

One day, I saw Howdy Doody's strings. It was a surprise. Until that day, I didn't know Howdy Doody had strings. He was just a kid and he had adventures and lots of friends in the Peanut Gallery. That is the beauty of how we see as children. It is what inspires me to see that beautifully all the time.

Superman was Superman and he flew. The Daily Planet was real and I knew it was really New York City and they just called it Metropolis. Each trip to The City was a journey into the very real comic book place where Clark Kent moved among us. The world where heroes lived was that real to me everyday.

The guy that played Superman, George Reeves, committed suicide. Well, some think it was something even darker but it was reported as a suicide in the New York Paper when I was six years old. They had his picture and a story about how he died of a self inflicted gunshot wound. The picture was of Superman. I read it and it confused me. First, I cried. Superman? Dead? Why? Not Superman. Please, not Superman. He was my hero. Then I wondered how the heck it could be. Was it a Kryptonite bullet? How could he even do it? Superman was that real for me. He was as real as Howdy Doody.

I believe that stronger in magic, Mom. Feel that deeply. That is what the message of this poem. Into the land of pain and suffer to rise above that and save the day. Every day. One day at a time. Heroes go into the fire. The fire is where we rise as the Phoenix and then soar like Superman....without any strings.

Bits of Peace

Wheel of Fortune spins.

Vowels have all been brought.

Swords plunged deep in back.

Slain warrior learns from deaths.

Blinded by what not trees.

Unspoken pleas.

Answers in silence.

White, pensive, and robed with calm.

Hearing with few words.

Golden rain mars the peace.

Chalices rainbow family gathered.

Arms wide in loving welcome.

Children dance in budding trust.

Forty-year detour back to New Ark.

Sailing on a Sea of Living Truth.

Winds of Change trumpet the way.

Note to Mom:

Peace is all around us. Sometimes we lose it and then we have to get it back. The swords in the back can take our mind to other places. To anger. Revenge. Resolve. Resolve can keep us from our peace when we feel resolve through gritted teeth. Having to prove something to the world usually keeps us somewhere other than peace.

You gave me peace as a kid. Didn't really know it as peace when it was happening. Just knew I was safe and loved. Safe and loved. Maybe that is peace. When we are safe and loved we are safe and loved even when we are mad at the ones that love us and keep us safe. I got mad at you. You knew that and were okay with it.

Parenting means being alright with your kids being mad at you some times. Kids have to learn to pick up their own crap because it is the right thing to do. Learning to keep our rooms clean helps us keep the planet safe and clean later. A well made bed can prevent environmental pollution decades later. The lessons in the home are lived in the world. You made a good citizen that understands laws are made to be honored right up until we are big enough to make our own laws.

I realize how much peace you brought to my world. Peace back then is not enough. When peace only exists in our rearview mirror, we live in regret. That is sad. Yesterdays are wonderful. They are also yesterday. Peace today is more important than peace yesterday. Peace today is also more important than peace tomorrow. Peace is a place, not a goal.

Peace was in Saint Ann's when I paid attention. The wind off Raritan Bay on a winter's day kissed me with peace. Dinnertime was covered in a gravy of peace at 1 Maple Avenue. Some times, we are so busy feeling peace that we don't realize what it is.

Some map and market the path to peace. They wrap it in a Bible and sell it to the hungry. The only ones with less peace than the buyers are the sellers. Peaces of silver.

Peace is mine just as love is mine. The more I share peace and love, the more peace and love fills my world. My world is full of peace and love. Full of beautiful people. Family redefined. Home where our heart is. Heart full of love everywhere and everyday.

What a wonderful world, Mom. A world you showed me. A world that was mine in wonderful ways for forty years and then even more wonderful ways once I realized how blessed I was all along and stopped looking for what was mine all along....peace.

That's me, Mom. Digging my way to the mountain top. Peace makes me whole. Thanks for showing me and giving me your peace, Mom. It is in my blood and every breath I take. Peace belongs to everyone. Starting with themselves. We don't go anywhere for peace, Mom. We bring it with us.

Fear Full

You fear that they will leave you.

You fear that they will stay.

You fear it is all bullshit.

You fear to know your art.

You fear to hide in slumber.

You fear to face the day.

You fear the things in shadow.

You fear the full of light.

You fear you are not worthy.

You fear to learn your craft.

You fear they will not see you.

You fear they'll see your truth.

You fear to be so different.

You fear to be the same.

You fear to know abandon.

You fear to hide inside.

You fear you'll be forgotten.

You fear nobody will care.

You fear what comes tomorrow.

You fear what is right here.

You fear to tell your story.

You fear to share your pain.

You fear the touch of loving.

You fear the feel of pain.

You fear you did it all wrong.

You fear you made mistakes.

You fear what you remember.

You fear you will forget.

You fear what you are reading.

You fear it's really true.

You fear this is you speaking.

You fear I'm really you.

Note to Mom:

This is another one of those 'in your face' poems, Mom. The world is littered with excuses. Excuses to hide and settle for what you can handle and what you are allowed. People come to me and share their souls. I do my best to hear them. To see them. To help them. Helping them helps me.

We are all so much alike. Each of us wants to do our best. We are all alone.....together. This poem goes right to that and hits the fears; the contradictions in each fear. How we can keep ourselves from the very things we need and deserve. We love and get hurt and then love less to be less hurt and end up less loved and more hurt. Life is about the risk of hurt so that we love our way to invulnerability.

People come to me and cry, Mom. They say "how did you know?" It is common for them to wonder how I saw into them and saw more than they thought they showed me. It is easy, Mom. I am them; a living contradiction. To face the fears and know the fears but almost too afraid to face the fears and know the fears. Then others come to me and help me realize I have faced them and do face them and will continue to face them. Others facing their fears inspire me to face mine even more.

We are Fear Full and become fearless once we realize everyone else is too. It is what I do, Mom. It is what we all can and must do. First, alone and then together.

Gift Wrapped

Tied to the moon.

Pulled tighter with the light.

Dance to its tune.

Cry howl of fright.

Somewhere there is a ritual. Chanting.

Out there are the lunatics. Gathering.

Fangs hunger for flesh. Circling.

Teeth of light dug in bite.

Feel your place, beast of the night.

Moved from hidden to full sight.

Harvest. Harvest.

Whacked. Sacked.

Bend to the sickle and cycle and circle.

Harvest. Harvest.

Harvested. Home.

Seeds were planted and grown.

Animals were captured and shown.

Beasts were tamed and loaned.

Leashed and collared by crone.

Tethered and harnessed in drone.

Waxing and leaping in moan.

Bound to the moon.

Suspended in this belief.

Where are the wolves?

Look inside of he.

Look inside the cage and see.

Look inside the cage at me.

See outside the cage on knee.

See outside the cage and plea.

See outside the cage and heed.

Pop goes the easel that holds the canvass of your soul.

Dance totem token round the pole.

Dance as the moon becomes whole.

Dance with the fillings of hole.

Look up at the sky in dread.

Look up as the blood flows red.

Look up at your living instead.

Strung to the moon by your soul.

In the bondage comes joy untold.

Wrapped in that lightening hold.

Bound before Lunar in curl.

Freed as your truth is unfurled.

Lassoed in the Circling world.

Note to Mom:

I went away, Mom. Far, far away. In a cage and was made to watch my life lived by forces beyond my understanding. That is shared here. A sacrifice. Part of something else. Something bigger.

A calling....although that just scratches the surface. Akin to life in the Priesthood. Even more accurately, as a Nun. Your son is like a Nun. Make you proud, Mom? Well, once you get over the shock, I hope so.

Nuns were the first example of dedication and devotion. They were Nuns through and through. In what they wore, where they lived, who they served, and so much more. Brides of Christ. Some think that a contradiction. Married to someone that can't touch their flesh as husbands do? Putting service before flesh? Being seen as a Nun first and foremost in all you do to please Jesus. That is not a contradiction, Mom. It is a calling.

Remember the monastery out by Eden? It was one of Sally's favorite places in the whole world. She loved going out there and just being. Hearing the chants. Talking with the Monk that ran the little store. Seeing the grounds where they tended farm between meditation and prayers. She loved what it represents and how it felt. It was a life of devotion. A 24/7 thing, 365 days a year, forever. Sally loved that and loved being around it.

That is me, Mom. I understand the Brides of Christ and the Monks. Celebrate that level of devotion to a thing you trust first and know after. The more you trust, the less you have to know. Faith is not knowing and trusting anyway. I trust that much, Mom. I am a Bride of Christ, a Monk, and more.

These words about this poem come from that place the poem itself does. My soul was purchased, gift wrapped, and handed to the world. I was celebrated as the offering in ritual and more. After all, we each deserve to be honored as we enter our calling.

My words are spread onto the winds in trust, Mom. The words will out live me. They are my legacy to people beyond my years. When I read Thoreau, he spoke right to me. He wrote those words for me. He knew those words were for some he knew but, even more importantly, for many he would not know. He had to write. Had to say what he said. Had to trust that he was gifted with the ability to feel what he did and write what he wrote for something very important. He had a calling and he listened. Then he spoke to me and I was inspired once more to listen to the Voices inside that say....keep writing. It matters. It will reach. It will touch. Trust Us and We will do the rest.

Just like the Nuns said to Jesus and the Monks said to the Monkey God. Well, you get the idea, Mom.
October Walk

Seven hungry crows and a solitary gull.

Southwind pelleted rain shot into my face.

Thunder clapped me onward.

Mountains masked in grey.

Manic smiled woman passed by on her bike.

Gritty covered rocks stayed cold all the while.

Grave inspired month hid the warming sun.

Death pissed on me today and hoped that I would run.
Note to Mom:

This is a literal work, Mom. Well, pretty much. One of those really nasty days that feels so good. Where the elements said stay inside and I went out for a walk anyway. The weather was determined to bite and bruise. Winds. Rain. Grey, inside and out.

Walked to the park near the house in Roy. Same park where Annie and Ethan played soccer and baseball. Host to the annual Roy Carnival. Those moments were in warmer memories and distant beyond the cold. My feet pushed forward and my grin grew.

Victories over such things are small things. Important things. My legs still worked. The heart beat efficiently. My mind knew it could have been a coulda or shoulda morning. Instead it was a did time.

The woman on the bike mentioned in this was manic. A slightly disturbing smile pasted on her face. She unsettled me. Just a bit. Like second thoughts about the wisdom of her choice to be out in this pushed to her eyes and her sneer like grin. She did remind me that it was October though and that was important.

A month littered with landmines of loss. One page of twelve seemed destined to book medical appointments, operations, and funerals. A month much in tune with its weather.

Screw that. Death feels like October and I walk in its worst weather. Could hide away but it felt really good to move the body and move the soul in the motion.

October

A should have been eaten yesterday banana.

Sad people thinking sad things as it rains.

Dead man singing about a guitar weeping.

October kisses me with its cold, grave tongue.

Choosing life is easy when flowers bloom.

Funeral pyres fail to warm the soul.

Costumed nothingness doesn't hide anything.

October kisses me and waits for opened mouth.

Leaves say so long and fall into nothingness.

Cold and dark stays longer with every breath.

Was it all enough becomes the voice of hope.

October kisses me and I let it kiss my ass.

Note to Mom:

What flavor are our tears, Mom? Do we cry the dark and lonely water of pity and pain? Do our eyes wash with sweet stirrings of yesteryear and love? Choices. All choices.

Less than premo bananas can trigger blah when we are already full of bitter fruits. We really do choose.

I cry. Actually a lot, Mom. Your son cries easily. Usually on the porch. At night. By myself. When the reality of my life floods me. To be so blessed. So lucky. It makes me cry.

Tears about you and Dad and how sweet it was to be under that specific roof with that particular family in that one town at that point in time. Tears about the adventures and trips around this magical world that humbled and inspired this child of love. More tears about laughter and even about tears together as Sharon, the kids, and yours truly be-bopped our way from there to here.

Then broader and fresher tears as the world changed to rainbows and magic incarnate. This is such a wonderful existence. Such an amazing life. I cry in thanks and awe.

This poem reminds me how easy it would be to choose the other tears. Tears that drain us of hope and light. Tears that empty our pool of possibilities. October tears.

"October kisses me and I let it kiss my ass."

Reveille

Dance inside the vortex and stay as who you are.

Be within the nothingness to readjust your par.

Abundance was exactly not and the torch called to the weak.

The land of milk and honey will hear now from the weak.

Shine within the darkness, they asked you for a light.

Rise and touch the markings, know those left from right.

Winds of war are calling, hear the truth within.

Sounds of just a bit ago, echoes where you've been.

Tomorrow is upon us, it arrived upon the dawn.

Time and space have mated, children will be born.

Note to Mom:

We polluted our tomorrows, Mom. Me and lots of folks hooked on our drug of choice, consumerism, as we pursued the American Dream. More is good and there is always more. More money to be made. More stuff to be bought. More. More. More. We spent our way to a chemical spill of waste and excess across the world. We became the great dividers as the planet splintered into the haves and the have-nots. This poem is about me waking up, Mom.

This is the war and shame inside me that I took so long to realize what the right things were. Have much to clean up today because of the choices I made yesterday. Choices of hamburgers.

I like hamburgers, Mom. Always have. Likely always will. Then I woke up the facts of how we produce meat, America style. The animals are not animals. They are things. Born and bred for one thing......to die so we can eat them. Their lives are shit existences. We fill them with chemicals to counter other chemicals and expedite production. It takes one hundred pounds of grain to produce one pound of meat. It is inefficient, unhealthy, and inhuman. Those hamburgers are not worth it, Mom. I don't like hamburgers that much. Don't like anything that much.

That is just one example of our waste. There are many other things we do with a callous disregard for the long-term, or even the short-term, impact on our neighbors and the world. Driving almost everywhere. Excess everything. This poem is about me waking up and linking with other people like me as we make choices that honor the impact of our choices on the world.

It is a dark poem about a shameful shortcoming in me. To be so wrapped up in "getting ahead" and making a buck that I ignored facts until it was impossible for me to ignore them any longer. It had to change and it has.

Important changes. The right things to do. Global and spiritual choices I really do want to be a good boy, Mom...and a good neighbor. It took me a while to realize but I will make up for that, Mom.

**Sleight** **Of Hand**

Hecate moved to fullness while masked well from my sight.

She danced Her dance of Magick there. I still felt Her might.

Clouds wrapped well mountains with wispy veils pulled tight.

They were where they always were and would return all white.

Seeing is believing. Not seeing and believing is art.

Masks can hide many sins. Deceit can blind the heart.

Yet sight comes with opening. Seeing to the root.

Eyes see what is shown to them. Wisdom sees the truth.

Sleights of hand are childish. Children watch with awe.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, no more.

Trust in life and believe the good in home and on the range.

The best will come when you do but always count your change.

Note to Mom:

You died but you never really went away, Mom. Once I got over missing you, I realized you were with me all along.

I see you everyday. The best of you. Happy you. Smiling you. Proud you. Proud of your sons and daughter, their kids, and even their kids. The you that took the Utah to Vegas and Los Angeles road trip in the Isuzu Pup. Every kid should take a road trip with their Mom. Thanks for listening to more Elvis than you ever imagined and laughing at all the right parts of my stories. I see that you and the one that asked "Itchy my back" and then rolled your eyes as the seven year old me saw what content was on such a beautiful face.

You are right here every day and I love that. The Moon lets me know She is behind the clouds. She reassures that things might mask her from view......perhaps for a night, perhaps for much longer. We can let things cloud our vision right up until insights pierce the darkness. Insights about the strength of life and love.

Love. You loved me before I was born. Before I was conceived. The idea of me. Of life that links to your tomorrows and your yesterdays. Life that comes to the world through you and becomes you in many ways. Love that begins before life and survives beyond life. Eternal love. Unconditional love.

We might be fooled once in a while by life's clouds and sleights of hand. ...Only once in a while, Mom.

"Trust in life and believe the good in home and on the range. The best will come when you do but always count your change."

Like the saying goes, "My Momma didn't raise no fool."
Vertigo

The root is the key to the answer.

Reach to the core for the truth.

Hang from your toes on the ceiling.

Reach to the sky foot by foot.

The Temple is pointed to Hades.

Doors way above normal, reach.

Water conceals true reflections.

Shows you above not beneath.

When you drown, you stop breathing.

There's where you drink of your death.

Cold well beyond human feeling.

Dive in to learn what comes next.
Note to Mom:

Was my drowning a turning point? Was that my first awareness that I was here for a reason? Something so important that I was fished out of my own stupidity in second grade and many times since? Did I have to almost die to live fully? Was that a baptism by fire under the ice? Did my light half fall in and my dark half emerge?

Something changed that day. I was different. Special? Is that the word? I remember feeling special. Important. Yet I can't remember you ever saying that specifically to me. It was known. You made sure I did my best and knew something would come of it. It was felt as sure as if that was your one message to me. Did that come after you almost had to bury your child?

It was only a few minutes. A few minutes when death was closer than life. When the helpless and naïve child was saved, literally and figuratively. Maybe that was my beginning to understand the dark. The cold, dark place where our choices change everything in shocking ways. Perhaps that was my first taste for places that hint at the darkness. Dark speaks to me.

We had the Spook House in the Burg. It was scary in its way. The oldest dark ride in the United States right in my hometown. How fitting. The dark ride that spoke to me more was in Asbury Park....and it was a dark walk rather than a ride.

Asbury Park had a heartbeat. The Palace. It was the draw. The Main Event in this beachfront three-ring show.

Jack smiled his sneer at The Palace. He welcomed like Pinocchio's Island. Mint green walls and circus colors beckoned. Tarnish hid just below the luster but I didn't care. Lights. Music.

That ride that pushed through the roof and flashed outsiders. A merry–go-round I thought was better than the one in the Burg. The one in the Burg was mine. I cheated on it with the one in The Palace. The one with the rings that felt like circles of sweet guilt. The Hawker that scared me more than I let anyone know. Until now. Decades away from the ready to jackrabbit boy. The Palace was my siren song. All those lovely attractions and distractions.

The center of attention was always The Fun House, the belly of the beast. A thing with an energy all its own. An over the shoulders look as you enter place. The walls lured. Enticed. Invited.

"Come-a. Come-a. Come Hither. You know you want to. You know you need to. Come-a. Come-a."

It smiled Jack's smile and spoke with a voice all its own.

"Welcome to the Fun House. Welcome back. I've been expecting you. Waiting for you." It spoke before......from under the ice when everything changed forever. The Fun House was deep under the waters of my soul.

It had rooms I only saw in dreams. Rooms where things happened to captured little boys and girls. Willing victims. Praying prey. Sweet darlings that craved the sprung trap. So many twists and turns. Places my mind knew, my heart feared, and my maleness craved.

Psssssst.

The air whispered its knowing and billowed skirts showed us things.

Pssssssttt.

All so fun and innocent.

Laughter as floors slid and tilted. Barrels of fun as we spread eagled and showed how much spinning we could take. Dodged another capture. Bondage waited in those narrow halls. The Palace knew we would be back. Hoping for a longer ride, fearing a longer ride. A much longer ride.

Asbury Park had other things too. Once in a lifetime Pinewood Derby moments at the Convention Center. Hints of Atlantic City with the Ocean on one side and Kill the Cats on the other. Boards on the place you walk because that was how things should be. Smells of coconut oil, salt-water taffy, French Fries, and sea breeze kissed senses at will.

It was the Palace that called to me. The Palace that smiled, knowing full well I would come back like a good little boy. It watched me with one eye wherever I was in Asbury Park. The Palace was guilty and the Fun House was dark with pleasure. Its cocksure heartbeat said Come Hither. The Fun House. The deepest place in Asbury Park.

It is gone now. They tore it down. They couldn't rip it out. It comes to visit me now and then. It comes in poems about the Fun House that is life. Where up is down and you have to take another footstep into the unknown because your demons are behind you and you are not sure what is up ahead.
Senseless

The soul of beings is their scent.

Breathe it in deep, crave where it went.

Drift on aromas of Cosmos and Trust.

Inhale life's love and laughter and lust.

Notice beyond that what is there.

Just a quick whiff, mere bits of air.

Smell when you can, crave when you must.

Blood fills the river, flesh goes to dust.

Noise all around to keep out the night.

Wisps of silence inch through the despite.

Lights all a flicker as you bask in the glow.

Numbness of watching called deep and low.

What would be better? Much better than this?

More sound. More distraction. Snap. Crackle. Hiss.

Greed all around, masked well in glee.

Addiction all shiny, sweet as can be.

Seeing and hearing and smelling and taste.

Knowing is better, rise from the waste.

Note To Mom:

A wake up and smell the coffee poem. Only it ain't the coffee smell. The coffee smell is magic; healing. It is one of my many links right to you, Mom. Knowing you craved coffee grinds when pregnant with me helps me understand the way the roasted seeds of the coffee plant affect me. The image of you first just smelling them.......followed by small tastes......and leading to spoonfuls mainlined to your passenger explains a lot. This poem is not about anything that sweet and comforting.

It is about waking up to our own stink. The stink of the pollution of excess. You can perfume a bag of shit and it is still a bag of shit. We can pretend our souls are alright only for so long before the evidence lets us know we have lost our common sense.

We have to wake up, clean up, and change. There is a saying that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Was it Einstein? Freud? Franklin? Lil Abner? Does it really matter? We will keep doing the wrong things as long as we deny the evidence that they stink.

Ben Franklin wrote an essay on flatulence. Words from one of our Founding Fathers on Farting, an essay about the art of the fart. Ben might have written sweet words about our emissions but I am confident he would be the first to admit our farts stink. We can make a stink about a lot of things but we have to wake up and realize we are stinking up the neighborhood and the world. I did.

"Knowing is better, rise from the waste." Of course, it helps to rise and shine to a good cup of coffee. I love you, Mom.

Winged Victory

Into the mist and into the nothingness as freedom whispers past my soul.

Rising without effort and being in the wind yet letting the wind kiss me airborne.

Still and soaring as movement is all around me and lets me be alone.

Virgin to this and joining the virgins who entice the able to kiss this place.

Kissing it with open mouth and breathing into it my innocence.

Following that innocence into the abyss that is eternity.

Dancing eternally and bringing that dance to my fingertips.

Caressing the keys and penetrating you with my love.

Note to Mom:

My words are my wings, Mom, and I fly. Fairy kinda flying, where pretty creatures with painted wings ride breezes of love and dust the world with magic.

In my dreams, I almost always fly like Superman. George Reeves, Superman. Run and leap into the air. Up, Up, and Away. Sharon flies as if she is swimming and has to break the grip of gravity to get above its pull. Maybe how we fly says something about us. More likely that we fly says something about us. I fly. Not just in dreams, in these words.

To the keyboard! Able to leap tall buildings and soar around the world. Superman armed with love. Love so deep and rich that I spread it everywhere like gamma rays. Take that! Zap!....love your neighbor. Pow!......make peace. Let me infect the world with positive energy as my words don their cape and save the day.

Yet it feels fairy like in this piece, Mom. Beautiful. Tinkerbelle pretty. Did you know they used Marilyn Monroe as the body image for Tinkerbelle? Well, that might explain why Peter Pan wanted to stay in Never Never Land. Is growing up the end of magic? Screw that.

I live this poem and kiss the world. My fingers dance and shall continue to dance, "Caressing the keys and penetrating you with my love." My words soar like Nike.....before that word became a shoe style. Nike.....the Goddess of Victory.

Victory has been tainted. It is so much more than the aftermath of battles and wars. Peace is the truest victory. Love is the energy of our strength. Nike is Strength, Speed, and Victory. Superman strength and Fairy Magic. Up, Up, and Away!
Snow Fell

Hushed by a blanket of snow, the night let me see into my silence.

Three A.M. and I am what I am.

Shadow Boxer of vitally meaningless dances.

White knight for another night.

Wonder when I became that guy people wonder about.

Shared soul, dug hole, close to whole, who's to know?

Content in my lot, tied into knots, willing to not.

Dreams tell different stories in midnight winter wonderlands.

Shutters shake the lens of lucid living.

Flakes mound to someone's morning shovel.

Seeing my breath in the cold night air takes my breath away.

Quiet absorbs the screams in my flesh bag Fortress of Solitude.

Mission change and numbers slice in new ways.

Piss dribbled dots on the small I in the snow.

Treasure maps gauge true worth of ex-marked spots.

Sleep calls, nature trumps, and the storm continues.

Note To Mom:

I found out I have cancer today, Mom. This poem was written before today but now changed what it was then. Kept reading it and feeling what it was. Writing about it is something else. The words keep being about the news of the day. The poem is more about me the reader than it is me the writer. It is read from where I am.

There is a resolve in me stronger than any cancer cell. A calm. Sure, there are the obligatory things like informing people and then whatever treatment is to come. Folks react in their own way. I have your example that formed my feelings toward cancer. It happens. Deal with it. Life goes where it goes.

So it is here and real and, quite frankly, I am alright. It will show in my words. Nothing to hide. Just share the journey. Did you know the way you dealt with it inspired me? More so now, but even back then. Even the boy me knew something was up and yet you kept being Mom. You were you even with one less breast. Maybe you were more Mom with one less breast. How we deal with these things defines who we are.

Look at the examples. A lost leg becomes a crutch for pity for one and an example of human endurance for another. Life deals a shitty card and some folks quit playing the game. They lost that hand before it was dealt. Heroes keep playing. Heroes get up one more time than quitters. Just one more time.

So I read this poem about a 3 AM moment and feel it in new ways. "Quiet absorbs the screams in my flesh bag Fortress of Solitude." The whole poem comes down to that one line for me today, Mom. Quiet is a lot easier than screams. Heroes rarely scream. I am my Mother's son and that means today is another opportunity to be a hero just like you.

Poemsucker

Take my words into your mouth and drink.

Wrap your mind around my totality.

Others have been here and you are now.

Some find me hard and enjoy the softening.

There is more to me but this is your piece now.

Take me deep until your hunger is pleased.

Sweet to feel you and share this moment.

Enticing to welcome the pull on my unzipped soul.

Driven to penetrate the open and fill the willing.

Whored fully in these intimacies with strangers.

Do I taste sweet? Is this what you seek?

How did you learn to accept so much of me?

Who rides and who is ridden in this moment?

Who gives and who takes as we exchange?

Is the deepest part still me or is it really you?

Is there more in me that you draw into yourself?

Why does this matter so very much to me?

Why am I driven to feel this over and over?

The softness is as much me as the rock hard façade.

Beyond the man is the child so eager to please.

Kiss my soul with your knowing and learned ways.

Assure beyond the moment that you felt more.

Say this opened the longing for further exchange.

I am more and then more and then even more.

Note to Mom:

This ones makes me laugh. It is so arrogant. Naked and raw and in your face to the whole world. Well, good timing. I need to remember this is who I am too, Mom. This who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are guy that speaks his piece.

There was a test they gave us when I worked at Unishippers. It was a test by a company that did placement type tests for decades. Tests that show which type people were best suited for which jobs. Their success rate was very high. We hired them to help us select the best sales reps so they came to town to train us folks at the corporate office.

The woman that taught the week-long class lived the test. She saw the world through the eyes measured by it and was quite amazing in her knowledge and application of the process. We each took the test before she arrived and it helped her guide the class. Late in the afternoon of the third day, she cornered me.

"Can I ask you a question?" Reassured, she did. "Were you really in the military for twenty-eight years?" I confirmed that was the case. "Really? With this test result, you were in the military????" She shared my test results showed the least likely person to fit into the military. "Wow, that must have been one hell of a ride."

It was one hell of a ride. I question everything, Mom. Everything. I say the things most only dare to think. It is just who I am. This poem is that and just a bit more. It arrived right on time. Today.

Why this one today? A good reminder of how bold the words can be. Stands tall and says drink this and be fed. It is a message from me to me about me.

Slightly tongue in cheek but only slightly. The Man of Steel is indeed ready to fill the world with these words and I must remember that more and more. Wimpy and weak passes.....strength endures. Stand by for ram, world.

Sentinel

Not sure when it started.

Don't know when it stopped.

Just know that it is over.

Although some hope it's not.

The laws have all be broken.

Schools don't really teach.

Truth remains unspoken.

Fear extends its reach.

Made more than was needed.

Debt was common thing.

Change will now be heeded.

Cash no longer king.

Note to Mom:

Now, what was I saying about speaking the truth? Here's one more, Mom, a radical piece that speaks of my radical peace. Shook off the self imposed shackles of greed and decided enough is more than enough.

Gratitude is sweet. Helps me enjoy what I have rather than pursue more stuff. That pursuit is bottomless. Gotta have one. Then two. Then four. Then the newest and shiniest. More options and the latest version after that embarrassing albeit reliable model that still works. More is the key and as long as we have more we will get more to ensure we keep more. Keeping up with the Smiths makes Smith and Wesson happy because people blow their brains out when they realize they are pursuing someone else's dreams.

So I changed. For the better. Better because I know peace. Have time to spend with important people like family. Write and share each day. My work is sharing my gifts and I am pretty damn good at my job, Mom.

Did you get the yearly statements from Social Security? I bet you did. Use to look forward to mine because taxable income went up each year for decades. Wanted to chart it. The bar graph to heaven. Up. Up. More Up.

I still look forward to it, for much different reasons. Now it is going down. Yet, I have more. More stuff I use longer. More reason to share because when less turns into more we can do with even less and have even more. My income is going down, Mom. My worth is climbing.

Pretty radical, isn't it?

Into the Anger

Into the madness.

Anger held like a loved bomb of self-destruction being defused rather then refused or denied.

Anger at weakness.

Anger at cleaning up someone else' mess.

Anger at lies and deceits and manipulations.

Anger barely contained but harnessed nonetheless.

Anger harnessed and guided to the fields where it will drive the plow of change and cut through the bullshit rooted trunks of indulgence and denial.

Into the madness to keep sane.

In the anger, it hurts.

Sharing that pain only increases that pain.

So I keep it in the cauldron and I stew.

In the anger, it hurts.

Turning that pain into passionate action versus rage requires tools and skills still being mastered.

Voicing that anger via words that honor the emotions yet quell them simultaneously is the balancing act on the highest wires of life.

This is the human experience and the fangs of the primal are real and ache and want to rip.

This is when I feel most human...and most tempted to be inhuman.

This is the point of proving me to myself and living what I truly believe and see and feel...this is when I must be more me to remain in the light.

This sucks. Joyously so.

This is living in the truth rather than dancing in the dark delusions that things will be alright without a lot of work.

This is work.

Note to Mom:

We are too polite at times. Too sweet. We bullshit ourselves with manners, rules, and laws. Mankind is capable of dark things and to deny that is to blow smoke up our own asses and deny our own savagery.

I am not sure this is even a poem. Yet part of me knows it is. Raw. Unedited. Rough around the edges because the beauty is in the rock long before it is in the gem.

It helps me remember to speak my truth and know when it needs to be brushed up and also when it is just a pretty gritty. So I get mad now and then and find ways to express it in the positive.

There are easier ways. It is easier to spread and spew. So I go into the anger and own it. Claim it. Understand it. Maybe we are most human at those times, when we lose it a bit. Yet when we lose it and others pay, we are most inhuman. That is the balancing act, Mom. Get mad....feel mad.......roar.....gnash the teeth. Then NOT lash out. Be the most human and then even more so by harnessing the rage rather than sharing the frustrations and emotions of weakness.

The world pays the price for anger. Too high a price. We are creatures with that fire in our belly. The belly of the beast we can be when the fire curls our hands into fists. Fire that forge barbed arrows of our words. We sling shots and wonder why the world grows mad in return. The mirror can only show what we bring to it. Anger makes the mirror red-hot and the world mirrors us, Mom.

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall........calm is pretty for one and all. I can see myself angry....and show the world how well I play with fire.
IN GOD WE TRUST

It was needed at this critical time in our nation's history.

We needed to remind the people of the foundation that made this nation what it is right now.

IN GOD WE TRUST

It is on our money.

We are a people of GOD.

GOD is in the classroom.

GOD is what drives our leadership.

GOD is our major export.

We carry GOD in our hearts and across the globe for GOD is our power and might.

GOD is our place of strength and refuge.

We turn to GOD for solace, answers, peace, and love.

GOD is the force behind all things our people do every single day.

Our nation struggles and the leaders in Congress knew it was time to affirm our truth.

IN GOD WE TRUST

We shall conquer the debt. By turning to GOD.

We shall ensure people are happy. By turning to GOD.

We shall reestablish this nation as the world power it once was. By turning to GOD.

In these challenging times, we must remember what got us to the top. It is GOD.

In these challenging times, we need more of what makes us safe. It is GOD.

In these challenging times, we shall turn to what we know best. It is GOD.

IN GOD WE TRUST

Our nation needed to be reminded. The world needs to know.

In our darkest hours, we turn to the one force that makes everything right.

IN GOD WE TRUST

This is our heartfelt message we wish to share to the world.

This is our Truth.

This is what the world sees as our truth.

IN CASH WE TRUST

It was needed at this critical time in our nation's history.

We needed to remind the people of the foundation that made this nation what it is right now.

IN CASH WE TRUST

It is on our money.

We are a people of CASH.

CASH is in the classroom.

CASH is what drives our leadership.

CASH is our major export.

We carry CASH in our hearts and across the globe for CASH is our power and might.

CASH is our place of strength and refuge.

We turn to CASH for solace, answers, peace, and love.

CASH is the force behind all things our people do every single day.

Our nation struggles and the leaders in Congress knew it was time to affirm our truth.

IN CASH WE TRUST

We shall conquer the debt. By turning to CASH.

We shall ensure people are happy. By turning to CASH.

We shall reestablish this nation as the world power it once was. By turning to CASH.

In these challenging times, we must remember what got us to the top. It is CASH.

In these challenging times, we need more of what makes us safe. It is CASH.

In these challenging times, we shall turn to what we know best. It is CASH.

IN CASH WE TRUST

Our nation needed to be reminded. The world needs to know.

In our darkest hours, we turn to the one force that makes everything right.

IN CASH WE TRUST

When Cash became God, we let it happen.

Cash as our might and purpose changed America.

When Cash became Debt, we turn to God.

We are the solution.

We will purchase our freedom as we once did...with the sweat of our labors and the love of our neighbors.

We can be that new nation.

The one we started centuries ago.

IN PEOPLE WE TRUST
Note to Mom:

I remember America, Mom. The America you raised me in. Lots has changed. Much, not for the better and I have to take responsibility for letting it happen.

We lost our way. Somewhere between the 60s and now, we sold out. It became about money. War makes money. Lots of money. Plundering the environment makes money. Lots of money. We became the nation with all the stuff and we exported the American Dream of more and more. Consumption ran amok and the world paid the price.

The ideals that formed this great country are still good, Mom. We, the people, abdicated and went shopping.

Your son is an environmentalist now. The solider is a peacemaker. The capitalist is more hippie at 60 than he ever was in the 60s.

My attitude of acceptance of responsibility and belief in hope shows up more and more in my words, Mom. Green is a real thing for me. Love is the way to make the world better.

There are a lot of good people in this world. Real good people. I believe in them and have a whole new neighborhood. A global one.

When I was a kid, Washington seemed so far away. It was that place on the news. It was removed from my everyday reality. It was foreign in a way. More theory than reality.

The neighborhood was my world. Now the world is my neighborhood. Washington seems very far away. A place on the news. Removed from my everyday reality. Foreign in a way. More theory than reality.

Circles. Gotta love that. The answers are right in our own back yard. Right in the neighborhood. Just like back when I was a kid. Go figure.

People deserve to feel safe, warm, and loved. Like I do and always did, Mom. This is bigger than America. I want every kid to feel as good as I did while busy just being kids. You made my world wonderful, Mom. Time for me to make the world that good for everyone and anyone.
Moon Child

A lifetime ago I was a warrior. I saluted and believed in the cause.

Then pursued mighty dollars and did my best at all cost.

Soon was in charge of a business and learned of myself in new ways.

Change came quicker and quicker once I really learned to obey.

Now I am sometimes a writer as well as a being of touch.

A poet, a slave, and a teacher through cards and energy and such.

The Moon marked upon my shoulder calls to the being within.

To know what is right for the future and to know what truly is sin.

Note to Mom:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Kids are asked that a lot. Maybe it is to inspire. More likely it is to vector. To have something said that can and may come to pass. To pick a point on the map and say "that's where I am going."

In my high school yearbook, it reads......."....After graduation, Gil will enter the Air Force, furthering his education, and then get married." Did that just as written, Mom. Had to, I guess. It was in print for all to see.

All the stuff that came after the Air Force defied my imagination and even description. As if my crystal ball only showed what I thought the right course to be but showed it with such clarity there was little left to wonder. Then the clouds parted and a whole new world emerged. A world where I became a writer, learned bodywork, and link with people all over the globe everyday. That High School graduate was visionless for the wonders that came to pass.

Moon Child. Dancing under it. Howling to it. Celebrating it from the Moon Cage passers-by think is a wrought iron gazebo. The Luna dances are many and the transformations routine. Well, as routine as transformations can be.

Your son is that Moon Child. Bold enough to run with the wolves.....human enough to see the beauty of a single rose. Yin-Yang, Stars, and Infinity wrap this traveler and let me be a number as well as a shining light. That isn't in the High School yearbook, Mom. Even the boy that became that being couldn't see it coming.
Stasis Quo

Into nothingness and beyond.

Removed by choice.

All that was important moves to shadows.

Goes not knowing nor caring.

A memory yet a thing as well.

Spotlight long gone.

Questions soften to whispers then silence.

No longer asked. No longing asking.

Wait with little expectation and less craving.

Chained in patience. Changed impatience. Changed in-patients.

Water torture of acceptance erodes ego and soul.

Scream without words into silence without ear.

Ache in pain with the joy of acceptance.

Memories taunt, reality tortures, both are embraced.

Solitary confinement seen by more and more.

Time to be, time to go, time to stay, time to lower.

Exist when permitted.

Serve when needed.

Stasis.

Stay.

Note to Mom:

This poem is a feel of images, Mom. Feels like snapshots of the travels as I moved from way back there to here with motion still the key. Dusty backpack, tattered coat, experienced boots....the road warrior.

Was a road warrior. Loved the travel. Did more flying in a month than most people did in years. Knew the airports. Had the pattern and habit of commuting cross-country. It was exciting in how normal and routine it was. Knew that the International terminal in Salt Lake City was the best gate at rush hours due to it shorter lines. Routinely used that and doubled back inside to the gate of my scheduled flight. Slept well on the planes. Unpacked quickly and efficiently so the hotel room was home for how ever many days. It was my life.

Accumulated miles. Counted states and countries. At one point, I spent three weeks of each month on the road and loved it. Was hailed as an epic athlete when it came to travel. Could do it. Would do it. Did it.

Then life clipped my wings. That was a struggle at first. A big struggle. I had decreed that I was a Traveler. Travel was part of what I did. It was germane to my purpose and place. Seems my Higher Power had other ideas.

This poem is about them. Clipped wings. Caged traveler. Settle in and do what you are to do right where you are. Did not like that. Not one single bit. Somewhere along the way, travel became an essential part of everything and that stopped very quickly one month. I did my best to force it to happen but the harder I tried, the less travel happened. It was a lesson in surrender. A test of trust.

Soon, my head was bowed and my wings remained clipped for longer and longer. It humbled me. Yes, there sulking and a bit of poor pitiful me. Then, I accepted it and found the joy in being put.

Here is the tale of breaking. The wild and free pony was tethered and taught one paddock and one barn. Soon, the nobility of such service kissed my battered ego and made things alright.

**Marley and** **Me**

9,000 links extend from the shadows.

Custom forged of silver and gold.

Enticing...inviting...reminding.

Newer, faster, and better.

One of each and another to spare.

Come. Come, little one.

Ease the pressure and the pull.

A few more links will lighten load.

A few more links to balm sores and pains.

Adding them will be easier.

Ease that terrible taunt.

Come. Come, little one.

A few months may be enough.

Enough for what you see.

Enough for what you know.

A mere piece of your gifts.

Barely a flick of your wrist.

Come. Come, little one.

They await in welcome.

All you know is enough.

All you learned is enough.

All you did so well is enough.

All you were can be again.

Come. Come, little one.

The celebration will be real and reward many.

The victory sweet and true.

This is nothing for one of your strength.

This is nothing for one of your spirit.

This is nothing for one of your giving.

Come. Come, little one.

Come back to us.

Come back home and all will be well.

Come back and be you again.

Come back soon.

Come. Come, little one.
Note to Mom:

Spending our way to happiness, Mom. In debt and borrowing to get stuff we don't have time to use. Faster and faster we go, where we stop, nobody knows. That is the $9,000 links, Mom. Owed and interest climbing. Falling behind and spending money to do it.

It is easy. Everything points to easy. Easy terms. Easy credit. Easy refunds. Easy does it. I went there. Believed there would always be more money to make so there was a bottomless pit of pay it back later.

My house of cards collapsed. Over the recommendations of the IRS and my accountant, I jumped off the Wheel of Misfortune. Liquidate and pay off all that is possible, begin to pay down the rest, limit spending to what is available, and live with what we have. Sounds simple. Well, it actually is. It is simple....and very slow. That is the key. It takes time to undo what was done. It feels good......well, after a while. Then the numbers show financial freedom moved to reality. I share with folks that if we owe a dime, we don't have a dime.

Sharon and I did a lot of bill consolidations over the years. Each time, we vowed to pay that one debt off and fix it once and for all. Each time, we ended up spending money before we had it and paying interest. The United States government rewards debt. Mortgage interest is tax deductible. People think that have to have a mortgage to save money on taxes. Think about that? We have to pay interest to save money on taxes. People believe that. They live it. Encourage it.

Several decades ago, one of the Credit Unions approved a bill consolidation loan with a note that said, "Recommend financial counseling." Sharon and I laughed long and hard at that. Maybe, we should have listened. Maybe a lot of folks should have listened.

Jacob Marley had a chain of his misdeeds. Debt is a misdeed that keeps us chained as sure as anything from a horror movie or Christmas tale. Going into hock to have stuff is really silly when less is so much more.

That's a Rap

I wanna blame and change and rearrange.

Ease the pain, the strain, not feel so strange.

Be alright, be right, and not so tight.

Take a dive, stay alive, lose the fight.

Tell me this, cause I'm pissed with all my might.

When will I win, save chin, be in the light?

Cause this sucks and I smile and say no big deal.

But deep inside, I whine, and my head it reels.

So back away, this day, and alive you'll stay.

Let me lay, have my say, just go away.

I'll make it through, it's what I do, that's my way.

But it hurts, and it aches, and it always may.

Still I go into this and I will take what comes.

Perhaps someday with the work there'll be some fun.

But today, I will bitch and then again go do.

Shout it out, cry a bit, then feel the fool.
Note to Mom:

Sometimes I cop an attitude. Walk leaning to the side and just dare someone to challenge me. Well, at least in my mind. It's a black thing and we didn't have black people in the Burg. Saw them on Starsky and Hutch and Sanford and Son. Not likely too historically accurate. Surely not politically correct.

We had one black guy that came into town to cut folk's grass. Not our grass. Folks with bigger and greener yards. Folks with money and without child labor. He moved slow. Kept to himself. Walked his wheelbarrow with the mower and rake in it and did his job. Funny. I didn't ever see him cutting anyone's lawn but I knew he did a damn good job. Just like Cookie, the mechanic. The only black man that lived in the Burg for as long as I could remember.

Cookie shows up pretty routinely in my writing. He has character. Someone should have painted him. Made a Bosson Head of him. A face full of stories. That distinctive shuffle walk with the one rag in his pocket or hand at all times.

That was it, black wise, in the Burg. Remember the first time Dad really spent any time around blacks? It was your first visit to Pope AFB in North Carolina. Dad was fascinated that our squadron ball team had folks of all shapes and sizes. It was his first time really be with blacks and he discovered they were real people just like him. He changed because he realized folks are just folks.

My first encounter with blacks was in basic training. We were choosing up who did what on a detail and I did the eenie-meenie-miney-mo. When I got to the "catch a _____ by the toe." part, it suddenly dawned on me what we said as kids. I froze. A moment of great clarity. The one black guy in the circle smiled and said "honky", we all laughed and moved on.

That was a teachable moment, Mom. I was taught prejudice in innocent ways. Eenie-meenie-miney-mo ways. A word with emotional impact and historical baggage and it was part of what kids said. That changed that day, Mom.

Maybe I can't rap and this poem just sounds good in my head. I can love though...and respect people. I can be inclusive.....because that is my choice. Eenie-meenie-miney-mo. I choose equality for all.

The Archer

One thousand reasons shot in my back.

Shafts kissed with poison brewed from hurt.

Heartily bowed and so thusly aimed.

Targeted from high and lowered by blame.

Arches of justice through pangs of defeat.

Victory cries through tears bittersweet.

Body well skewered but cheeks left to turn.

Be well, sweet archer. Lessons well learned.

Note to Mom:

I feel betrayed. By the America that had my belief and allegiance. Odd to feel stabbed in the back after decades of dedication. The entire time in the military and at corporate America, taxes were paid and honored. It was a matter of trust. Trust in the fact that the "system" was us. When we had, give. When we need, it would be there for us. Didn't anticipate needing. That would be conditional. Giving because of what you get later is less than.

For years, my Accountant said it was time to buy another house....to invest in "write-offs". To get things I don't really need to reduce taxes. That felt dirty to me. It was distasteful. Hiding stuff rather than sharing. I heard him and ignored him. Taxes were something we paid as Americans. It was fair. Washington would do the right thing with the resources.

One day, all that changed. Didn't see it coming. Didn't believe it when it arrived. First it disappointed. Then it hurt. I needed the IRS to work with me and they refused. Actually penalized me for using my savings and retirement to pay bills that would otherwise be unpaid. It was a wake up call for me.

That is what this poem is about, Mom. Back-stabbing by a system I truly believed in and trusted. I do not blame the IRS. I let it become that thing that spent recklessly and became inhuman. Shame on me for feeding it rather than questioning and making it better.

Battered and bruised? Yes. Wiser? Yes. So I honor the archer and let the archer know I am awake and see the arrows I provided. No more arrows for it.

There is a saying that we are either part of the solution or we are part of the problem. I thought the solution was a system supported by those capable that took care of those in need. Turned out I was part of the problem. The system became bigger than the people that invented and supported it. It became something so big it went from means to ends. Shame on me. Shame on the monster I let birth while busy spending more than my fair share because I abdicated my responsibility for others and focused on self.

Thousands of arrows......and I survived. Even thrived, Mom.

Taxed

There are faces hidden there, inside the machines.

Mere fragments of people no longer seen.

Mouths spewing gobbledygook with only slight slur.

Eyes so far blinded that truth is but blur.

When did they go there? Can they come back?

Do they think for themselves? Are they but hack?

Charted and lined and boxed within forms.

Ends to themselves, these things that we born.

We, the Creators, now drown in our own inc.

Declare me insane for the things that I think.

Each man for himself, each womyn set free.

Let's get together, all the used and the me's.

Note to Mom:

I push through the "they" at every chance, Mom. It satisfies and amuses me on so many levels. It reminds me the "machine" was build and is run by people just like me....people with names and faces. People with the power to change things. We are real people...until we are faceless rabble. When dealing with agencies like the IRS, especially the IRS, it takes but a few moments when the workers try to be faceless. I merely wait and then pounce on the first "they".

"Sorry, but they won't allow that." Whoa. You ARE "they" You work for the IRS, are paid by the IRS, and represent the IRS.....so you ARE "they". This first assault of reality and logic only slows them a bit from the effort to remain faceless. The next step is to pass the buck.

"I can't approve that." The next questions are direct and polite......and painful. Questions to help me understand that they can disapprove my request but they cannot approve my request. Usually, this is where the nameless stumble a bit and happily bumped me up the chain. After all, I want the name of the person who can approve my request and chooses to disapprove my request. A name. A person. A real person that hears my case and says "no".

The "no" is acceptable. It is an owned response. A person who said "I did that" rather than a clog in a machine so big and impersonal the person doesn't even accept they are part of it. Someone so powerless they can only say no to their customers everyday. They have become one gear in a cold machine. What they do is merely something to make some money. Their own questions stopped and it is now about the elusive "they".

My outcome is a lot more personal. It was Agent Jones that could say yes and said no. It was a person that heard my case and denied it rather than someone who can only say no and doesn't even know why except that yes means someone is accountable.

No hiding in your own denial when I call you. You pick up the phone at the IRS and you are the IRS. People need to realize we are "they". Well, right up until we are nothing and "they" are in charge. Cowards hide behind "they" and I push cowards aside to find the people who realize they are what they do.
Hand Off

Hand off. Hand off.

You blew your chance. We don't want your pain.

Hand off. Hand off.

Get out of the way. It's time to change.

Hand off. Hand off!

Hand off the billfold. Hand off the safe.

You're not doing right. No more to take.

Hand off!

Hand off!

Go count your money. Go wash your cars.

Go on vacation. Go clean your yard.

Hand off.

Hand off.

No more of your bullshit No more of the same.

No more separations. No more of your games.

Hand off.

Hand off.

We don't need more houses. We don't need more cars.

We need more damn gardens. Not more damn yards.

Hand off! Hand off!

Your time is over. Your time is through.

You really blew it. It's our time to do!

Hand off! Hand off!

Keep your drills, your spills, and your happy pills.

Hand off!

Take your cash, your trash, and KISS MY ASS..

Hand off!

Hand off!

Hand off!

NOW!
Note to Mom:

Who is steering this ship off the cliff, Mom, and why are letting them? The message is to n = hand off. Sounds revolutionary, doesn't it? Well, it is.

When in the course of human events, we need to get off our dead asses and take control, get off our dead asses and take control.

The changes begin with each of us. Informed choices about what comes from where and how things are made. We have walked away from the ability to feed ourselves. We have abdicated self-reliance for comfortable shoes and really good special effects in movies. I was that we. Now I am that guy that says bullshit and actually does the things some folks just think about as they pretend to care.

People need to know they are in charge of their destiny. Live like you are in control of where you life goes. When did that level of control become a sense of helplessness to forces too big to hear us and heed us?

We are surrounded with creature comforts and self-indulgences yet huddle in silence against a system so big we can't change it. Bullshit.

I am mad at myself for letting it happen. For being a part of it. Some hands cling even tighter to the fears and decide only some folks will make it and it is going to be them....not those "other" people. Those gay, different religions, in other countries, people that hate us anyway so let's keep them far away and make sure they die before they hurt us or take our stuff. Pass the potatoes, please, we are late for family prayers.

Yes, Mom. I have a bit of an attitude. So folks can Hand Off. Now would be much easier than later.

The Future Is Coming

The future's a hard on that targets your ass.

Best just bend over, it's coming on fast.

Rock hard and ready to spit out its seed.

The future is coming with just what you need.

You'll not be a boy; you'll not be a lass.

Just another sweet pussy, fucked in the ass.

Open wide everybody, spread your legs, little ones.

Feel true penetration, for all that you've done.

Jammed deep into openings thought quite secure.

Ripped wider and wider, taught to endure.

Everyone's fucked, some just don't know.

The future is coming, open wide, hoes.

Note to Mom:

I almost didn't include this one. It is that bold. That blunt. Do boys say these things around their mothers? Well, yes, this boy does.

We try to sanitize things and pretty soon there are things that are okay that are not really okay. Things like killing and stuff.

People need to see the death and carnage of war. Bombs shattering the walls of churches and hospitals. Infants carried from the wreckage and handed to families with forever broken hearts. Innocents of all ages falling alongside intended and approved targets. We need to be honest. Collateral damage? Call him Habib. He was three years old, loved to sing along with the call to prayer, and knew how to open the door so his Mom had to watch him like a hawk. Show the picture of Amy on the news and let people know she was all about the prom and had been for six months now even though the prom was three months away before it went to never. People are going to die. We pretend it is alright if they are soldiers, bad men, evil people, or faceless and soon forgotten victims. Death comes when we go to war.......and it comes at great price.

Let's not pretend.

This poem is rude and crude, Mom. This poem offends. Somewhere we got so polite we can accept cruel yet bristle at rude and crude. Well, polite ain't working. People are dying while we politely allow it. When we accept killing on any level, we accept killing. We are fucked....and had better get use to it even when we sugar coat it and pretend it is anything but what it is. Killing. Murder. Murder-Death-Kill.

Can I kill, Mom? Yes. I will kill if I need to and pray I never need to. Crude? Pretty much. Rude? Blunt is more like it. We can pretend we are above that darkness.......call killing other things.......and rationalize it. That just makes us foolish. Really polite fools. Screw that, Mom. Screw that or we really are all screwed.
Look Away, Washington

Red, white, and blue battered.

Costs of wars more each day.

Hope taxed with every death.

Allegiance removing blindfold.

Look away. Look away.

Look away, Washington.

Votes barely a whisper.

Money speaks in screams.

Use to be right, then I just left.

Americans dream at home.

Look away. Look away.

Look away, Washington.

Heroes in your neighborhood.

Global just down the street.

Weapons keep right on killing.

Love right through the fear.

Look away. Look away.

Look away, Washington.

Note to Mom:

This is one of my red, white, and blue pieces, Mom. Blue as is dealing with life and accepting some dark realities. I love the blues, Mom. The second line of the blues is always the same as the first. This poem is reality. It is accepting that the heroes ain't elected. The heroes are voting.

The folks that make things run are the heroes Talented mechanics, plumbers, carpenters, cooks, drivers, postal workers, waitresses, cashiers, nurses, doctors....the doers. They are the heroes. Sure, some went to the dark side. The dark side has lots of cool stuff. Second homes, fancy cars, swimming pools, lovely parting gifts, cookies, and a vacation package for two to "fill in the blank" that has you squeal like a school girl. Some folks sell out and chase that dream. Enough still believe in neighbors and doing the right thing.

Somewhere along the way, we turned to Washington to lead and we became followers. When Washington went off track, we followed. When Washington went even further off track, we became whiners. We bitched and moaned while we continued to follow and now folks don't even know where they are and how they got here.

We just need to lead. It is quite simple. An attitude of gratitude everyday is the foundation for peace and sharing. We need to stop looking to Washington and look at ourselves. We need to be Thankful.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, Mom. It has eclipsed Christmas as the sweetest celebration for yours truly.

"Wow. We are lucky. Let's give thanks....and share a little".

Thanksgiving is that day when millions get it. The masses feel it and celebrate it.

"Wow. We are lucky. Let's give thanks....and share a little."

That's enough. That is how we save the world. That attitude of gratitude is the key to peace, harmony, and balance.

"Wow. We are lucky. Let's give thanks....and share a little."

People feel that on Thanksgiving. That day when time and space expand. When all that was is felt again. The faces and gatherings. Living memories. Each of those prior celebrations merges into today. The curtains are thinner when gratitude shines. Thanksgiving is alms and balm for souls.

"Wow. We are lucky. Let's give thanks....and share a little."

I feel that everyday, Mom. I look in the mirror....far from the world of Washington. Thanks for that, Mom.
The Dream Turned to Nightmare

The Dream turned to Nightmare. Time to wake up.

The Dream turned to Nightmare. Enough is enough.

The Dream turned to Nightmare. We are wide-awake.

The Dream turned to Nightmare. No more will we take.

We choose things of balance, of hope, and of truth.

We choose to accept each cause has a root.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, time to arise.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, refuse to just die.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, together we live.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, learn how to give.

We return things to balance, come hold our hand.

We return things to balance, come take a stand.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, open the door.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, beyond either/or.

The Dream turned to Nightmare, forget all the hate.

The Dream turned to Nightmare; it's still not too late.

Note to Mom:

I was slow to accept the tarnished dream. Your son is a teary-eyed patriot, Mom. A believe in the Red, White, and Blue good boy. The whole baseball, Mom, and apple pie thing works for me. Well, it did. Could watch the Waltons and enjoy the saccharine. Lived in Germany, Turkey, and England and knew I represented every American while there. Was proud to be an American.

To accept that the dream turned to nightmare was slow in coming, Mom. It was harder because the dream was wonderful for those living it. Lots of creature comforts that far exceed basic needs. We were high on Maslow's Hierarchy and redefined needs. We let wants become needs. Greed became good and more become vital.

Soon the dream was a dream come true for us. More. Then even more. A dream that we paid for in stress and competition and that others paid for as we had our fair share and most of theirs.

When I lived in Turkey, the military allowed me to ship my pick up truck for use there. It was the little brown one that you and I rode in on the road trip to LA with that stop in Vegas. A beater. Brought it new and drove it to death. Had it for years. By the time it was shipped to Turkey, it had tens of thousands of miles on it and had few bells and whistles in any form. It ran and I kept it clean.

Folks joked about it home. The gas gauge worked......once you filled it and then for about a quarter of a tank...then it dropped to empty. The speedometer worked occasionally and sounded like it was grinding when it did not. Someone stole the ashtray and all my change in it. The visors were either up or at 45 degrees and the windshield was cracked more often than it was solid. Bottom line---the family laughed at how much of a clunker it was.

In Turkey, the building custodian for the apartment where I lived saw the pick up and walked around it like it was a brand new Corvette. He, his wife, and two small children asked if it was really mine. I let him sit behind the wheel and it was a like a kid touching a sports car. He was stunned that I was so blessed to have such a wonderful truck....that was all mine.

We need some humbling, Mom. The dream turned to nightmare.......and we need to wake up. Things can be much simpler......when we realize how blessed we are with exactly what we have.
Fence Lines

Fences mark the place.

Clearly mark the place.

Your place. Our place.

Over there. Over here.

You over there.

Us over here.

Patrols keep the piece.

The piece that is ours.

The piece that is not yours.

This is our piece.

That is your piece.

Let us be.

Be right here.

You be there.

Stay right there.

Where you belong.

Not where we belong.

Stay away.

Fences mark the place.

Just mark the place and let us alone.

The Wall came tumbling down.

We made that happen.

We won the cold war.

With Peacekeeper missiles and ICBMs.

Can't you see that?

We made that happen.

Now let us alone.

Now stay where you belong.

This land is our land.

Home of the Free and the Brave.

Land of Liberty.

With the Lady and the torch.

Land of our Fathers.

Land where our Mothers cried.

Now stay where you belong.

God Bless the USA.

God damn it, just stay where you belong.

The fence marks the spot.

God Bless the USA.

Home of the Free and the Brave.

Play ball.

Stop climbing over the damn fence.

Play ball.

Stay home. Not this home.

Your home.

This is our home.

We love it.

Let us love it.

Damn you, just let us love it.

God Bless the USA.

Now just stay away.

This is our USA.

Sweet land of liberty.

My country tis of me.

God Bless the USA.

Just stay the hell away.

Let us live in peace.

God Bless the USA.

Note to Mom:

I love the Lady in the Harbor and what she represents. Got to see her each time we went to the City. Didn't actually visit her until I was much older but knew her and honored her for my entire life. She is the symbol of America to me more than the flag. She stands tall and says this is who we are, world. She touches me.

This poem is to those that claim to be Americans and live as counterexamples to our greatness. The border closers. Fear-mongers. Keep awayers. Naysayers. Our way or the highwayers. This is their poem.

They need to get a grip. A grip like she has on that torch that shines for the world to see and honors the words of the poem people forget when they exclude people. The poem at her very foundation, literally, figuratively, and patriotically.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch

Whose flame is the imprisoned lightning

And her name-Mother of Exiles.

From her beacon-hand glows world-wide welcome;

Her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor

That twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she, with silent lips.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddles masses yearning to breathe free,

the wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

(Emma Lazarus.....The New Colossus)
Knock Knock

They're knocking at the door.

Key already in their hand.

They shall enter at their will.

Knowing where I stand.

The place is really theirs.

Was theirs before I came.

Took me long to learn.

Nothing is the same.

I watch from quiet place.

Under stairs behind the door.

Watching as they move.

Taking more and more.

Note to Mom:

This sounds like a scary place, Mom, hiding under the staircase from the bad people. It is actually quite different. The key is in the second line....pun only slightly intended. "The key well in their hand."

This is about me hiding inside my own world and realizing that the key was in trusting forces that are bigger than me. Forces that have the key to all I am and still knock on the door to let me know they are coming.

So I huddled inside my own soul and watched from fear of the new. A whole new way of being, a level of trust where everything I thought was mine is surrendered. It is easier to be in control.....to own.......to be in charge.

Yet surrender I did, Mom. Totally. To what began as God back in Saint Ann's church and school and became something even bigger to me as religion gave way to spirituality and spirituality transformed to magic all around me.

Shared a story on the walk the other day about a recent visit to a Doctor where prostate cancer and all the possibilities and side effects were discussed. Worse case scenarios and more. Yet I felt it from a place of safety and trust. The story was about going to the Doctor's as a kid. The feeling of protection and safety because of you.

You took me to the Doctor.....when it was needed. Literally, took me. Sat alongside of me, took me by hand in to see the Doctor. It was my illness, my appointment, my body, and my treatment. Yet I was just along for the ride. You were in charge. It was about knowledge and wisdom. Yours. It was about trust. Mine.

The Doctor examined me and then spoke to you about me. I was there yet not there. Would do what you said was right based on what the Doctor said and you knew to be best for me.

It was like that at the Doctor's the other day. Only there were four, maybe it was six, of you standing between the Doctor and me. Protectors that loved me and would ensure I did what was right and what was best.

They knocked on the door years ago, Mom, and had the key all along before they entered. I am in their house and feel as safe as I did when you were my protector. Come to think of it, you still are. Knock, Knock. I know who's there. Thanks, Mom.
Cause They're Not

They target the lovers. They target the joy.

They target the mighty and pray for their fall.

Cause they're not. Cause they're not

Cause they're so very not.

They target the smiles, the hugs and the kiss,

They target the happy. They target the bliss.

They target the beauty, the righteous and true.

They target the goodness, the shiny, the new.

Cause they're not. Cause they're not.

Cause they're so very not.

They target in anger, and hate, and have not.

They target their wishes that did not come true.

They target the future and try to undo.

They target the pretty, the happy, the haves.

They target the giving, the sharing, the glad.

They target the laughter, the joy, and success.

They target the beauty, the smart, and the best.

Cause they're not. Cause they're not.

Cause they're so very not.

They target and target and target some more.

Painting their target right on your door.

They target from darkness and shoot into light.

They target from evil and aim at the right.

They target from weakness but miss most their shots.

They target the unknown. They fear quite a lot.

They target and hope nothing will change.

They target their failures hoping to blame.

They now shoot in panic and pay any cost.

They target while knowing their war has been lost.

They target the smiles, the hugs and the kiss.

They target the happy. They target the bliss.

They target the beauty, the righteous and true.

They target the goodness, the shiny, the new.

Cause they're not. Cause they're not.

Cause they're so very not.
Note to Mom:

I do try to understand others, Mom. Even when they disappoint me by how they treat others. Had to peel it back. Really understand. So I asked why. Why do people hate? Why did they resent or even fear someone else's happiness? Why would they pass laws to limit who can have what and who can do what? Why?

Diversity surrounds me in life, Mom. There are more lesbians in my life than there are in most lesbian's lives. While Utah is one of the furthest extremes in a lily-white land, the Van Wagner household is a rainbow Mecca. It is a blessing on so many levels.

Still, it is important to understand those that would limit others based on what is different about them. It is fear and fear is weakness. So they attack from weakness and fear. Sad. So very sad.

Ironic that they attackers are often the majority. The ones with the most numbers and most stuff. Wouldn't it be more logical if it was the other way around? It would seem to make more sense if the lesser numbers attacked to be heard. I guess even fear and hate grow when it comes together in any forum.

So they attack. With laws, separation, and exclusion. Some say it outright. Those are actually the easier ones to handle. They speak their truth of hate and show their faces. That is to their credit. The other kind are the more evil. The ones who smile and welcome and then live otherwise with the closed minds behind closed doors.

Had an example of this in a church one day. A local ward of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Was there for a blessing of one of the grandkids. Kris is a Mormon by choice and is a wonderful example of someone who lives the best of her religion. Kris and I honor each other's spiritual paths and, quite frankly, that is enough. That is all the world needs to get along. Honor each other's beliefs. On this particular day, there was a guest speaker from some higher division of the LDS Church. He delivered the single most venomous, hate laden speech I have ever heard. It was anti gay, anti single parents, and fear based. I almost walked out. It offended on so many levels.

One of my friends later said it was only one opinion and not the "official" position. Bullshit. It was from the pulpit and that means it is "official". I was inside that day......behind the doors.......and shown accepted words that confirm my path is different. Exclusion is the birth of either/or. If an organization needs to exclude, they can begin with me.

So we have to understand the why......and accept that some do. Just a dose of reality on our way to healing with love and inclusion.

Answer Key

Look upon the mountaintop. Dig deep down in the mine.

It might be wrapped all in Gold and be within the Shrine.

Take the tour, see the sights, the guide will show the way.

Don't stay long, there's much to see, you're only here a day.

Pay to listen to those that speak those who know their mind.

Words preached from the podiums and classes on the Divine.

Many here are just like you, willing to go deep.

A buck or two is all it takes, that really is quite cheap.

Gurus here dressed in robes, signing autographs.

Answers waiting to be found, peace within your grasp.

The Masters know of what they speak. They understand sublime.

Answers will be everywhere. Seek and you shall find.

Drink this tea, take this pill, be sure to bring your cash.

The peace they know can be yours, but you'll pay out the ass.

Those that hold the answer keys will let you have a peek.

Those that know the truest truths will barely even speak.

Note to Mom:

The business of spirituality, Mom. Another warning sign for your son, the guru. Price tags are strings attached.

Nature has what we need. There is enough for all of us. Gifts are meant to be shared. My spirituality is free. Words are given. This poem is my tongue in cheek reflection of the power of money to taint the sweetest gifts.

I met some wonderful people with amazing gifts of healing and insights about things that inspire others to believe in magic. Have also witnessed some become beholden to the business of spreading their word and marketing their gifts. Their message is still important. Their gifts are still wonderful. They have just priced it and decided to let money guide who and when.

Sad to see that happen. Money is not the key to heaven. Our worth is measured in how we shared the gifts we were put here to share. When cash is the key, we are locked in a prison of our making a buck. I am richer by giving, Mom. Just giving.
Spit Fire

Take this and read that it's of you.

If blame is the thing that you give.

See truth inside accusations.

Mirrors of self further hid.

Clouds gather on the horizon.

Path well concealed under pain.

Alone is the thing most dreaded.

Self-pity means more of the same.

Note to Mom:

You can't get high on the pity pot, Mom. Some people spew anger and blame. They spit fire. Fire that singes in hopes of fanning the flames of despair.

We point outside because it is easier than looking inside. Inside where we have to clean up our messes and put our house in order. Blame looks away. What is it looking away from?

People smile and laugh whenever Sis and I tell stories about our youth. Many have said they are amazed we are so joyous when there were things like addictions and more all around in our lives.

When I wrote "Jersey Sure", it felt exactly right to share my ten-year-old life in the Burg in the 60s. One man in Tennessee said that he read the book and we lived the same life. We had the same memories and experiences.

One kid from the Burg, Bobby Morton, said he read the book and was stunned that we lived almost the exactly same life in the same time at the same time. He read the book in his 40s and said it made him realize how good a childhood he had. Get this, Mom......he said that he thought he had a bad childhood until he read "Jersey Sure". It was then he questioned why the hell he had an attitude about what he didn't have as a kid rather than an attitude about what he did have. The book changed his opinion of his own life.

There was another, even more poignant, story about someone touched by the book. Jack. He read it and laughed. He remembered the cellar and the house and laughed as he shared. Laughed. Jack didn't really laugh about his childhood and life at 1 Maple. Then he read my book and laughed about his own childhood. Mom, it humbled me. "Jersey Sure" gave Jack some closure.

We decide how our lives are, as well as how they were. Pain is something we each experience. What we do with it and how long we keep it is really up to us. Give me laughter and love over the pity pot any day.
Suffer

Under the rage, there is the sadness.

The deepening feel of despair.

A place where few get to visit.

It's lonely as hell when in there.

The words flow to the poet.

Forged by the pain and the ache.

Fight to stay in this darkness.

For here truth silently waits.

Be sad to have disappointed.

Cry hard to have fallen short.

Dare not reach for your weapons.

That battle's already been lost.

Feel well beyond the emotion.

Apply everything you have learned.

Than you shall know of devotion.

The thing for which you have yearned.

Note to Mom:

I almost wish I didn't read this one today, Mom. It hit a little too close to home dealing with the whole cancer thing. Still, it helped because we are to suffer and be human. What we do with it really matters.

My journey shall drive my words and those words will be shared. They will matter. If that is the only why in answer to the cancer and why me, it is enough. People might just find the inspiration they need in the words at exactly the right times.

So my humanity shall show. My moments of weakness and more will be shown right along with the best. All of it. The truth.

Wrote something this morning in the story that builds about cancer. Just a few moments before reading and feeling this poem. Here it is. A short piece called The Dancer.

" _I will admit that cancer fucks with your head. It is a betrayal of the flesh. Inside. Your own body turned against you. Tick. Tick. Mortality reminder that dances to twisted dirges at the oddest times. It cut in this morning and stepped on my happy feet for a few moments._

Danced with my Granddaughter this morning. To holiday music in my favorite room during a festive season. Inside the maudlin rained on my parade. Saw her tomorrows easier than I saw my own. Danced a bit more and let the dance of the moment be even more. Yes, cancer fucks with your head. Just a reality. A reality that dims in the light of love and dancing with your granddaughter.......or anyone.........or even alone.

Dancing is important. Even more so today. It really doesn't matter if we dance well. It matters that we dance."

Maybe that is why this poem was a bit blunter in its message to me. Life is like that at times.

Nature Calls

Where nature is someplace you visit.

Get a ticket, come on and see.

We'll get lunch at the McDonalds.

Catch a movie at Quarter to Three.

The Signs kinda block the entrance.

Turn at the fourth traffic light.

See the wild right here, with free parking.

It's open till dusk every night.

Touch a tree and smell all the flowers.

There are mammals, reptiles, and birds.

Bring a camera and take lots of photos.

Then share all the animals you shot.

Wal-Mart is having a special.

Buy two and the third ticket's free.

Let's try for today or next Tuesday.

Weekends just don't work for me.
Note to Mom:

The best things in life are free, Mom. Air in our lungs when we walk around the neighborhood and learn the names of those faces in the yards. The view of a nicely kept garden. A talk with the gardener for their tips on those awesome tomato plants. Smiles, given and received.

Have lived in Utah for longer than I did in New Jersey, Mom. That snuck up on me because I was busy traveling even though life had my home in the Beehive State. A few years ago, life became more home centered. Plane rides were replaced by walks around the neighborhood. Same blocks in slightly different rotations. A routine. In time, the neighborhood showed itself, one neighbor at a time.

Along the way, something happened. The neighborhood became home. It felt known. Known in the way Keansburg was when I was a kid; in wonderful ways.

The more I walked the neighborhood, the bigger it became. Filled with good people and warm greetings.

We look for things, Mom. Look for nature and moments of peace. Seek connection and belonging. We do so in a hurry......and can miss the very thing we hoped to find.

You and Dad use to make me go outside. Make me be out there and find ways to keep busy and have things to do. "Go outside and let the wind blow the stink off ya." You said it hundreds of times.

So I walked. Dug dirt forts. Climbed trees. Explored any area up for grabs. Knew the dead-ends and if they were really dead-ends or only dead-ends for cars. Rode my bike all over town. Did it alone. Did it with others. The ten year old me knew his hometown and how to have a great day without spending a dime.

The 60 year old me is much like the ten year old me. Still riding the bike. Exploring. Learning each street and the delights of knowing your neighbors. I am still going outside to let the wind blow the stink off of me.
Almost Dawning

Four screams at Four.

Thoughts of old sheets.

Two sneak in pain.

Change upon Change.

A few hundred short.

Word of default.

Notice of whines.

Much shorter lines.

A trio of decks.

More on the desk.

Pendulums heard.

Nothings absurd.
Note to Mom:

It's on the tip of my tongue, Mom. All of it. Peace. Insight. Wisdom. Trust. Eternal stuff. Right there on the tip of my tongue. Even in the middle of the night when I wake from a sound sleep and type what is pushed through me as was the case with this poem.

It is about the journey and celebrating that the carrot is on the end of the stick and will be. The carrot is yummy. I get to lick it and even nibble on it as the path shows itself and the assigned fields are plowed. Just keep trucking along......one happy workhorse.

There are many that ache for the whole carrot. Right now. They long for answers and destinations. Once they have answers and destinations, some stay put. Others wait until they are hungry enough to go after another carrot.

The carrot is the goal. It is the incentive to keep plugging away. A sweet taste of knowing on occasion and the tantalizing dance of something just out of reach another time.

Answers are all around whenever we need them, Mom. Tarot cards. Symbols. Numbers. Things delivered when we are ready to see and actually look. We are fed. Enough to keep us content and just a bit hungry.

We need just enough. Just enough to have us in gratitude for how much we have. Just enough to share what we have with others and realize we have plenty more to share. Just enough to realize our needs are met because we do share our gifts and trust in the balance of all things.

This poem is about just enough, Mom. That carrot is just out of reach.....and tastes sweeter each time we get a lick.
Mainstream

Swimming in the mainstream.

Surprise, the water's fine.

Sharing of the darkness.

Dancing with Divine.

Out of darken shadows.

Ginger with a twist.

Words on public airways.

Now more hit than miss.

The truth is shown in pieces.

Revealed more bit by bit.

Here I am in sunshine.

Speaking without hiss.

Still the ready warrior.

Sword in form of pen.

Here's another missive.

Share it now and then.

Note to Mom:

The world sees my words almost every day, Mom. It humbles me. There are several forums that show me but the one that shows the most people is Facebook. Facebook started after you departed and has changed the world. We are linked across space as sure as if we lived right next door. The world has become a neighborhood thanks to Facebook.

So your son is exposed, blemishes and all, to any that care to look. This poem speaks of that. The lesson of cancer is just another thing to be shared so that others can learn should my words inspire them.

I have become the everyman. Dad was an everyman. Although I did not fully appreciate or even understand that when he was alive. My first insights arrived at his funeral. Dozens, even hundreds, of floral arrangements. A line of visitors and well wishes throughout each day. Police escort to the cemetery. (Now, THAT is ironic. This time he followed the police.)

The town turned out for Dad. To wish him well on his new adventure. People that knew him at his best and his worse. They knew Buddy was a good man and that is his legacy. People liked him because he was human, sometimes deeply so.

Dad's funeral was not the only one at the funeral home at the time. Ironically, a girl I went to school with and even shared a birthday with was sending her father off on his next adventure at the time. Sis and I went to their room and paid our respects.

It was stark contrast to Buddy's. Dad's room was full of life as people celebrated his life while gathering for his death. The other room was quieter with less flowers and less visitors. It was also in the back so those going there walked right passed Dad's room. Sis and I knew right away Buddy would not like that. It was not his way to show up anyone.

We did what he would do. When the folks went to dinner, we removed the cards from about a half dozen of the nicest floral arrangements and moved them to the other room. It was much more balanced. Just like Buddy would wish. The folks asked about them and we told the truth. "We saw them being delivered. Wow, they are really pretty,"

Everymen need to stick together. We are all equal. Buddy most likely enjoyed the flowers in the other room even more than the ones in his own. Sharing is its own magic. So I share my soul, Mom. It was last longer than any flowers......and this flesh.
Pelted

Somewhere in that whirlwind.

Somewhere in that hate.

Therein lays the answers.

The learning will be great.

Take in deep the venom.

Eat the sling and barbs.

Take the bitter bile.

Absorb it deep and hard.

Feel the hurt that drives it.

Know the stinging truth.

Blame not the accuser.

Look for deeper root.

Hands from swords not needed.

Words pushed forth to know.

Bring from this new wisdom.

Go where this will go.

Note to Mom:

In the whirlwind of anger and hate are the truths, Mom. The truths for those who live in the anger and hate. We must accept that to forgive even as they pelt us. Jesus spoke about turning the other cheek. We need all four cheeks, Mom and then may still have to take it on the chin and in the shorts now and then.

Folks can be really determined to spread their pain. As if sharing the pain lessens it. So, when the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are flung at me, I must choose. To bear arms against that sea of troubles.....to be in that or above that. Thus, hands from swords when not needed....and they are rarely needed.

People are led to war, Mom. Peace is theirs and to be shared once they realize they already are at peace. Peace is the natural state.

The attacks will come. How I deal with them is about me. If I screwed up and hurt people, I need to own it and make it right. If it is something else, it is still up to me to understand the learning for me. To feel it and feel it again until I have the core issue.

This poem is about that, Mom. About being pelted and not instantly returning fire. Some of the most cowardly acts can be in the form of bravado and posturing. I need to be better than that. Then I need to use my most effective weapon, words, to heal and spread peace. A weapon of peace? Is that a contradiction? Yes. The world is full of them.
One Man In Ten

One man in Ten knew what to do.

A Goddess laid broken and spirits failed, too.

The cheers went to screams as bodies amassed.

Youth ended early, cut short of their task.

Hopes rolled right over, peace beaten down.

In rolled the tanks on well-bloodied ground.

Then came the image from the infamous Square.

A row of tanks stopped by the will of one stare.

He could have been shopping. His bags full of wash.

That day he stood in defiance, regardless of cost.

Twenty years later, we don't know his name.

We saw one person reshape the game.

Peace still eludes, Freedom's not won.

He stopped the tanks. There's more to be done.
Note To Mom:

When is enough, enough, Mom? Is there a moment when we know it is time to step from the sidelines and enter the fray? Did the folks that declared independence from England have that moment? That moment when they said it is time to do something about that? That back bone up, here I come, change?

This poem is about that moment in one man. One man in Tiananmen Square. An image of a single person standing down a row of tanks. He refused to move. He became a crossroads from the military. Do they run him over and continue on their mission or do they let one small man stop armored vehicles? They stopped.

What stands out most to me about the man is what he has in his hands. A shopping bag. Groceries? Laundry? He has the feel of someone on his way home from errands that saw the activities in the Square and had that moment. So he walked into the fray.

One man. On his way somewhere and stopped because it was time. Time to say no. Stop this. It is wrong. Kill me if you wish but stop this. It was spontaneous peace with teeth. The teeth of conviction. He could have been flattened and quickly forgotten. The tanks might well continued on and the outcome would have been much different. It would have changed the message. The man would still have mattered. He mattered more because he succeeded.

We can each be him. A person armed with heart. Someone that says here I am and enough is enough. Tanks are faceless. People are fearless.......once we decide to be.

Hear Ye

Sounds, sounds, all around, even those not heard.

The cock of the rifles and crash of the bucks.

Screams of the fallen taint the dirt.

Cries of the innocent tear caring souls.

Legions of burnings sear more than soil.

Wars scar the flesh well beyond battlegrounds.

Killing for cause is both specter and clown.

Filling of graves marked wide with grief.

Splitting atoms divide flesh and beliefs.

Woes of new questions bury your core.

Bleed till it hurts and then bleed some more.

Too high a price when peace is just words.

Note to Mom:

The older I get, the more of a pacifist I become, Mom. Carnage disgusts me. Righteous indignation turns my stomach. People are dying out there to prove a point.....usually someone else's point.

With flags unfurled and banners held high, armies march into armies. Towns and cities are turned to rubble and people the next country over go shopping.

I hear and feel the disconnect. My world is far from those front lines. That can make for an alternative reality. A walk in one neighborhood is a pleasant stroll. In another, it is death defying and taken only in extreme need and at drastic risk. One world.......dramatically different worlds in reality.

Peace is sweeter and easier. Peace on Earth needs to be more than a line on in a Christmas song or on a holiday card. Maybe it sounds sentimental. Perhaps even unrealistic. Isn't that sad, Mom? War is concrete, believable, and even expected. We have war machines, warriors, war planners, and more doing their best to avoid war. Really? We work really, really hard at war and believe it is coming and we must do our best to be ready for it while hoping it is the last resort. We are war minded. We need to be peace minded. Be that world where Peace is concrete, believable, and even expected. A world of peacemakers, peace planners, and more doing their best to live peace, spread peace, and be peace. We need to believe in peace.......more than we believe in war. A lot more.

Peace. I like it, Mom. A lot. A real lot.
Plow Shares

Uniform planted with a fallen soldier from another war.

Sword turned to word then sharpened by daily share.

Battles lost without knowing made the enemy clear.

Armies of nobodies rising forth from under debris.

Spilling marks land mines drilled for all us to see.

Green camouflaged nothing as gold turned dust.

Soldiers became poets to say what they must.

Trumpeters blowing in sung about winds.

Flowers forgotten rise to make mend.

The Change kept right on coming.

Now it knocks on the door.

It will not be ignored.

No hiding, no more.

Take time to hear.

For all our sakes.

Please Hear.

Right here.

Hear.
Note To Mom:

My uniform was buried before me, Mom. On another guy. Maurice Wheeler to be exact. He fought a long and valiant battle against Alzheimer's'. A battle that, like far too many, he lost. Maurice and his family were the inspiration for the book "Fuggeddaboudit" that tells of one woman's work with her father as she lost him to Alzheimer's.

Maurice is Sharon's Uncle. He did a few years in the Air Force back in the 60s and said he wanted to be buried in uniform. When he passed, his family called and asked if I had a uniform they could use. Of course, I said yes.

Sent my uniform, ribbons, rank, and everything except my nametag. It was a turning point for me, Mom. Realized my uniform was being buried and Maurice's wishes were being fulfilled. It was then I realized my uniform was my past. It was over. I was proud of the time in the service and was now somewhere else. Somewhere that did not have me wearing my uniform as if I might be called to active duty after death.

Sis was a bit put off when she went to pay her respects to Maurice and was told he was laid out in her brother's uniform. It freaked her out a bit. She got over it. (I think.) The funeral director was a bit shocked as well when the uniform showed up. Maurice did a few years in uniform and was likely a buck sergeant when he left active duty. The funeral director saw the Lt Colonel rank and, according to reports, went ashen. He said no one mentioned this guy was a Lt Colonel....that meant an honor guard, 21-gun salute, and more. Maurice's family calmed him and explained. So the uniform was used and Maurice looked really good for a dead guy in someone else's uniform. All in all, I consider the entire thing a success.

I changed a lot over the years and it was right that my uniform went to the grave before me. It was closure and an opportunity to help a warrior that fought a battle of great importance. I have my words now and they plow new land. A land of peace and love where my uniform feels better on someone else who rests easier in it.
Finals

Books off the table. Here's your final test.

Answer from your heart. Be sure to do your best.

Bailing out bandits? Saving bungled greed?

Deeper into trouble. Noble useless deed.

Richer getting richer? The sick turned away.

Lessons to be learned. How about today?

It is time to remember who deserves the help.

Banks are just buildings. People are the wealth.

Note to Mom:

America missed a great opportunity in the early 21st Century, Mom. The opportunity to become a nation of truly independent citizens. We faced a fiscal crisis and found ways to stay in debt. The government opted to solve the crisis in the same ways that created it......encourage debt.

Debt is rewarded these days, Mom. Mortgages are wonderful things that keep people employed to make those payments and keep banks and mortgage companies in business. When the banks were in trouble because of some shaky investments, the government stepped in and bailed them out. Now, that same money put in the hands of people would pay off debt and get to the banks anyway but the government saved the folks making money on the debt. Breaking the pattern of debt on an individual and collective basis was beyond their capacity to even imagine.

So I wrote a poem and realized our country is focused on money. Cash is our god and we worship readily at that altar. It is disheartening yet it is a reality. Our system has become that of a debtor nation and we had a chance to change that and we blinked. We rolled over.

Sad.

Random Effective

Counter movements bussing a new schooling.

Snap shots into the crowd hoping for change.

Black and White faces pictured in despair.

Outspoken ones openly targeted by sneaks and creeps.

Fingers pointed towards barrels shooting death.

Jesses, Jackies, and Juans witnessed Martin's, Bobby's, and John's.

Family baptized in the reflecting pool of shared dreams.

Speaker Preachers teaching new reaches.

Rainbows purpled hazed with rosy colored granny glasses.

Looters and shooters and bashers and thrashers.

Flowers bulleted into student bodies.

Malcolm ex-ed while Mississippi burned.

Mother, May I take one small step closer to I am a man?

Winds of Change blew our long beautiful hair away.

Something a long time coming is happening here.

Note to Mom:

People took to the streets recently, Mom. Not just any people. Americans. Folks my age......younger.......and even older. Took to the streets to protest. Short version......they protested greed. A revolution in the making.

It felt just like the 60s, Mom. Fifty years later and Americans are speaking out about the changes needed for this country and the world. It was called the Occupy movement. Occupy Wall Street. Interesting name. Occupy. Does that make the demonstrators Occupants? Occupant. The person who gets all the junk mail. The King and Queen of the Flyer, the circulars, and the sales notices. All the other mail was specific. Bills to the one with the checkbook. Letters to the intended receiver. Christmas cards to everyone. To the Van Wagner Family. It was always nice to be included as "and family" on the cards. Even better when they mentioned me by name. Nice to be acknowledged.

Americans took to the streets because they were not being heard. Washington and Wall Street listen to money. Taxpayers are not really money. Taxpayers are milk cows. Just keep them strapped into the machine and keep the pumps running. People selling better milking devices are heard........cows are herded. People got tired of being unseen and herded.

The Occupy movement was all the news for a while and then it was not. Some would say it failed. It went away with a whimper after a lot of whine. The news shifted to the Presidential Election. Billions of dollars for two people to compete for what is likely the most important office in the world. Billions, Mom. Money spent at a fever pitch to buy the office for whoever had enough money to fund the candidates. It dwarfed the Occupy movement on every level but one. Occupy was about drastic change to fix serious problems.

A year later and things are pretty much the same. At least on the surface. Twinkies almost went bankrupt and disappeared from the public taste buds. As they were working on bankruptcy and closing all operations, they were also seeking approval to pay the executives bonuses. Large ones. While the world faced a fiscal cliff on many levels, Americans spent more on presents of all shapes and sizes on the Black Friday holiday weekend than at any prior time.

Things are not the same, Mom. The divide becomes much clearer. There is an alternate reality where spending continues and life goes on while the world burns. People took the streets, Mom. Others took flight from reality. Something a long time coming is here, Mom. Revolution is sometimes evolutionary in speed.

Caisson Point

A laurel wreath, a hardy handshake, and a twenty-one gun salute.

Folded flag, broken hearts, shattered families, futures lost.

Widows wonder, orphans cry, as even more are sent to die.

Honor the fallen, the wounded, and maimed.

Question why with each thought of their name.

Parades end up in picnics. Soldiers end up in graves.

War is a killing thing. Mute the hip-hip hooray.

Note to Mom:

This is a somber one, Mom. Reminds the reader of dead soldiers and grieving families. Folks read this.....some like it, a few don't, and most avoid it. That is the message. Denying it is wrong. It allows the deaths to be celebrated. All is fair in love and war. Bullshit. Death is death and celebrating it is just wrong. We bring more honor to the fallen when we remember the price of war and live in peace.

This poem is directly affected by my twenty-eight years in the military. I sent troops to combat. Worked on missions that resulted in bodies on the news. Bodies I knew as people who flew into harm's way for god and country. Did all of that and never once felt good about anyone's death. No one's. Seeing people drag bodies across to news cameras in celebration disgust me. Life is to be respected.

Alas, that is not the most direct effect my military service had on this poem. That is the most direct effect my military service had on me. It woke me up to the reality that war is failure. It is lose-lose. The way my military service most effects this poem is how people feel about the words when they realize I did real time in uniform. Suddenly, they respect the poem. Suddenly, the message really means something. My military service gives the message credibility.

This is more than platitude. These are the words of a veteran. The poem is short....the message is blunt. Sometimes we need blunt.

Was in line to cash a check at the NCO club back in the mid 70s, Mom. Several years in the Air Force and stationed in Germany. The US finally left Viet Nam just a bit earlier. There was an NCO in front of me in line. He was wearing civilian clothes. His jacket was one of the ones GIs had made overseas with logos, maps, and such, of their travels. His had a map of Viet Nam on the back along with two stars where he was stationed and the years listed. It had a saying underneath the map, a saying that struck me as crude and rude. "Viet Nam. If you haven't been there, shut the fuck up."

It was right, Mom. We need to listen to people that lived it and respect their input. Wars are not started by warriors. Warriors know better. Wars do not lead to victories. Wars lead to death and separation. I will fight if needed, Mom. It is the last resort and even then should not be celebrated.

Mute the hip-hip hooray.
Undrawn Sword

The Undrawn Sword questions.

Must a weapon kill to have lived?

Is Victory the measure of greatness?

Will killed-most be the brag of our deeds?

What do last standers stand for?

The answers mark graveyards.

Stonewashed Rivers of tears.

The Fallen are not celebrations.

Widows and orphans miss them.

The bugle plays sad and lonely.

They sleep through Twenty-One shots.

Undrawn Swords save lives.

Turn them to plowshares and sow more than weep.

Note to Mom:

A poem about Karate, Mom. Open hand. To learn defense and more is to master things inside. To know our own power and have the confidence of self-preservation. It is natural to know your place in nature and be aware of the dangers that we can handle and those that we must allow to pass. Karate is about that. It is about knowing how the body moves and that energy of attack falls upon itself when we turn with it.

Some take Karate for the bluster. To walk through life with a chip on the shoulder and the ability to defend it. That is Karate twisted.

Peace is the open hand. Clenched fists are not of peace. The stiffening of the hand spreads to the spine and hardens the heart. Muscles contract and flexibility lessens. Open hands reverse all that.

This poem is about Karate, Mom. I just didn't realize it when I wrote it. My hands were a little clenched at the time. We learn in anger and sadness. We grow in love. We plant seeds of peace with open hands. Undrawn swords save lives......thanks to open hands, minds, and hearts.

Easy Peace

Beyond sanguine songbooks and saccharine salutes.

Rationalizations and root-toot-toot toots.

Flags planted firmly on hills which to die.

Jets in formations one less than five.

Twenty-one guns loaded with blanks.

One single man, one row of tanks.

Walls that divided, walls that did fall.

Crumbling, Crumbling. Crumbling all.

Uniforms buried as more we wake up.

Peace inside you and then Peace inside us.

Arms into plowshares and hands holding hands.

Peace is that easy, once we all stand.

Note to Mom:

Peace has to be more than just a word, Mom. More than just a wish. It needs to be reality.

Peace is easy. Peace is warm and starts the day with invitation. A gift to be savored and revealed as it unfolds. Around each bend is something new to see and enjoy. Strangers are friends to be made. Shadows are light showing shapes of the wonders all around us. Peace eases into us into sweet sleep when the flesh is tired. Peace kisses us awake from naps with the promise of more love close at hand. Food is shared in peace and digested to nourish body and soul.

Peace is in here. Right inside me and you and all of us, Mom. Ours to have and to share and to have all the more. Peace is real, Mom. I don't like war, Mom. Don't want to celebrate it. We need peace. Fuck war.

Remember Dad and his annual Veteran's Poppy? I do. It touched me much more than I realized growing up. Isn't that the way of most things.

Dad wore a poppy every year. Moved it from coat to coat for a while and then relocated it to the car. He hung it from the rear view mirror and there it stayed. In the forefront on its way to disappearing. Time was not kind to the red paper flower. Soon its color was more memory than reality. It was battered and faded as the sun, heat, and cold beat it each day with full exposure. Now more an afterthought than a decoration or statement. It was in full sight yet barely noticed.

It was replaced by another next year and that one was replaced by another after that. A parade of blood red trinkets honoring the price of war.

Dad would sit at the dining room table with one leg curled under him as a cushion, watching the world go by on Main Street. A cup of coffee, sometimes a beer, his company. The poppy was sometimes in his hand on its way between coats or headed to the final resting place. His hand would feel it as his eyes watched but saw other things. People who did not come home. Families shattered. Tears shed and replaced and shed again. It was a soulful moment and I knew it without his telling or me asking. Dad ached for everyone those flowers touched. He was sad. Deeply sad. Questions inside of him screamed. The whys. Why? WHY?

It was silent pain. Silent love. Silent resolve.

One damn poppy. One. It felt chintzy. Barely stayed together. Thin paper, almost razor sharp wire. Pennies to make? A quarter to donate to have it? It was the most expensive flower ever and Dad hated how much it cost. I do too. I don't hate much but I hate the price of each poppy and that we keep paying it.
Where's The Breeze?

Where's the breeze?

Stillness cries to be filled.

Hurricane winds keep me busy.

I puff out my chest.

Calm knocked the wind out of my sails.

Where's the breeze?

Note To Mom:

Quiet scares the heck out of some people, Mom. As if it will give them time to think. Time to feel. Time to wonder. So they fill the void to avoid. They fill it with anything. Busy schedules, back-to-back appointments, chores followed by clean up supplemented with more chores so tomorrow will be as busy as today.

Sally turned on the TV first thing in the morning. She got out of bed and turned on the TV. Not to watch it. Just for the noise. She will turn on the TV and then go about her business. Maybe a cup of coffee. Some reading. Cleaning out her pocketbook again just like she did yesterday and the day before yesterday. TV was her company. It was the noise that filled her mind.

Except when she had company. She loved to sit on the porch and just be. As long as someone was there with her. A bit of reading. Some small talk. Looking at the clouds through the Wendy's windows. Noticing the things new that day. She loved those times. It was her at her very best. At peace.

Yet she filled any time alone with noise to keep her distracted. A slight of hand. A distraction from the mirror of the soul. Sally was one of the gentlest, sweetest souls I ever met. She had simple needs. She needed to be loved. When around love, she was content with everything........even silence.

People deserve contentment. It begins inside. Where we are comfortable with ourselves. Where alone and lonely are two very different things. When we are there, we are even better when around those we love.

Quiet is a good place, Mom. We can't hide from ourselves. Where we go, there we are. We need to be comfortable in our own skin.......and in our own silence.
Clinical Learning

Pentagrams coming to align with my star.

You tried to run but didn't get far.

Labyrinths closed but the mission had food.

Ones not enough no matter how good.

Streets walked anew in times more than sand.

Wrapped with a bow and tied with a band.

They pointed away from where they all stood.

Spread well your touch and do what is good.

Another good morning cause the light said to turn.

Apply every lesson and share what you learn.

Black was the coat, the bags, and the hat.

Focus on giving and watch what comes back.

Sleep just before and again when well done.

Share of your soul and honor the nuns.

Jacked in the box one of twenty-one.

Read the cards well to sense what will come.

Came for the beauty and stayed for the art.

Your joy will be shared beyond what you start.

This was down there and now it's up here.

Sometimes they arrive but can just appear.

Note to Mom:

This poem breaks my heart, Mom. Don't like reading it. Don't like feeling it. It is littered with specific memories and one very specific moment when I was betrayed. Stabbed in the back. At a moment when my path was perfectly aligned with the Cosmos and more, the world turned on me and that changed me.

I was in massage school at the time. The exact right place at the exact right moment. It was perfect. My military career was awesome. The time in Corporate America show me capabilities beyond my imagination. Running Van Wagner Enterprises demonstrated that my life redefined everything I thought I knew about how things can and do work. Each of those things and all my life during those things were wonderful. Massage School was something else. It was destiny, Mom. It was knowing this was exactly what everything prepared me for and what would best use any and all of my gifts for the good of the world. The whole damn world, Mom. I would heal and serve and love and make this planet a better place. It was all meant to be.

That changed in the blink of an eye when a friend hid in the shadows and stabbed me in the back. I actually took it pretty damn well. Accepted that it was meant to be and that things would move in new directions that had to come to pass for me to do whatever it is I was meant to do. Things like writing. Things like this book and the five books before it and the book about cancer that is being written as it is lived. Massage School closed its doors and windows opened to whole new things on epic scales, Mom. It had to happen.

Yet it hurts. It is the one moment in life that returns and stings with each visit. It breaks my heart. Makes me sad. Some might call that a regret. It does taste a bit like that. Yet I have forgiven whoever it was. Wonder if they even realize how much they hurt and how much they changed. Wonder if they even really thought about the magnitude of their act.

How often have we done that to others? Done something that might feel right and even important to us yet not even faced them. How often have we stirred the pot without ownership of our actions? How many paths of destiny have been changed by the actions from the shadows?

One too many, Mom. One too many.
Dance Music

Trouble all around. Asking me to tell.

Quiet is where things don't feel like hell.

This is wrong and it hurts to know.

Into the silence is where I go.

Thanks for asking. Won't be sharing.

Angst doesn't hurt. Headed to work.

On the clock. Time doesn't matter.

Jobbing away and time's a wasting.

Pretending no longer. Neck in the noose.

Answers come falling. Hope cutting loose.

Hiding places all gone. Seen everywhere.

Alle alle in free. Seeking time's here.

Blame without parachute. Guilt has no home.

Let's all go dancing under the Dome.

Music and words. Black and white oldies.

Still the ripping opens. Knotting the nots.

Throwing them away. Far, far away.

Let's pretend that's where they'll stay.

Antisocial. Uncle Sam'ed.

All that was goes up in flames.

The ruins of the Phoenix, what's the plan?

Costello had Abbott. Hardy had Stan.

Stroke and I will not come.

Need and I stay till done.

Want and I burst into fire.

It's no wonder everyone's tired.

Can I give my soul and learn to sing?

Touch of the madman. Live like a King.

Drum with your fingers. Beating time it seems.

Drawing attention with the tapestry of screams.

Working to be lonely. Hiding from touch.

Touching inside. Dancing around with hurt.

Wired so different. Shocked at the change.

Touch and heal and know truth of pain.

That pain of truth will be clearly heard.

Speak it loud and share the word.

You cannot hear above the music.

You cannot feel above the waist.

Step right up. I have your ticket.

Come on in and join the hurt.

Come on in to know the crowd.

Dying to know you. Already there.

Somebody's knocking. Souls out searching.

Leave a message at the tone.

Nobody's home. Nobody's home.
Note to Mom:

This is about the ballroom of my soul, Mom. Where I dance with my questions. Awhirl in ways that trip the light fantastic until the questions follow my lead or just get the hell off the dance floor.

Dancing with our demons is the way to let them know we can indeed name that tune. That tune that is the music of the right Pied Piper. Music of truth and light and celebration.

My dance card is a card of my choosing. Guilt keeps trying to cut in......and it is my decision if I wrap it in my arms and follow its tango of anger and blame. Blame can be waltzed right through until it changes its tune.

In my ballroom, Fred Astaire would take lessons from me along with Arthur Murray, Gene Kelly, Ginger Rogers, Shirley Temple, and Mister Bojangles. I know how to dance with my demons until they are but ragdolls along for the show.

Dancing is magic and my soul is one that dances with things that whirl in my life, Mom. This is about that dance. The music changes and I enjoy the slow dances right along with the jitterbug of my reality when the pace takes all my best moves.

Remember Dick Clark's "Rate a Record" on American Bandstand? It becomes a bit of a stereotype joke. "It is a good song and is easy to dance to." If they rated the music from the ballroom of my mind, it would be, "What the hell was that???"

Dancing Around The Vortex

Dancing around the Vortex.

Living on the edge of the Abyss.

Feeling inside the wormhole.

Where nothing else exists.

Know the craving there is endless.

Taste truly eternal need.

Dancing around the Vortex.

Do your best not to slip.

In this place there is nothing.

Hunger and thirst unbound.

Give when you can't stop the giving.

Trapped in the pull of the grief.

Pull from its grip on your balance.

Ease back away from its grip.

You'll find it comes back to find you.

Hoping you cannot resist.

Dancing on the edge of the Vortex.

Know all that you can lose.

Be gone and still there will be wanting.

Die and be blamed for leaving too soon.

Become dust revolving the quagmire.

Mere moon around a dead star.

Or stand and step into tomorrow.

Move quickly or you will be done.

Note to Mom:

Life ain't a spectator sport, Mom. Winners must be present to win. The sidelines are easier much of the time........they are, however, the sidelines. Life is to be lived......on the edge.

Some take that to mean extreme sports and such. They strap parachutes on their back and jump from planes, loop a bungee cord on their ankle and swan dive from bridges, enter a small cage in scuba gear and let sharks try to eat them for dinner, and then wonder what is next on the can we really do that list. In some ways, that is living on the edge. In other ways, it is much less.

Dancing around the vortex is the living on the edge of our own darkness and fears. Facing the volcano of our passions and surfing the tidal waves of our hunger. It is constantly looking at ourselves and learning more truth so that we can learn more truth.

Quite frankly, it is exhausting. To walk a tightrope all the time is to know each step is a victory over something where one edge is behind us and the other one is just out of reach. We are hanging out there....and live on the rope even the few times we reach one of the edges. Our hearts beat faster and sweeter when we risk it all to travel where sidewalks are not even possible.

It is a risk and that is why many choose easier paths. The edge is where some people visit yet few wish to really stay. Yet there I am........home, sweet, home.

Sixty Steps

Sixty steps a minute for as long as it takes.

Skies turned dark and cloudy.

Senseless rain springs forth tears.

Love right through the pain.

We move together to the light.

Again, I say.

We move together to the light.

On my mark.

Sixty steps a minute for as long as it takes.

We move together to the light.

Aurora shall shine through darkest night.

Sixty steps a minute for as long as it takes.

Note to Mom:

Sixty Steps a minute is the pace of march at a military funeral, Mom. I wrote this the day a person walked into a movie house outside of Denver and shot up the place. He killed many and injured more. The event shook the nation and the world.

Maybe there were mass killings and shooting sprees back when I was a kid but it sure doesn't feel like there was. There was Kent State and other events in the 60s and then it seemed to spread like cancer. A cancer of the soul. Where light is eaten away and all that remains is pain that seeks more pain until it dies. Maybe we just have more press coverage now. It feels like there are more such senseless acts.

So we mourn again as a people. Question the why, accept the sad reality, and move to some new place of healing and light. It was a theater in Aurora, Colorado.......as sure as if was the Casino back on matinee day. How could he? Why would he? What has the world come to? All those things came to me the day of the shooting and the poem was born.

Every movie I ever saw is linked to the Casino, Mom. Where the show was the show, you and Dad were home having your own matinee, Sis was four rows up in full denial that I was her little brother, and candy bars were a nickel when we smuggled them in. The show would be over soon and Sis and I would be safe at home soon thereafter. Sad that someone walked into the movies from his own darkness and shattered that, even if only for a bit.

We move together to the light........even when the bad guys jump from the screen and try to invade the movie houses. I learned to love the movies when I was a kid. Learned to love safety and home and all the lovely people in the dark even more when I realized some people just don't have what was mine thanks to you and Dad.

I struggled a bit after that mass shooting in that theater in Denver. Questioned if I should go see the movie or just stay home. Wrestled with things a bit and went to see the very movie.

A kid in a Batman mask and cape helped me believe that things will be alright. He was there to see a movie. I was there to heal. There was lots of violence and darkness on the screen. It was nothing compared to reality. It was a show. A show I watched while eating some popcorn just like I did as a kid.

I ain't a kid anymore, Mom. But I understand heroes and movies and the difference between what we read in the comics and what we see in the news.

"Where are all the heroes?"

I am right here. I believe in heroes. Love, man. Love Man. Love man and woman and children of all ages. Love. Love it up. Up, up, and away. Love, love, love. Love.

Hug like lives depend on it. Because lives do depend on it.

Kiss and mean it. Smile because the cameras are rolling.

We ain't the audience, folks.

We are the heroes.

The bad guys want us to stay home.

Heroes walk in sunlight and ain't afraid of the dark.

Dark comes and goes.

Heroes stay the course. You taught me to stay the course, Mom.
Reunion

Surgeries, Miseries.

The kids are doing well.

Photographs, Happy snaps.

Was it all that long ago?

Rented clothes, rental car.

Just the best to show true me.

Furthest trip, darkest tale.

Awards that we still breathe.

Walking dead dance to Oldies.

Moves less fact than memory.

That torch was supposed to be out.

I used to be him and now I am me.

Here I am and all is well.

Some was lost but more was won.

She's not here 'cause she died.

We'll see her at the next one.

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

Re-Re-Re, Try and Remember.

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

She looks so different, who is he?

Time sure flew, where'd it go?

We looked ahead, made such plans.

It was our world. What did we do?

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

Re-Re-Re, Try and Remember.

Re-Re-Re, Re-Re-Reunion.

Note to Mom:

This one is tongue in cheek yet reunions can be wonderful things. Facebook has changed reunions in many ways since people are now up to date on things across time and space. When they meet in the flesh after years, it is different now. "Wow. It is been thirty-five years. How was that nap this afternoon and turkey club sandwich you had for lunch last Tuesday?"

So the poem is tongue and cheek yet my experience at reunions was wonderful on so many levels. Sharon and I went back for the twenty-fifth and the thirtieth. Enjoyed both of them. Danced. Reminiscenced. Better appreciated the great folks that went to Keansburg High.

One of the most telling moments was something different. It was reconnecting with Bobby Knoll. He went to Keansburg High with Sharon and me. He and I sat and talked for quite a while at the reunion. Bobby helped me understand the power of our everyday actions. Until that evening, I did not really appreciate that simple acts of kindness can mean so much.

The sincerity in his voice as he said how very nice I was to him made me uncomfortable at first. Had no idea how much it touched him. He and I were not close. Bobby was a nice guy and we had a few classes together. As he shared, my memory of High School changed for me. Yes, I got along with him. Got along with most people. Just about all the people. Jocks. Nerds. Geeks. Name the clique and I got along with them. Greasers. Collegients. Blue collar. White collar. I just got along. Didn't necessarily fit in or even join the groups but got along with folks. Bobby said how much that meant to him.

Turned out that Bobby was picked on a lot by certain kids back in the day. He was the one they targeted for pranks, humiliation, and more. Mom, they destroyed him. He was still that kid inside. Part of him was still looking around the corner to see if they were there before he headed to class. He was proving to himself that he could stand up to them....decades later.

People can so damn cruel. Kids. Adults. Actions in grammar and high school can scar people for life. Shame on them. Shame, shame, shame on them. Bobby was a good kid and became a good man. Part of him is still battered and bruised and that is just shameful.

Reunions are good things, Mom. Helped me realize how much kindness matters.......at every age and in every classroom of life.
NoMoTown

There used to be a coffee shop.

They knew just what I liked.

That building was Assembly.

I worked there every night.

My car's old but its paid for.

It needs to last a while.

The ride was really magick.

Man, it made me smile.

The wheels, they just stopped turning,

The bridges are all burned.

I worked hard for a living.

Tell me what I earned.

Another empty storefront.

There's some on every block.

Used to feel them looking.

Heard the click of every lock.

Most stores just quit trying.

A few more close each day.

Want to buy a Union card?

How much will you pay?

Paid my dues each Monday.

Gave all my yesterdays.

Sell a bit, keep a bit.

Spread the rest around.

Leave your trash, count your cash.

They abandoned this here town.

Most went fast and furious.

Me? I chose to stay.

The neighbors moved a while ago.

Our kids live far away.

This isn't just a romance.

It really is all gone.

No more second chances.

Something's really wrong.

Shutter up the windows.  
Reaper's come around.

This isn't just a romance.

Detroit's tainted ground.

No more second chances.

Where did we go wrong?

NoMotown. NoMotown.

Remember all the songs?

They sang such pretty music.

They made the biggest cars.

Hopes were high in this town.

It all fell from the stars.

NoMotown. There's No Motown.

Tell me, did you see it? NoMotown. NoMotown.

Help me to believe it. NoMotown. NoMotown.

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Note to Mom:

I like this one, Mom. It is alive. The story of people in Detroit........can be, and is, the story of people anywhere. Anywhere struggling. Where stores go empty and memories haunt yesterday's shoppers. Real people deal with factories closings, homes becoming houses and then lost hopes, and home, sweet, home morphing to ghost towns.

These things touch me and I know that is because of you and Dad. Real people who cared about real people. People who knew what it was like to fall on hard times and understood how the other guys felt one life knocked them to their knees.

The story is sad. Sad because it so real. Matter of fact. Seeing the places as they were and people thought they always would be while the reality dinges and dirges into grey and soulless.

Your son is a romantic, Mom. My heart feels the nobility of the tough times and believes in the best of times to come. Your son is also a realist, Mom. Sometimes we just have to let things go and find our future in new ways.

It was wonderful in its day. Bringing it back is not the way to tomorrow. Tomorrow is new......and must honor what was yet be what is right. The stories will help us. We will help each other even more. Brother, can you spare a dime?

Evening Stroll

I played there as a child.

That was the Church where many prayed.

There's a school beneath that rubble.

The marketplace is gone.

Along with all the goods.

Streets closed with debris.

Today blocks tomorrow.

Today hides yesterday.

My neighbors are still missing.

Thank God it isn't raining.

Quiet seems to linger.

Chaos slowly fades.

Wheelbarrows full of nothing.

Help is on the way.

Tomorrow hasn't a foundation.

Today has me in its grip.

At least I can still limp.

Much too tired to sleep.

The games are over.

Everybody lost.

Note to Mom:

Directly related to NoMoTown, this is an evening stroll with someone that sees their yesterdays all around them.

Nice to feel them point and share. Like walking through the Burg and pointing where the PAL was and Corrigan Hall is. Sharing the dirt fort, vacant lot on Seeley and Main where two houses now call home. Things change. Our ability to see yesterdays increases each day.

This poem is sad though because the walker sees the life that was there and there is not life now. It was inspired by a newscast that showed a town in Syria as one of the residents walked through what was one his neighborhood.

Wreckage. Carnage. Destruction and Death where he still felt the energy of life he knew. Those voices haunted him. It showed each time pointed to what was......just a short while before what befell his hometown.

Feeling our yesterdays is one thing. Not feeling our tomorrows is something else. His yesterdays fell that day.......and his tomorrows were destroyed in the process.

Everybody lost.

Death is a Drag

I didn't like her and then she died.

Why do I care and want to cry?

She was someone and that's enough.

I read it somewhere and felt her touch.

Still don't like her but hope she's well.

I didn't know her and then she died.

Good-bye.
Note to Mom:

I like people even when I don't like them, Mom. Not liking people is simply silly. People are people. They might be nice, they might be jerks, but they are just people. Spending energy not liking people is wasteful.

People tend to let things go when people die. Like that makes things all right. Odd how people forgive people when it really doesn't matter. Old Uncle Frank really wasn't that much of a jerk once he was buried. Crusty old Aunt Edith really was funny in her own way, god rest her soul. Well, folks, too little, too late.

I like people even when I don't really care for them. Wish them well regardless of whether or not they wish me well. People deserve to be happy. Read a funeral notice and almost cried about someone I didn't even really like and barely knew. Hoped she was at peace and had peace long before she died. People deserve happiness. All people. Even jerks. Heck, if jerks had happiness, maybe they would be less jerks.

This poem reminded me of how important it is to be nice to people when they are still here to see and feel it. Sharon did that with Eddie Gorman. I wrote about it in one of the birthday letters that have become tradition and expectation from yours truly. Here is the piece about Eddie.

Eddie

Eddie Gorman died. Not many people noticed. Eddie was a bit of a loner. One might say he was a lonely old man. His obituary was only a few lines. He was gone with little fuss or fanfare.

Lives are more important than that. Eddie was more important than that. He mattered.

Eddie came for a visit a few years ago. Met him only once prior to that visit and that was the day I was married Thirty some years later he came for a visit. Did not meet him ever after that visit. Yet his visit was very telling and touched me as well as him forever.

No, he wasn't related to me. He came to visit Sharon and got me in the deal. No, he wasn't related to Sharon either. Eddie was a friend of Sharon's Mom and Dad. Sharon knew him when she was a kid.

The years had Sharon and I living many places around the world. Eddie stayed put in New Jersey. Soon his neighborhood was the old neighborhood for everyone but Eddie. He lived in a place filled more with memories than people he knew. Smiles turned shadows and passers-by became strangers. Life took on a routine and Eddie lived a quiet and harmless existence.

Sharon talked to him a few times over the years. His spirit buoyed every time. Yesterday was the common ground. For Eddie it grew in importance with each less tomorrow.

One day, he said he was coming a visit. For ten days. Yes, we welcomed him and wondered what the hell we were going to do for ten whole days. Our worry was short lived. We would make him feel at home and trust it would be enough. You don't prepare for visitors, you host them.

It was more than enough for Eddie. He had spent three weeks with a niece and her family and then came to us. Truth be told, we didn't do much out of the ordinary. Dinner at the table. Stories on the porch. I took him on a tour of the local Air Force Museum. We did a drive in the mountains. Simple things. Amazing things for Eddie.

He planned his returned trip while here. Three weeks with us the next time and one with his niece. Sharon and he talked on a phone much more after his visit. Once a week for a while. Then a few times a month. Things go like that.

It was sad to hear Eddie died. He was a good man. A man of simple needs. He needed company. Needed family. Needed to know he mattered. Just like you. Just like me. Eddie came for one visit.......and stayed, regardless of where he went. Eddie was family.

Why speak of this on this day? Because this is Sharon's birthday. A day about her and her gifts. Her gift of making a place a home and everyone at home. The gift she gave to Eddie. He came and tasted the sweetness of being welcomed, safe, and loved. Eddie witnessed how wonderful simple things are. When a "Good Night, Sleep well" tucks you in and a "Good Morning, care for a cup of coffee?" kisses your day hello. Where stories already told are listened to as new. Sharon ensured Eddie became part of our daily routine. A routine filled with love and everyday touch. Where people are seen.....and appreciated. Each day begins and ends the same....with love.

Eddie tasted my world and found it delicious. Thanks for cooking up such a good life everyday, Sha.

Sharon gets it, Mom. Death is a drag.....and life is to be sweetened for anyone we touch.

Words to the Wise

The walkway in ending, Please watch your step.

Construction ahead. Expect delays.

Caution. New traffic pattern.

Objects are closer than they appear.

No Purchase Necessary.

Buyer beware.

Winner must be present to win.

Actual results may vary.

Do not operate heavy equipment.

Do not mix with alcohol.

Adult supervision required.

Not available in all areas.

Side effects include death.

Que Sera, Sera.

Note to Mom:

This one was fun. Tongue in cheek. Did some of my best work with my tongue in my cheek.

Rules. There are so many of them, Mom. Words to caution. To advise. To annoy. To amuse.

I let them do all that and more. Put them together for a story that leads to one conclusion. Death. Que Sera, Sera. No one gets out of here alive.

Life doesn't come with warning labels. We arrive naked and die right on time. All that stuff in between is played by rules of our own making......or breaking. Yet there is wisdom all around us. Even in the rules.

I have seen the rules and seen around them. Some of my finest moments were in the seeing around them. People who see the rules literally are black and white. Grey drives them crazy. Their very nature honors the letter of the law........without question. Yet when they are confronted with something that bends the rules by working in the grey, their very black and white nature frustrates them. They see the grey now and honor it because it is not against the law. They respect the creativity yet hate the fact that they can't say it is wrong because the law was fuzzy around the details.

Have used this to my advantage many times. The law is honored......and lived beyond. It is a nice place. Elastic in nature. Moves on its own. Bobs and weaves. The more time I spend there, the more my reality becomes one that understands laws are to limit.

Speed limits. Weight Limits. Occupancy Limits. Fishing Limits. City Limits. Treaty Limits. So many limits. So very limiting. Laws. For some that is where they stop. For me, that is where I start. Not outlaw. Not in-law. More than law. Law full......in that I am full of laws. My tongue goes in my cheek and I dance on the edge of "hey, you can't go there."
Snow Shoveling Lessons

The harder we work the less protection we need.

Two is better than one, regardless of the tools.

Tend to yourself first, and then do what you can for your neighbors.

Do what feels right for your neighbors.

Sometimes waiting is wiser than doing.

Success is for the moment....and that is enough.

Leaning feels much better after doing.

Sometimes do just enough and other times do a lot more.

Snow is temporary.

Sometimes, we just need to narrow our focus.
Note to Mom:

Snow Shoveling is Zen for me, Mom. Repetitive. Productive. Visual. Something about the doing. Have shoveled lots of snow in Utah. Know the driveway and which crack catches the shovel. Do my sidewalk and then the neighbors......because I can. Can move and can lift that shovel.

Shovel in the snow. Shovel after the snow. Do my best to shovel before anyone drives the car and packs the snow into tracks. Those tracks become something that remains too quickly. All part of knowing the art of shoveling snow.

This poem came to me one line at a time one crisp winter day. Was enjoying the shoveling and then peeled back the enjoyment. It was Zen. Lessons lived that deserved to be shared and lived all the better.

People who enjoy shoveling snow know these lessons even if they did not know they know these lessons. Some just enjoy it and let that be enough. Yet the specifics help. Each one is a warm aha......of course........indeed. Each one is instinctive.

We have surrendered some of that magic to schedules and machines. Shoveling snow with one eye on the watch and the other seeing if we moved enough of the white stuff to at least get the car out is much different than Zen shoveling. That kind of work in the snow is a chore. It is to be done and over with because we have to get somewhere. Snow can put us behind schedule very quickly and while we shovel out the car we are likely wondering how the hell the roads will be.

I was that guy for a short time. The one that groaned a bit when snow began the morning. There was still the kid inside that liked snow. The man though, was a bit put off by the inconvenience. It was later I became Snow Zen Master. The child likes the Snow Zen Master. The Snow Zen Master encourages the child for snow balls, snow men, and snow angels as well as sleds and just plain playing in the winter wonderland. Both the Snow Zen Master and the child tolerate and forgive the man. He was just being grown up rather than happy.

Silver Lining

What's My Line?

The line forms to the right.

Walk the Line.

Hey kid. The line ends here. It starts back there.

Can you sing me a few lines?

Please line up according to your name.

Somewhere further down the line.

Don't hand me any of your lines.

Holy shit. Look at that line.

I hate standing in line.

You wait in line. I'll park the car.

Can I cut in line?

Whose line is it, anyway?

Line, after line, after line.

Color inside the lines.

Sign on the dotted line.

Cut along the perforated line.

Just follow the lines.

Let's do a line or two.

One toke over the line.

Do you know your lines yet?
Note to Mom:

Somewhere along the way, I became a rebel, Mom. An out of the box, question everything, pain in the ass, rebel. What annoys people most about my form of rebellion is how peaceful I am about the depth of change we need to make now for the good of all days. The evidence is all around and I see it more and more. I believe enough people are and will make the change. Wish that so many more would because so many more could. So part of me is sad that some very good people remain relatively clueless as Rome burns.

This poem is about that, Mom. I didn't realize how much it was about that until reading it and feeling it to write to you about it. My soul is the soul of a rebel. This poem was penned a while back.........but appreciated more today. Thanks for helping me understand this one better, Mom.

It reminds me of a song released in 1971, the year I graduated High School. A song much like this poem in how it questions and then climbs over the fence and does so in person. I am that man, Mom.

"And the sign says, "Long-haired freaky people need not apply."

So I tucked all my hair up under my hat and I went in to ask him why.

He said "You look like a fine, upstanding young man - I think you'll do."

So I took off my hat and said, "Imagine that! Huh... me, working for you!"

CHORUS:

Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs.

Blocking out the scenery. Breaking my mind.

Do this! Don't do that! Can't you read the signs?

And the sign says, "Anybody caught trespassing will be shot on sight"

So I jumped on fence and I yelled at the house,

"Hey! What gives you the right... to put up a fence to keep me out,

"Or to keep Mother Nature in?

"If God was here, He'd tell it to your face. 'Man, you're some kind of sinner.'"

CHORUS:

Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs.

Blocking out the scenery. Breaking my mind.

Do this! Don't do that! Can't you read the signs?

"Oh, say now mister, can't you read?

"You got to have a shirt and tie to get a seat.

"You can't even watch, no, you can't eat. You ain't supposed to be here!"

And the sign says, "You gotta have a membership card to get inside."

And the sign says "Everybody's welcome to come in and kneel down and pray."

But when they passed around the plate at the end of it all,

I didn't have a penny to pay.

So I got me a pen and paper and I made up my own little sign.

I said, "Thank you Lord for thinking about me. I'm alive and doing fine."

CHORUS:

Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs.

Blocking out the scenery. Breaking my mind.

Do this! Don't do that! Can't you read the signs?

Signs, Signs, Everywhere there's signs.

(Signs by Five Man Electrical Band)

Signs and Lines, Mom. Your son is a rebel. Better late than never, Mom.
In The Cards

Freedom trumps Fear.

Debt trumps Freedom.

Owe trumps Own.

Own trumps Sharing.

Sharing trumps Loneliness.

Loneliness trumps Joy.

Greed trumps Contentment.

Balance trumps Greed.

Needs trump Wants.

Ignorance trumps Strength.

Strength trumps Weakness.

Listening trumps Telling.

Love trumps Hate.

Hate trumps Truth.

Fear trumps Peace.

Dogma trumps Learning.

Learning trumps Ignorance.

Lies trump Trust.

Truth trumps Lies.

Time trumps Moments.

Joy trumps Time.

Trust trumps Fear.
Note to Mom:

Life is easier when we know the rules. Well, when we realize what trumps what. The house of cards stands a bit longer when we don't blow it. People want to do their best, Mom. It would just help them to have an instruction booklet to remind them simple is easy.

This piece is about what trumps what, Mom. Like playing cards. I played a lot of cards with you. It was important time. So much more than 500 Rummy. Sure, both of us wanted to win. Expected to win. You didn't cut me any slack to ensure I won enough. You played to win.........and expected me to play the same way. Victories need to be real. So we played a lot and likely won as much as we lost in the big scheme of things. In the playing was the winning.

Cards was a nice go to for what do we want to do tonight. Active in some ways, passive in others. I enjoyed playing cards with you. A lot.

Remember when you and Dad came to Germany to visit? It was really one of the first long trips you and Dad took just as you and Dad. You two were Mom and Dad from the very beginning since Jack was there from the start. Then came Sis and me. Until I moved out, you and Dad never had any real time as just you and him. Then you came to Germany.

Sharon and I noticed something although we were not sure what the heck we were seeing. We just knew it was something. You and Dad. Playing together. A lot. There was laughter. Even giggling. An ease. A light. Something very different. Sweet.

I noticed it most when you and he played cards. You both looked younger. More like kids playing together than the Mom and Dad I knew. Even then, it felt important. A few days into your visit, Sharon and I figured out what it was.

You and Dad were falling in love. You were discovering the two of you and liked it. Playing cards was fun. Dad and you were dating. It was the time most folks have before the kids show up and change everything. It was beautiful to see.

Playing cards is important, Mom. Playing nice together trumps a lot of stuff. Thanks for showing me how to play cards. Thanks for showing me how to play nice with others. You helped me understand what trumps what. You were, and still are, the very beginning of my instruction manual for life.

Love

"Write about love", she said.

He thought he had.

Words about joyous and happy and glad.

Pages and journals and books and poems.

Letter painted echoes of deeply felt moans.

Showed emotion and the truth and the yearn.

Soared to the heights and burst through the burns.

Yet love was not mentioned.

At least not by itself.

Masked and in shadow.

Even though felt.

"Write about love", she said.

He thought he had.

Love of the global, the happy, the sad.

Love of all others that starts deep within.

Love of what happened and what not yet has been.

Love of the flowers and feel of the night.

Love in the trust that all will be right.

Love of breathing and touch of the flesh.

Love that continues beyond that end rest.

"Write about love", she said.

That's what he did.

Note to Mom:

Did you teach me how to love, Mom? Did I learn that from you? Your love for me is a shining example of a Mother's love for their child. You set the standard. That much I know for sure. Unconditional. I learned the feel of being loved from you. From Dad too. Yet when it comes to love, you are the Source.

I love so deeply. So broadly. Love that touches each and every aspect of my existence. I get love. Get it on all levels. Love is my foundation. My life breath. The fundamental thing that drives me. A bottomless sea of love. An ocean of love. An inexhaustible supply of love. Did you teach me that?

My love for you blinds me in good ways. My love for you shows me your purest light. The light that is more important than any darkness or weakness. The light that says you are already forgiven. Already forgiven. What a concept. What a reality.

Already forgiven. Why bother being good if you are already forgiven? Why would we even try to earn what is ours forever? What is the benefit of being good if everything we do is already forgiven?

You love me at my best......and at my worst, Mom. My love for you is just like that. My love for the world is just like that. That is how deep my love is, Mom. I love the world like I love you. I love the people in my life as much as I love you. I love them that rich and deep and will forever. They are already forgiven. They are already forgiven.

My love is that broad. Already forgiven. The love I have for myself is different. My love for myself sets the bar for that love even higher. I know when I cut corners. When I do lesser things and make lesser choices. I still love myself.........I just don't like myself much at those times. At those times, I have to fess up......and then earn my own forgiveness. In my world, I am harder on myself than I am on anyone else. That is because I am in control of every choice I make. Every single one.

In my world, I am God Almighty. I know when I deserve heaven and when hell is more fitting for my sins. Did you teach me that? Do you teach me to love unconditionally? Do you teach me to forgive? Do you teach me that only I really know when I did right or wrong? Did you, Mom? How did I get like this? How did my love get so deep and so rich that I ache for the world to have all the best of everything I know and live? How did I get to the point where peace brings tears to my eyes because everyone can have it and some don't? How did I learn to love so much? Was this your doing, Mom?

Yes, it was. Thanks. I love you. Just because you know it doesn't mean I shouldn't say every chance I get. I love you, Mom.
Reunion Hall

Lines and lines and lines and lines.

Between them is nowhere to hide.

Nowhere to run to, baby.

Supreme Supremacy of Immaculate Conceptions.

Virgin nothingness crowned with the achievement of doing.

Pagans babied and nursed as they learn to spit rather than swallow.

Marks numbered and banded together in the unsure wood forest of life.

Longer and harder as the penetrating truth jams its way from there to here.

Amen. Alleluia. Praise the Lord and pass the black-eyed peas.

Tomorrow came early again and the boat is really a pipe organ.

The grind is the gist of all your fears salted like a slug of White Rock Ginger Ale.

Good for what ails you.

Heal thyself and roll over until Daddy comes home.

Nose in the newspapers that catch the piss of the world.

Rolling off the couch and the old man is snorting coke line by line.

Did ya miss me?

Lick my Lollypop.

There's a surprise inside.

Enter at your own risk, boys and girls.

I'm an acquired taste with unlimited free parking.

Did ya miss me?

Do you know who I am?

Do you have any idea who I am?
Note to Mom:

Sometimes the words are bigger than me, Mom. This is one of those times. This poem ripped itself into the light. It was bold; arrogant. A force to be reckoned with....that pushed me aside and speaks from where it is. It defied any rules and said loud and clear, "Here I am!" Ignore that man behind the curtain........the levers and keys are just to keep him busy. This poem was pushed through me.

It is all of me and more. There are bits and pieces of me in it like I was consumed and digested on the way to whatever or whoever wrote this. It makes me feel small. In awe of the words that came from inside of me.

Things like this matter, Mom. Moments when our output surprises us. Humble us.

When at my best, I am out of the way, Mom. The things that happen at those times remind me that we are part of something so much greater. Something bigger than life. Bigger than each of us and even all of us.

Pretty cool, ain't it, Mom? See what you helped me believe? Life is better when we realize it is just a piece of our journey. We are so much more than these bags of bones. So much more.

Precedent

Die in peace.

Behind all that moved you and drove you.

Above the trappings you embraced.

At the wheel of your own movement.

Against the railing that was long before you flew.

Among those that see you as you are now.

Before the whistle blows.

Besides the stations and the offices.

Between you and your quaking naiveté.

Down to the river of no sweat.

Open the door to face your adversary.

Smile as they wonder how that came to be.

Feel the sweetness of speaking your truth.

Step beyond the corpse and live like a man.

Smile and feel the proposition of peace at last.
Note to Mom:

This one is from a dream. Felt a railroad crossing and a train I was about to miss. Maybe it was the one I just got off. Whatever it was, it was headed one-way....away from me.

The dream me felt that and realized life is indeed gone that quickly. Can't stop that train once it leaves you at the place where your ticket said the trip is over.

Death is something I understand. Well, let's say accept. Thanks to a dream, a different one than the one that inspired this poem. One I had in the very house that you made home to me, Mom.

Was back there working actually. Came full circle and ended up spending one week a month in the house and taking the bus to The City. Of course, Sis said I would stay there. She had dinner on the table each night, gave me a room, and made me feel at home. Her and Billy really keep the house nice. They made it home for several generations beyond your time there. Just like you and Dad would like.

One night there, I had a death dream. Read somewhere that when you have a death dream, you don't wake up. You die in your dreams and just stay dead.

Dreamed of death in the very house of my youth. In the dream, death came in Keansburg. Was shot. Dove to avoid the bullet but knew it was a lost cause. The bullet hit and I thought, "Oh Shit. This ain't good." Knew it was over.

Then I woke up. Fully expected to see me lying in the bed. Felt like I was still there for a while that day. Thought I was dead and was alright with it.

Realized life would go on. People would grieve a bit but they would get over it. They would go on and be happy and remember in what everyway they did. Everyone would go on with their lives.

Made me smile. Gave me peace. Peace everyday since. I will live my best and enjoy my life. Death will come when it comes and it was be what it is. Meanwhile, life is for the living.

Peace is real once we accept that life as we know it here is just that dash. That line between born and died.

Born 1953-Died _____. I am on the dash and living right now, writing about dreams and what dreams may come.

Whereabouts

I saw where he was crucified.

Where he was laid inside the tomb.

Where another died on his knees in the morning.

Then the Jungle Room where he hid from his truth.

I walked to the Fortress of Solitude.

Snow coated ice marked where it was.

Circled the cube in old Mecca town.

Stood exactly where millions had come.

Kissed the wall and joined in the Wailing.

Felt the ovens where tears were fed fuel.

Heard the music inside Magic Kingdoms.

Ground my teeth where twin Towers fell.

Where was I and where am I going?

Where were you and where will you be?

Where are we and where are we going?

Where now honors all that we did.

Note to Mom:

A poem from a walk. Not a long walk. Not a far one either. Just a block or two away from the house in Roy, Utah. To a field I still think of as Tinker's Field since Tink loved to run, fetch sticks, and play there. If she was taken for a walk, she ensured the walker knew that meant a trip to the field. Try and take her anywhere else. Go ahead. Her claws dug right into the asphalt and she pulled the walker to the field. Once there, she stopped so you could take the leash off her. Then she ran like a pup. When Tink died, we scattered her ashes there.......in her favorite place in the whole world. Thus, it is now and shall remain Tinker's Field.

My walk on the day this poem revealed itself was to that field. Just a short walk with little purpose other than to walk.

Suddenly, that field became many other places. Your son crossed time and space and felt Golgotha. Three crosses. Empty. One tomb. Empty. As sure as if it was day four of the See the Holy Land Tour. Felt the tomb. Then onto Graceland. Must be day twenty-six of Sacred Spots travel package. Elvis's own Fortress of Solitude where the man hid, the body died, and he was buried. He did not arise on the third day. He is everywhere. Soon, Superman said "hey, what about me? I was one of your first heroes. What about me?" My Fortress of Solitude for the Man of Steel is the 1960s one with the big key and even bigger door with the City of Kandor and a few other things. The one later with all the crystals and stuff was cool but the one iced forever in my mind is from the comics I brought at CBS.

Other places popped up all over Tinker's Field that day. Mecca. Disney World. The Twin Towers. All in one square block on a nondescript dirt patch just off the main drag. Time and Space were no match for me that day, Mom.

Does that make sense? It does to me. Our senses are where our reality begins. Humans are so sense bound. We have to see it, smell it, touch it, hear it, or taste stuff. As if things did not exist unless we sense them. Does than mean Mecca only exists when I visit and confirm it is really there? Must a place be in my senses to really be, have been, or be someday? Heck no.

You are the proof. I feel you. Right here. Right now. Across the table from me as I type this on a day in December years after you died. You are real, Mom. You are here because I am more than my senses can handle.

We are that powerful. We are more than our senses. Our senses help us experience life here in our human form. We are more than that.....and will be more than that. Adds some new thoughts to the losing our senses. Non-sense? Nope. More than sense. More than senses. I am way out of my senses, Mom. That makes sense to me.

Time Shadows

Hope brushes you as a breeze.

Kiss your shadow good-bye.

Bid your fears farewell.

See where you run.

Untouchable.

Exposed.

Shadow man.

Feminine Light.

Fire behind.

Flames ahead.

Burn clean and pure.

Embers fuel passion.

Innocent Soul dance.

Winds of trust calm.

Child knows grown up things.

Tomorrow's gift plays without time.

Unpointing hands.

Opened arms.

Blank faces see.

Hourglass figures.

Some hide in yesterday.

Sirened by echoes.

Souls see light ahead.

Eyes beacon and beckoned.

Freeze tag time.

Kiss yesterday tenderly.

Embrace today warmly.

Love tomorrow now.

Note to Mom:

This poem has all the feel of an out of body experience, Mom. Running so naked and so free that we are just the spirit of our own self. Just so happy and free that everything makes sense and nothing really matters. That is how free I am, Mom. Free enough to see things I don't yet understand and smile and just say "cool". Seeing things that are unrelated and yet knowing everything is related so it will be revealed later if it has to be revealed at all. Who the heck has to know it all? Not this kid.

Buck ass naked and free. As free as I was the day Mrs. Gilmore returned me to the house and said, "I think this is yours."

Heard that story a lot when I was a kid. How a knock on the door woke you up and there was Mrs. Gilmore, eight houses and a block away Mrs. Gilmore, returning one very naked baby to its Mother. How had I gotten out of wherever the heck I was, taken off my diaper, opened the door, and meandered down the street without anyone knowing? Wondered about that over the years.

Not having a memory of it was intriguing. To have such an adventure at such a state of innocence and not remember. Wow. It was a full block away. As a kid, I pictured doing it in my mind yet had no memory of the actual doing. No memory of the experience itself.

Well, until today. Until I read this poem. This is that kid, Mom. Just moving on instinct in a world where possibilities are many and safety is a given. Invulnerable innocence. That kid wrote this poem. It was born that day almost sixty years ago, written just a few years ago, and finally understood right now.

Mrs. Gilmore brought me home safe and sound. Just as safe and sound as I was when my diaper dropped and my tiny hands somehow opened the door. As safe and sound as I was regardless of the elements, any passers-by, cars, dogs, or falling stars that whatever day it was. Mrs. Gilmore brought me home safe and sound, Mom. I still am safe and sound. Buck ass naked and running free.

Freeze tag time.

Kiss yesterday tenderly.

Embrace today warmly.

Kiss tomorrow today.

I wonder if Mrs. Gilmore knew that naked baby was making a poem without his diapers on?
Summer Release

Kiss a tasty Creamsicle in tattered underwear.

Courageous Cat and Minute Mouse back from yesteryear.

Tax Collectors' hearts drowned in all the rules.

Jesus and us Cynics running out of cheeks.

Flags zygote tiny battles nursed to senseless wars.

Days so clearly numbered based on nightly news.

Hints of Armageddon good for quarterly reports.

Dollar growing weaker while Leaders promise change.

Tales of lives worth telling busy being born.

Faces and more faces facing common truths.

Heroes trim tomato plants and elevate the earth.

Fireworks of Summer spark a brand new free.

Here is where I feeling, there is where I am.

Sending forth my nothingness to hither and to yon.

Shadow turning Phantom minus signet ring.

Mushroom clouded vision finally seeing clear.

Curses, praise, and wonder wrapped within each verse.

Far more deeper lines written then erased.

Every single one of us is an answered prayer.

Came in through the window, death is just a door.

Note to Mom:

I like this poem, Mom, its fun. Fun like dancing and knowing the moves are exactly right. Dancing and having people say, "Wow, where did you learn that?" Well, I don't know. Was taught by a few people, read some things, copied a move or two......but mostly just danced. Danced until the music becomes the dance partner and I let it lead.

This poem is that kind of dancing. It is deep naturally. Reading it is like dancing with it and it leads.

These are the kind of poems that excite me, Mom. Poems that matter. This one matters to people I may never meet. They will read this and say, "Wow, how did he know that?" Well, quite frankly, I didn't. This poem reads right yet I don't even really know why. I just know it is right.

One passage is me.

Here is what I am feeling, here is where I am.

Sending forth my nothingness to hither and to yon.

Shadow turning Phantom minus signet ring.

Mushroom clouded vision finally seeing clear.

That is me. The Shadow turning Phantom thing reminds me of the comics. The Phantom was cool. Something spiritual about that superhero. His signet ring was a skull. A skull. How cool is that? Even the eight year old me knew a skull signet ring with some magic power was cool. The grown up me still believes in stuff the Phantom showed in bits and pieces. I know that dance. Can name that tune. Don't touch that dial.

The rest of the poem lets me see hints of what it means but keeps the truth just out of reach. Well, my reach at least. This poem is meant of meant for others.....every single one of us is an answered prayer.

Sense Lessening

As the world intrudes, quiet eludes.

The less we touch, the less we feel.

We fear insight of our dependence.

Hearing improves with silence.

Scent calms the human beast.

A bitten tongue reigns supreme.

Synergy enhances everything.

Gifted freely, valued when less.

Absence makes union sweeter.

Note to Mom:

I had a Shaman, Mom. An amazing Womyn that taught me many things. She routinely gave me assignments and I carried them out to the letter. One of the assignments was actually a series related to the senses.

We use each of senses everyday. While we think about them, when do think about them at all, as individual senses, they work in tandem. Taste is directly related to smell and smell shifts our attention via sight and hearing to things before our eyes or ears would even know something was out there. The efficiency is amazing.

This poem came from the assignment the Shaman gave me. A five-week series. One sense a week............to be removed. I was to spend time each evening walking around the yard minus one sense. Preferably at the same time each evening. Sight first, then taste, followed by hearing, moving onto touch, and complete the assignment with smell.

There I was walking the yard in a blindfold. Why sight first? We tend to rely on sight first for almost everything, Mom. Ask folks which would be the worst sense to lose if they lost one and they will usually pick sight. The blindfold was indeed very effective. My depth perception was gone. Each step was a challenge since the other senses had to let me know where the heck I was. It was a powerful experience. One that I thought would be the most powerful one of the series.

Taste meant a gag. Eliminate the mouth and its ability to taste. Less of an impact yet a challenge. Since the mouth was gagged, it was the center of attention. What we are deprived of becomes the thing we ache to have. It distracted on many levels.

Hearing was impressive. Sounds are very persistent. The vibrations of the sound still pushed through to the ears. While the world was muted, it was far from silent. Helped me understand how truly effective sound is.

For touch, it was almost a reverse of deprivation. Walked barefoot rather than with any shields in the form of socks or shoes. We tend to shield our touch with clothes and more. Did not realize how much less we feel just because we clad our flesh.

Then came smell. This one struck me as a bit funny. Put a nose plug in and walk the same path again. Fifth in series. Seemed like it would be of little consequence. I was wrong, Mom. Way wrong.

As soon as the nose plug was put on, I went on full alert. As if the animal in me was suddenly very vulnerable. I could not smell if there was danger out there. It stunned me how much our noses and sense of smell is used by our primal self. I felt the world close in on me as sure as when the blindfold was on. Could not smell danger so was extra alert. We rely on our sense of smell more than I ever respected.

Since this assignment, my senses have heightened. My sense of smell is scarily effective. I can smell things days before other people even know there is something there. It stuns people quite frankly and gets more acutely in tune with all scents each day.

Knowing our senses better is linking with nature more directly. It honors our senses........the tools they are as well as the gifts they are. That is what this poem is about, Mom. It reminds me of my Shaman and the very best things that came of the linkage.

See Ya

The dead gathered round to bid me adieu.

Some walked on ice, one stepped in to the doo.

A ride from a mother cruel to her kid.

The whore and a junkie continued her skid.

Feet born to travel faced Eastern trip.

A country ahead and answers to grip.

With dawn there is motion, I head to the sun.

It brings me the day, this prodigal son.

Stop for the markers and the breaking of bread.

Sleep when tired and process through dreads.

Crank up the music and feel well this land.

The traveler travels, on instinct not plan.

There will be more words to share on the way.

Know well your buddy and come back okay.

Note to Mom:

I don't remember writing this one, Mom. Yet here it is. Speaking to me. Maybe it had to be written and forgotten to surface today and be felt. It is felt mostly because of the title. It is the first of two poems with this title. The second one was actually written by Dad. I just typed it for him.

As you likely know, Dad went through the 12 Steps and worked his recovery.....twenty eight years after he died. I was his sponsor. Welcome to my world. Dad and me going to meetings, working the big book, and getting clean. Dad did his fifth step with me. Can a son sponsor a father? Can someone work their recovery after they died? In my world, yes. Higher Powers of our own choosing welcome us whenever we are ready.

Dad's recovery started out as a book on Uncle Tom. Yep, Dad's brother asked me to write his story. We became good friends as a result. Still talk several times a month. The book did not come to pass. Oh, it was a good book, an important story, and could have touched and helped many. It just did not come to pass. My own sponsor helped me discover if the book was to be the entire story or something less. I am big on the truth....even with the blemishes.

My sponsor was a bit surprised that someone with forty years in recovery would really want his story told to the world. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So he told me to ask Uncle Tom to a do a fifth step with me for the book. At the time, I did not fully appreciate the magnitude of a fifth step. "Admitting to God, ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs." I saw how critical that would be for a book that was about the truth of one person's recovery. So I asked Uncle Tom to do a fifth step with me.

It did not happen. The book stopped. Yet what happened around the book continued. While working with Uncle Tom, my morning walks included some company. Dad and Nana to be specific. They walked with me and shared things about Tom and life in Avenue N and more. Stuff only they knew. Now, Dad and Nana had been dead for decades at this time. Yet there they were. Walking and sharing with me.

Some of the stuff they told me freaked Uncle Tom out a bit. He wondered how the hell I could know stuff he had not told me and that happened long before I was born. Explained to him how it happened. He kinda accepted it. Kinda not, too.

When the book stopped, Dad still walked with me. I wondered why. How come he was still there? Liked that he was. It just didn't make sense to me. Then I noticed he was smoking. Why would you smoke in the afterlife? Why continue a deadly habit despite all the evidence long after you died? Because you could? Because you had not healed? Had not kicked that demon? What other demons did Dad still cling to all these years after he died? Oh shit. Then I knew the book was Dad's book. That began the true book about recovery. "Dead Drunk".

That book matters, Mom. Really matters. Several people said it kept them from going back out. Just the other day, I got an email from one of the nicest persons I ever met. Her email arrived on the day the Doctor called and confirmed my biopsy showed cancer. Here is what she said in an email that was healing magic delivered exactly on time.

" _A few days ago I decided to re-read your book, Dead Drunk. The first time I read it a few years ago, I was struck then as now with the emotion and strong imagery._

I have never been addicted to a substance but your writing is really a wonderful tool for opening up that experience for the reader. Compassion. Understanding.

But more than that, I wanted to let you know how at this particular time in my life I was strongly affected by reading the scenario of a person who has passed taking stock of their life and choices. It is so easy to get caught up in the fleeting moments and emotions of our lives, being untrue to ourselves, missing vital opportunities of being authentic and connecting. Life moves so fast and we do not know how long our fragile lives will even last. It has really helped me to put some things into perspective.

Dealing with anger, guilt, selfishness, resentment - hard issues and ones we all face. I hope that I can be strong enough in this life to reach the end without regrets. Your message encourages me to the possible.

Beyond that, I think your writing is truly beautiful. Thank you for writing Buddy's story and also for sharing it with me. I feel blessed to have the opportunity to know you and your family".

Wow. Right? The email brought tears to my eyes. Fuck cancer. I have writing to do. Writing for the ages. Writing beyond anything my body can do, and my mind can imagine. So I shall write.

Then this poem surfaced. A poem that had me read the one Dad pushed through me as his messenger. A poem called "See Ya". The last piece Dad pushed through me before he headed off into his sunset........recovered.

See Ya

Suddenly, there was no place.

I knew no mortal coil.

A light. More lights.

I burst apart. Soared someplace. Moved faster, faster forward.

Tom Joad spoke well of this. I was there yet also gone.

Everything exactly right. My living has begun.

In the wood at Avenue N and linger there a bit.

In my daughter's eyes when she laughs or cries, a place of perfect fit.

In these words but fleeting hint, my work here now done.

In family and those yet to be, back from where I'd come.

I was flesh and Buddy then. Now all of that and more.

The steps climbed a little late, opened wide the doors.

My legacy written true. My lessons now all learned.

Time to be a memory and live what I have learned.

One Maple and Main and inside folks of need, I was so I shall be.

With amends now made and in surrendering, I am where I choose to be.

See Ya there. See Ya here. See Ya in a while.

See Ya One. Raise Ya Twelve. See Ya cross the aisle.

It all comes round and all goes round. See Ya Everywhere.

See Ya soon. See Ya, folks. See Ya in your prayers.

Under the moon. On the boardwalk. See Ya when Ya smile.

I was where you are now. See Ya, Mother's child.

That is Dad's See Ya. My See Ya is something else. It fed me all of this stuff here today, Mom. Welcome to my world. A world where the traveler travels on instincts not on plans. There will be more words to share on the way. Know well your buddy and come back okay. How cool is that? I wrote about knowing well my Buddy......before I really knew him well. We both came back okay. He went his way. I will go my way. We all go our own way. Yet I know I will See Ya.
Retro-Speck

Inside the darkest dark and seeing the truth of what is not.

Aside myself, I go inside myself and watch what I know die.

Hanging on the thumbnail of positivity while my fingers are severed.

Not believing, not relieving, not retrieving, while not retreating.

Unraveling in the revealing of what was there all along.

Words hidden in plain sight unearth my naiveté.

Wisdom spouted and re-polished while time wanes.

Cycles circle as my world spins into new orbit.

Colossal endings crest with neer a ripple to ride.

Evidence bombards ramparts eroded by change of a breaking heart.

Fanfare fizzles as facades fall from fading grace.

Smack, Crack, Snap, Crackle, Pop goes the weasels.

Change the channel, speak in tongues, everything's burning.

Day is done, morning comes, kiss the dawn and hope hard and long.

Note to Mom:

Alright, this cancer affecting everything I read stuff is getting pretty blatant. Read this one and it is where I am. My face rubbed into my own mortality and I am smiling. Because in the big scheme of things, we have now and now is to be loved.

Some folks struggle a bit with my health issues. Interesting that I get to help other's deal with my cancer. Heck, it is harder on some of them than it is on me. When did that become my reality? When did I get to be "that" guy? Doesn't really matter. Because I am that guy, Mom. Sure, you were one of my examples. Dad was too.

I remember Dad's last visit......when you and he came to Florida. Now, the visits were normally good. I loved seeing you guys. Yet with each visit, there was usually some conflict. Some point where I got on his nerves and he got on mine. All part of the natural cycle of things. Well, it felt that way.

When you and he came to Florida on his last trip out of New Jersey, the visit was perfect. Every day. Every moment. Dad and I got along all that time. Was I really that young? That naïve? That self-centered? How did I not realize he was saying good-bye? How did I not even notice he was ill? In hindsight, I was young and dumb as I really did not see what was right there in front of me.

Later, you said how hard the drive back was. How he had to stop and just sleep because he was so tired. So weak. He went in the hospital shortly after that and came out dead.

My last visit to him was in the hospital. Riverview. A place of beginnings and ends in my life. He was so small in that bed. So old. Said the good byes along with the brave words of him coming to visit and seeing the soon to be born baby that turned out to be Susan. Planned on naming her William Gilbert if she was a boy. Wow. She is lucky to be a she. Willy-Gilly? What the hell was I thinking?

I walked out of that room knowing it would be that last time I saw Dad alive. He knew it too. You found me just a bit later.......crying at the end of the hall. A little boy crying for his Daddy.

Dad called me the next day at the house. "You alright?" I reassured him. He reassured me. We said good-bye.

"Inside the darkest dark and seeing the truth of what is not.

Aside myself, I go inside myself and watch what I know die."

This poem is about a lot of things. I guess it is mostly about Dad and me, life and me, and me and dying. Dad and I got along really well on his last visit. Well, then there was the whole next visit long after he died. Maybe this poem is about things much bigger than death. Things like life....and fathers and sons.......and more.
Prayer Lines

Wired barbs and telegraphed punchlines zing shot at easy pray and loose Canons.

Top Ten Wisdoms wasted on the clueless as they list and pass wind.

Holier than Thou shall not pass go, please pay before you exit.

Begat Hepcats cause pro-life hates other choices and gay old timers.

Joey Bishop, Father Time, Sister Christian, Mother Mary pray for me.

All the Kings men nailed all the King's horses for thy kingdom come.

Alle-alle-in-freedom really is nothing left to losers never win.

Dance ballerina till the cows come home to roost or not to roost.

That is the question of the days of whine and rose from the dead.

Pop goes your weasel and peek a boo-boo until its all better.

Party down by the riverside on the banks are doing fine.

Saving coupons because green stamps come postage due.

Full speed ahead in foreclosed rainy day galoshes.

Riptides for those middle class puddle jumpers.

Sinking feelings about options and futures and bonds.

Shorter tempers, longer lines, whose turn is it anyway?

Lock the gate, change the password, check the shopping list.

Fill the car, scratch my back, let's go see a show.

Where's the Captain and Crusader Rabbit? Romper stomper now!

Holy Shit. Forgive us, father. Whatever art your name.

Note to Mom:

This is me as Popeye and the bullshit of the world is taking my one-two punches....after I ate my spinach. It is almost comical how easy this flowed and smacked bullshit in clerical garb, Uncle Sam suit, uniform, and any other disguise. I read it and enjoy it as sure as when the Sailor Man's arm turned into a whirlwind, his hand into a sledgehammer, and he took on all comers in the ring.

Pump up the music and enjoy the show. It honors the best of religions and governments and middle fingers the bullshit done in the name of religions and governments.

I smile as I fight and grow stronger with each opponent that flies through the air and ends up with stars circling their x-ed over eyes. It is that much fun to see through the bullshit, Mom.

There is much broken in this world. Many opportunities to blame, despair, and just plain old fashion give up. Well, I am strong to the finish cause I eats me spinach....just like Popeye the Sailor Man. Toot-Toot.

Everything is going to be alright. Now it is time to turn off that TV and come eat dinner. Dad's home, Sis is mashing the potatoes, so go wash your hands....it's time to eat. All is right with the world, Mom. Just like it was way back then when Popeye was just before dinner and dinner was on the table. Your table. Our table. That table.

I ate the spinach you made me eat and grew up big and strong, Mom. Still don't like red cabbage.....but love that Dad did. Still don't like sauerkraut...but know Sis and Dad looked forward to it each time. Laugh knowing you thought we should eat the fat on the pork chops because you liked it. Dinnertime is still that alive for me. I am still that kid......and that kid knows the good guys from the bad guys. This poem is about that, Mom. The Priests wouldn't like this one, Mom. The Nuns would say...."this is not appropriate for the classroom, Mister Van Wagner. Really nice work though."

Penny Tent

Knock, knock, knocking on Heaven's door.

Alle alle in free.

Game called on account of reign.

Who shall I say is calling?

Play something else. Anything else.

Once around the writer's block, please.

Is this thing loaded?

Testing one, two, three.

Who turned out the lights?

Is anybody home?

Please leave a message at the tone.

Testing one, two, three.

Is this thing on?

Yes, it's only you and me, Mr. Songman.

Did I miss the party?

Make that to go, please.

What time is the next flight?

How much will this get me?

I'll gladly pay you on Tuesday.

Put on some Sinatra and start to cry.

It was broken when I got here.

Forgive me for I have sinned.

Note to Mom:

This is the creative guy waiting to be creative. It stays in the question. The questions become the truth. This is the edge of knowing where things are going. It gnaws as the writer, frustrates the man, and entertains me but only in the rear-view mirror. I can feel it building to something but it ain't a pretty birth.

If I still drank, this is me sitting at the bar. It is the journey between finding my seat and one more for the road. Drunks know this place. Walking in alone and walking out okay with being lonely. It is listening to the music that was selected before you showed up, then playing the jukebox and waiting for your tune that night.

Dad was a master at the jukebox. Rambling Rose was one of his and now it is number 446 on my top 500 songs. It is Dad just sitting in the bar........a few drinks away from home and a few more away from not knowing any tune. Dino makes my list, too. "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime" is a Dad happy song. A harmless man with a tear in his eye and love in his heart. I usually listen to that song twice when it plays.....just like my father did. My all time favorite Dad song though is actually "From A Jack To A King". An Elvis song. No surprise there for folks that know me. I listen to that song several times a month and sing it right along with Dad.

He asked me to play that song a lot when he and you visited Germany. He liked that we had a record we both liked and that song was one of his favorites. One night, he asked me to play it while we were playing cards with the guys from work. I actually said no. Let the other guys pick the music. Sorry, Dad. I was a jerk.

If I still drank, this poem is me sitting at the bar. The guy that would head for the juke box and play D-14. "From A Jack To A King". Forgive me for I have sinned.
Outing

Pagans gathered in the common of an uncommon land.

Leprechauns and Fairies touted their magic side by side.

Tea sense, incense, top hats, and tales.

Hindus and Belly Dancers opened and showed.

Diner music serenaded hunger.

Alternatives surfaced ten minutes before closing.

The quiet Labyrinth said what needed to be heard.

Sunflower nourishment was close at hand.

Trains ran on schedule even while waiting.

Rocks by the road where accidents happened.

Rocked by the truth while tears flowed.

Slapstick unstuck and the gang missed their mark.

Cancelled touch touched all the more.

Soulful souls soloed to solace.

Revolution, Evolution, washed with snippets of solution.

Note to Mom:

I learned a lot about religion at Saint Ann's Church and School, Mom. Thanks for that. The Nuns still inspired me to this day. They also still scare me but that is a whole different story. My Saint Ann memories shape my respect for things holy.

Loved Lent was a kid. Even as an adult. The idea of penance and sacrifice for the cleansing of our souls has great merit. Fasting and Abstinence. Sackcloth and ashes. Muted colors to prepare for the Resurrection. Good stuff. Remember when they covered the statues in the Church with purple cloth? They even hid Jesus on the cross in plain sight. Took away the visuals for the Presto of Easter. I understood that......inside......where it matters. We need to remember what we have to better appreciate that it is even here. We need to lower in humility to rise proud of who we are. We need to get right.......and then stay right for as long as we can......and then get right again whenever we need to get right. Lent was all of that and more. Lent was right up my alley.

Now I live those things and feel those things everyday. This poem is about that, Mom. It is celebrating that Pagans gather in Mormon Land and celebrate their beliefs. There is a Labyrinth a few blocks from Temple Square in SLC, Mom. How cool is that? A beautiful Labyrinth. One of the reasons Labyrinths appeal to me is they were restricted from the so-called common people hundreds of years ago. People felt the spiritual nature and understood time in such places over inner insights of important stuff. Soon, folks with cash and power began to limit access to them. Even developed mazes so the common folks could play and be entertained while Labyrinths moved to something more for some elite few.

Mazes are fun. They are games. Dead end here. Go back there. The goal is to get to the middle and back out again knowing you will make lots of fits and starts along the way. There is not a flow. Flows allow thoughts to drift and touch places of learning and aha's. Flow is one of the basic foundations of how a Labyrinth frees the human mind and lets the soul wander.

Everyone deserves such experiences. Everyone deserves the wonderful feel of spirituality. I see and feel it everywhere, Mom. Rocks by the side of a road where an accident happened are a family healing and so much more. Trains showing up on time can be reassurance from our Higher Power that we are moving right on schedule. A store we notice for the first time after months or even years in an area can be evidence we are now ready for whatever is on those shelves.

When working on the Sanctuary that is the yard in Roy, I knew something circular would be in one specific spot but was clueless about what. Trusted. Trusted my Higher Power would show me when it was time. The result was the Moon Cage. A wrought iron gazebo that feels exactly right within that spot.

The Magic comes in the fact that is it large and very noticeable. Yet it was in a shop in Ogden and I did not notice the Moon Cage before it was time. It was right there. I was in it, around it, and more many times for years....even months. Did not even see it although it was right there. It was masked from my eyes.

One day I visited the shop and was actually in the Moon Cage. A table and chairs set up as a display caught my eye so I looked closer. My right hand reached to a wrought iron bar as I bent to examine the table underneath. When I stood up, I finally felt the wrought iron. Looked at my hand, then the bar, and onto the dome overhead. Stepped out of the Moon Cage.........a Moon Cage I had been in several times......and saw it for the first time. Wham. Knew it was the piece that belonged in The Sanctuary. It was revealed that day. When I was ready.

Spirituality is all around us, Mom. We just have to see it. You were proud of me when I was an Altar Boy. I knew you wanted me to be good. To turn out good. To turn out Holy. I did, Mom. Holy.

Confident in my faith that everyone deserves peace, love, and happiness. A believer all of the time, preacher some of the time, healer at the best of times, and teacher at the most important of times. A teacher by example. An example of how blessed each and everyone one of us is. Revolution, Evolution, washed with snippets of solutions. So much for snips and snails and puppy dogs tails.
Earthquakes, Poison, and Trinity sleeps

Dinner at the Old Hickory Diner on Penn Route 59.

The President had chicken wings and we talked as if kin.

Two handshakes and some promises while I phoned it in.

That pass over the bleachers changed the whole game.

Ran in full uniform and dove into the pool.

Shared the banana and headed back towards the school.

An old friend tried for murder she didn't commit.

Just another failed escape from inside the box.

Pilot turned vegetable couldn't handle the shock.

Asleep on the couch where they welcomed me in.

Home's where you find it among dying schemes

Drops in the water and I'm living my dreams.

Note to Mom:

I hope this poem gets analyzed some day, Mom. More importantly, hope folks figure it out. Maybe it will be assigned in some tenth grade English class and elicit moans when it is. "Oh no. Not something by Van Wagner. His stuff is either juvenile easy or fucked up beyond measure....and they only assigned the fucked up stuff in tenth grade English."

Three night's dreams. Hence, Trinity Sleeps. The rest is up for grabs. What kind of people dream about diners? Well, your husband's son for sure. Diners are awesome places filled with real people. I was back in Jersey on a business trip once. Was traveling with a guy from Unishippers. A guy born and raised in Utah. We headed out for dinner one night and neither of us was committed to any specific place. That is what I had the inspiration that dinner would be at a diner. Not just a diner. A diner in Jersey, the diner capital of the world.

He asked how I would know which diner and how would I know it would be good. I laughed. Heck, any diner. It is the experience. So off we went. 15 minutes later we pulled into the parking lot of one such place......a bit upscale on the how diners look scale.

The greeting was from Hollywood Casting. "Hey guys, come on in. I'll be witcha in a minute. Just sit anywhere." All Jersey.

When the cook/owner himself came to the booth, I explained this was my friend's first ever diner experience. His eyes lit up.......he took back the menus.......and said, "Well, I know exactly what you are going to have." Off he went.

It was an awesome experience.....for everyone there. On the way back to the hotel, my friend said, "Wow. How did you know it would be that good?" I confirmed I didn't.......I just knew it would be a diner experience. Most of them are good. Most of them are great.

So a diner in my dream? Sure. Now, why the Old Hickory Diner on Penn Route 59? Hell. That made me wonder. Why the President? Why not? Our Presidents could learn a few things in diners. Diners are where the real people are.

In the dream, I was a reporter and had to call in the story about meeting the President at the diner. From a pay phone. Interesting how many details of that and the other two dreams stayed.

They can have fun with this one in tenth grade English. I know I would have. Could make up some pretty convincing bullshit about the message and what the poet really meant. Trust me........bullshit is one of my best mediums. Drops in the water and I'm living my dream.
Basket Case

There is looking and there is seeing.

Just as there is doing and there is being.

Drift, then rift, then sift, and gift.

Rise again, mend, and befriend.

Half a moon and another full day of doing.

When did it full? Does it see me looking?

Circle alone and then with friends.

Sleep eludes.

Hide in plain sight.

Tears feel just right.

Little hands heal large pains.

Laughter remembered lives once again.

Boxes of "Was it really that long ago?"

Happy snaps flash feed my hunger.

Today is a Holiday.

Yesterday is a treat.

Tomorrow is a dream.

Good night and God bless.

Yeast rises with the Son.

Sins of the Fathers are forgiven.

Pray for the children.

Pray for us all.

Beads of sweat.

Beds of roses.

Wheels of Fortune.

Pedal to the medal.

Ribbon candy in your basket.

Knock on wood.

Here I come.

Peek a boo.

Just for you...and him and her...and all that follow.
Note to Mom:

A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket, I skip through life handing out flowers of love and everything is going to be alright, Mom. So much peace to share. So much love.

I have your memory, Mom. A head full of memories as alive as if right here and right now. You were that and I am that. The Rememberer. The Storyteller. The how the heck do you remember all of that person.

London Bridges falling down in Kindergarten. In the rectangular playground in KPS. It was a big sandbox. They tore down that building just recently. Doesn't really matter. It is still there as long as I breathe. London Bridges fell done one day on me. Two girls lowered the drawbridge and caught me. One of the girls was Susie Croken. A moment the little boy in me felt in ways that even now surprise me. Sweet and so much more. So very much more. My memories are that alive, that important.

Can walk though the house on 1 Maple right now. Walk through it as it was. It is that real to me. Maybe that is why I write. To paint with words. To share the amazing warmth of the love in my life.

This poem is dancing in that energy. My la-la-la time where I pass out fortune cookies of wisdom. Little hands heal large pains. Wow. Boxes of "Was it really that long ago?" This stuff is good, Mom. Quotable good. I am the little boy walking on air after being bound and hugged by two girls during recess. Skip to the loo, my darling. Here have a flower of wisdom.

People notice when people are in love. They notice the light in their eyes. The smile that just stays there. People in love glow and other people see the glow.

I glow, Mom. Did then. Did since. Do even more now. My life is crazy good. Crazy happy. Crazy full of love. Basket Case. Might be just the right name for this lark of a poem.

Knock on wood.

Here I come.

Peek a boo.

Just for you...and him and her...and all that follow.
Soul Food

Feed the need that hid and almost died.

Stroke the juices to arousal.

Seeds of truth ache to spill.

Free the knight from fright.

Strings are strummed in envy.

Words are played instead.

Share and be in windows.

Open wide the current of times.

Reasons and Rhymes.

Unlock souls too long caged.

Kindred weave as spirits.

Spells of piper light.

Bridge time and space.

Foot Falls echo in the dark.

Inside out and back to front.

Forget becomes remembers.

Nestled and wombed.

Eggs reshells in fires of effort.

Knowns are needs and needs are known.

Here is your menu of truth.

Note to Mom:

Written on the night of 20 October 2008, I thought this was good. It flowed freely from my soul. It spoke with creative energy. Listened to music by singers/writers like Melissa Etheridge/Leonard Cohen/Bob Dylan and more. They stirred the words within me, Mom. They stirred the artist to action.

It was completely rewritten for this book, Mom. Four years later I see that it was a load of tripe. It was raw. Hidden. Lesser. A lot lesser than I knew when I tried to speak of it to you and realized it was juvenile. It was not ready for primetime. Took a knife to it and slashed through the shit that hid the beauty. Cut boldly and deeply. There was too much that said way too little. Created from what was. Rearranged. Changed the title. It showed me how much my writing has changed, how much my writing is me now.

The creative process expands me. The more I write, the more I wish to write. What I need to know is already out there....Thoreau, Thomas Paine, Dylan, Cohen, and many, many more wrote and sang and spoke of it. This is not new...it is just overdue. They are the menu and I feed and I share of what I learn.

This book is one of the hardest I have ever written. Yet it one of the easiest as well. It is my soul. It is my love. It is me. Yet each word is total. Full exposure and then more exposure until full exposure is constant and what was thought to be full exposure excavated more beauty. More love. Each Note to Mom is a gut wrenching truth fest. Each one leaves me spent....and then I return for what will drain me fully again.

That is writing for me, Mom. Leaving it all on the table. Feels like that would be end game......yet it is the game. It is playing fully and then realizing you will find more for whatever follows. We are more than we know, Mom and the way we learn this is to leave it all on the table each time. This book is that, Mom. Each page of this book is that. A full purging of self. An emptying.

It cleans my soul as I bare my soul. My soul expands with each emptying. Is that what makes us whole? Dig down to the core and realize we are bigger the more we expose? Well, it is working, Mom. The Notes to you are everything I was, I am, and I ever shall be. More to follow. Lots more, Mom.
April Eve

More repasting, less amassing, deeper questions, somber askings.

Clean the closet, memory reunion, keep the truth, shed confusion.

Hear what counts, stack the chart, sing the songs, show the dark.

Hidden gems, forgotten jewels, unknown treasures, revealed rules.

What was missed, some things new, queued for you, see when due.

Monkey trashed, returned to sender, below the hats, love him tender.

Two well planted, three more still, snow surprised, spring still will.

Watch red dots, respond to light, more will ask, speak what's right.

List the verbs, share the hidden, use the flow, show forbidden.

Java juice, day to night, simple things, longer life.

Where you look, They will see, should They ask, it will be.

Note to Mom:

A Morse Code of a poem, Mom. Tapped out with that dot-dash-dot repetition. Plays like the telegraphers in the old westerns sending the messages ahead in that special code that makes them so critical since they know it and others use it and need it. This one builds and stays in that energy.

It is me as the telegrapher.....the reporter. Strapped to a chair and told to send this message or else. I am forced to write at times and this was one of those poems. One that pushed out and speaks to others through me and at times of me.

These experiences are when my Higher Power steps into this realm and takes over, Mom. Times that I bow my head in obedience and write. I need these times, Mom. Times of trust and devotion.

Even writing of this poem has me remember that level of obedience in typing its words. Dit-Dot-Dash. I feel the firm and knowing hands use what is Theirs. Sense the laughter when I struggle a bit at the level of surrender. It feels good to be so totally used. To report and trust that the words are meant for others........and that it is important to send that message.

Based on the title, I guess this was written in April. Well, more likely March. Probably March 30th. Karen's birthday. Maybe that is why it speaks of Monkey. My friend from childhood. The friend I placed in the trashcan one day when I decided it was time to outgrow stuffed animals and comic books. That day is very vivid in my memory. Walked Monk to the trash can that was already at the curb for pick up. Put him in and said good-bye. I cried that day, Mom. Cried because I loved him but said it was time to grow up. Tossed him and the comic books into the trash and walked back to the house all grown up. Brokenhearted idiot that said to grow up is to stop playing with toys and reading comics.

Kids can be so silly. The idea of what makes a grown up seems like we have to let go of stuff. Stop playing. Stop liking snow. Stop climbing trees. Stop building dirt forts. Why? The best adults are childlike. They laugh, play games, skip rope, ride bikes, and get along with others. I am a better kid now than when I was a kid.

Maybe the message was typed so I could receive it today. After all, sometimes we are the one tied in the chair and other times we are the one with the ropes. Kids know you can be both.....and more.

Milton

Flooded the marketplace.

Died of thirst waiting for change.

Let the shower cry me clean.

Damned the tears into solutions.

The Fool of the Hill has company.

Well-hung children on the Carousal.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

The Fool on the Hill has company.

We prayed for anything but what's here.

Playground so near the battle.

The Calvary of reluctant heroes.

Darkness ate away our sunny day.

Adios, Norman, Hello, Salvador.

The Fool of the Hill has company.

Well-hung children on the Carousal.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

The Fool on the Hill has company.

We prayed for anything but what's here.

Six-Six-Six, High five, metaphor.

It matters not, draw your sword.

Same old tune, forgotten Word.

Deny no more, it's at the door.

The Fool of the Hill has company.

Well-hung children on the Carousal.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

Trumpety, bump, bump.

The Fool on the Hill has company.

We prayed for anything but what's here.
Note to Mom:

Maybe only one of my poems will matter, Mom. If so, this is the one. Poems should inspire.

Milton. Because most people will think of Milton's most important work. Paradise Lost. Paradise Lost is an epic poem with an important message. Paradise is ours to lose. We lost it, Mom.

So I turn to Milton, the Beatles, and Jesus. The Fool On The Hill. Willing to be crucified. Sees the sun going down and the eyes in his head see the world spinning round. Was he a fool? Was that sacrifice in vain?

This poem asks those questions of fools on the hill like me. Did we pick our battles wisely? Did we even know we were at war in the fight between good against evil? Did we?

The imagery of a Carousal is fitting. Are we riding while Rome is burning? Is the music a trick to keep us from hearing the cries of hunger and pain? Are we riders? Are we ridden as we bob up and down on poles as our crucifix?

The message is blatant yet provokes thought. Provokes thought just by coming at it from a different angle. Begin with some Milton, sprinkle it with Beatles, add a dash of Jesus, and serve.

This one cooks, Mom. This is a meal to remember. It nourishes the cook and any one with a taste for thinking. Maybe only one of my poems will matter, Mom. One might just be enough.

About Time

The clock speaks less.

Time is more in my hands.

What is done when moves behind what is done.

Up at such and such.

Sleep at such and such.

Less and less than such and such.

The flow schedules itself.

Fluid movement just in time.

Eating what feels right when hungry nourishes.

Now happens between what just happened and what will happen.

Does anyone really know what time it is?

Can we be late when we are right where we need to be?

How important is exactness in the scheme of things?

Do you take the time or give it away banking on tomorrow?

Hitler ensured the trains ran on schedule and moved dark secrets very effectively.

Stress is free with the price of your ticket to the big show of commence.

Rolex 'em if you've got 'em.

Timex marks the liver spots.

A sweep second hand. My Kingdom for a sweep second hand.

Meant to.

Should have.

Would have.

Could have.

If I had known.

If I had it to do over.

If I had a second chance.

If I had known.

Happiness is now, later is the ultimate unknown.

Time is on my side.

I am the no man it waits for.

It is measured in cycles of light and dark and warm and cold.

A few Winters we have and this is just after one and maybe before another.

Time is a second away from forever.

Sloppy seconds make for minute lives.

Sundials, Hourglasses, Egg Timers, and Mickey's hands.

Time is in the moments.

Here is my kiss with Twelve o'clock high hands.

Marking this moment forever.
Note to Mom:

If two of my poems matter, Mom, this is the other one. It rises above the shackles of time. Shackles I mastered well right up until I realized freedom was something much sweeter.

When it came to planning, Mom......I was The Man. Taught it. Had a Franklin planner and used it for a decade. Used it as it was designed. It enhanced every aspect of my life. It helped me live a life of maximum efficiency.

For a while, planners were the rage everywhere. Companies embraced them and had people use them to increase productivity. It worked. Well, it worked for many. Efficient people became more efficient. They learned how to focus on A priorities rather than spreading themselves too thin over A, B, and C priorities. Morning planning sessions became sacrosanct. It was a time that celebrated efficiency and left slackers in the dust. It was right up my alley.

The Vice Commander asked me a question about a specific project one day when I was in his office. With a quick flip of a few pages of my planner, my report was detailed, specific, and exact. He was speechless for a few moments. Then he spoke, "Wow. You got all that from there?" He looked at the planner on his deck and said, "I have one of those." My smile came first. A reality check followed. His reality check. "No. You have a $180 calendar. If you want to know how to use it as a planner, I will teach you." It only took a minute for him to say no thanks. He was quite content with his current level of efficiency.

In time, pun only slightly intended, my priorities shifted dramatically. Planning fell by the wayside. In its place was feeling. Feeling the moment. Feeling what was right in the now. Right now. A life where we know what is right and do it. When it is right to sit on the floor and color with a grandkid, we do. Where a hike in the mountains is the perfect thing on every level.

I learned we can be very, very efficient and still miss the boat on what's important, Mom. Working hard to make money to buy stuff so you can relax and take a vacation is quite insane. Peace is ours the minute we stop to feel it. Joy is not tomorrow.....it is now. So I raise my hands to the sky and let time come to me on my schedule. Mom. The clock speaks less. Time is more in my hands. I learned that on my own.......after mastering stuff that was really mastering me. Learned it right on time.

17 BLUE PAPERS

Necronomicon 6/3 at 1 not 10.

Check under the hood and see how it's doing.

Bee Gone, be gone, in 4, E=MC2

The dead live and I welcome them.

Right questioned.

Left Semi'ed

Caged with.

I've been a good boy.

A soldier

A suit

A ring

A puppet

A pirate

A poet

A writer

And thing.

I move blindly to places unseen.

Lights in the sky and dildos jammed high.

Crushed in a pincher movement of beauty and Power.

Scalar Waves in my growing darkness.

caged, Caged, CAGED.

Alice has it easy compared to this.

At the end of 12 are links and links.

Purge the cage for Round Three.

Link, Link, Link

Click, Click, Click

Ha, Ha, Ha.

Chem trails.

cum buckets.

Side cars.

Raise the bar.

Shoulder, Butt, Navel, Ring.

Numbered, Marked, Unknown thing.

Note to Mom:

This is a freak fest, Mom. A poem people can stay in and then revisit and see anew. It is littered with clues about conspiracies, music nuggets, actual events and places, Einstein's theory on bees, dark writing by H.P Lovecraft, and more. A poem that could be a course unto itself. Even its title is part of its seeming strangeness. 17 Blue Papers. A hint of the birthing of this thing......poem......whatever it is.

At first, it was just a series of lines. Notes. Related in a very specific way yet about something more. Something just out of my grasp. The lines seemed to fit together...yet the pieces just did not show they puzzle no matter how they were arranged. Time to throw caution to the wind. Caution in the form of 17 Blue Papers. One for each line.

Picked up the papers one by one and let that sequence determine the poem's flow. Voila......a puzzle arranged that showed the hint of the message hidden herein.

To any that feel this poem, they will find things in it that are theirs. For me, I see and feel one thing. The common foundation for all 17 Blue Papers. My Shaman.

On each of the 17 notes were lines about assignments she gave me. Books to be read. Places to be visited. Lessons to be learned. In her hands, I changed forever. For the better, Mom. She opened me to things that exceeded my imagination. She helped me become what I am and what I was meant to be all along.

My first tattoo, yes, Mom, I have tattoos, is her mark. It is on my shoulder. A pyramid, crescent moon, and a star. The effect of that and the other marks has been profound, Mom.

Ironically, her path headed off in one direction and mine in another. That was the most important learning. One of the greatest lessons the Shaman taught me came from a place of hurt. I went to her for years, Mom. Each Friday afternoon. Bodywork that became energy work that became things beyond explanation. It was my single most spiritual as well as life changing experience. The Shaman changed me and I am forever grateful and shall honor her ways. Then my resources changed. A relationship that was so much more than anything about money to me stopped. Quite frankly, it hurt. A lot. For a very long time.

When I began to do bodywork, I wanted to honor that learning. So I began to give away sessions. Lots of sessions. Wanted to ensure that money was not the reason for the linkage. Bodywork is so much more. It is spiritual. Personal. Deeply sacred and intimate as souls are comforted and revealed. I will do my best to ensure anyone that needs access to me has it. I am about more than anything money can buy...and taint.

The poem is a bit of freak-fest, Mom. Just another day in Utah.
Sole Searching

Burning Man Juice trumped a box full of then.

Closet of journals and how far I ran.

Seven plus too many and one bad divorce.

Sister turns sixty and brother unsure.

One-person vehicles with no break in sight.

Two hours later plus one quarter more.

Drop in the poison and just drink it straight.

Repetitive is easy and tastes really great.

Rotated plants and five days of wear.

Vagueness on cards and marks become bare.

Note to Mom:

This one is self-indulgent, Mom. Not that I care. Just a matter of fact. Each line in this poem is right from my life. One moment in time linked to other moments in time at about the same time the piece came to life.

It is about me. The changes in my life that had me noticing the one-person vehicles and realizing I use to be one of those. A glance in the closet at neatly arranged journals of Master Planner that seem like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

So why would snapshots of my moments matter? Because I am a writer, Mom. Thoreau inspired me. Because of the epic stuff he covered in Walden. Also because of the routine stuff he wrote. He wrote about people hiking passed the cabin. Animals adapting to frozen over ponds. Breakfast and the feel of chopping wood when chopping wood was exactly right for the body and soul. The routine things of his days at that cabin. Take the routine out of life and we have important messages without any bells and whistles. We need to know the everyday things matter. Each offers great learning.

It is not just a line of one-person vehicles. It is the one I was and the too many ones that are and hopefully that one that is not because he or she realized they can walk and need to talk. They are a soul searching, too.

Routine can be sweetly comforting. While rut is not so blatantly hidden in routine so is rote. Learning through repetition. Walk that same path tomorrow and see something new. Wear the same clothes and invest your decision in which tree to touch instead. Use the time saved to talk to the plants and realize they do hear you. They do feel you. They even need you to water and care and love them.

Repetitive is easy and really tastes great. Just something I rote, Mom. Just something I rote.

See Me?

I am still that person.

Believing, trusting, knowing, clueless.

Still there.

In eyes used inside out for decades.

See me?

It's more me.

It's still me.

Even more so.

Still there.

The man outside the boy.

The boy inside the man.

I saw me coming.

Here I am.

Can you see me?

Can you see you?

I see you.

As long as you are still there.

I see you.

If I don't see you, I miss you.

I hope you see you.

See me.

See you.

See you soon.

Seeing is believing.

I am still that person.

Believe what you see.

See me?
Note to Mom:

A note in a bottle poem, Mom. Just me waving from far, far away saying everything is alright. The depth of change in my life is huge. At times, I feel like a pod person. Replaced. Just like the people in "The Invasion of the Body Snatchers". Gone but no one knows because they see me right here. Yet I am far, far away.

Every so often, I wave. Mostly to myself. A "remember me?" wave. A "see me?" wave. Moving all about this realm and knowing it is puppetry at its finest. Soon, no one notices the strings.....not even the puppet.

There is a peace in all of this. A calm. If we are already gone, we don't fear going. We don't fear leaving. We don't fear dying. That is how peaceful I am, Mom.

Had to be taken to the hospital a few months back. As with most emergencies, the specifics are comical in hindsight. At the time, trauma buried any humor. So there I was, on all fours in the back seat of a car driven by a scared shitless friend that just wanted to get me to the hospital as quick as she could. The pain was quite intense. Real, real intense. Worst pain ever for me, Mom.

Funny how the bladder can get every ounce of attention just by going on strike. All the other organs were basically ignored while survival became a question. Wondered if I would get to whoever could fix what the hell broke in time. Yet at the moment of worst pain, my mind calmed. Perhaps this was to be that death thing. In that thought was absolute calm. Peace. If this is it, wow, it has been one hell of a ride. Who calmed me at those times? Me.

That me way out there waving and saying all will be well. Life will go on, etc, etc. All the platitudes are true. When the Grim Reaper pops up and you can say, "Oh, it is that time?"...life is pretty dang good.

Now, I plan to hang on for as long as possible. Seeking death is stupid. Almost as stupid as running from death. Death comes. In the interim, I will keep waving at myself and say each moment is special. Live like you are already gone and you live pretty dang well.
Hope

Hope is playing hide and seek.

Is it my turn to be found?

Note to Mom:

We all have those moments, Mom. The come-on, give me a break moments. The you have got to be shitting me times. Our character is how we deal with them.

Pretend we are not having a tough day? Live that lie? I think not. Part of the human experience is that things just don't go our way now and then. Pretending all is well when all is not well is deceit. To the world. More importantly, to ourselves. Inside that lie we die. As if having a tough moment or day or time is failure. Weakness. As if being human is not allowed. No, we are to acknowledge that sometimes we struggle.

Dive in and wallow in it? Speak of it? Whine of it? Gather attention to it and for it? Let others hear our woes and how that woe is such a big woe and woe is me? Screw that. We each go there and spending time there is feeding the struggle.

There is an art to being human. A balance. We must stay in balance. We must stay in our truth.

This two-line poem is that, Mom. Two lines. It rises above the specifics. This is truth. Hope is playing hide and seek. The whys might be interesting....but I suspect otherwise. The whys are just the whys. Hope is playing hide and seek. Case stated. Case known. Case still open.

Is it my turn to be found? Admits we still need. Still ache. Still struggle. Yet there is something very beautiful in the two lines and how well they fit together.

Hope is playing hide and seek.

Is it my turn to be found?

In those two lines is hope. We trust we will have our turn again. We trust in hope.....and that is hope.

Being human is to be honored. Being a whiny, weak, walking talking drama fest isn't. We all have those moments. How we deal with them tells of our character. You helped me understand that, Mom. By example. The example of your character...and your humanity. Thanks. Hope you like the poem, Mom.

Along The Road

Sitting on a bench, waiting for a savior.

Eating from their box of chocolate covered pain.

They offer bites of sweetness gone bitter.

Conditioned loans disguised as loving gifts.

I sat with them and shared until queasy.

Then hit the road, tear waved upon the trip.

My home is on the road labeled as less traveled.

Went far to look and only had to see.

These hands will touch and further learn of healing.

Fairy dusted words will flow on Divine wind.

Paths to learn, the mountain peaks are calling.

Almost benched but now tasting life's warm kiss.

Note to Mom:

This poem reminds me of Forest Gump. Mom. Him on the bus stop bench fully immersed in a box of chocolates. This is bench-sitting time for me, Mom. Sitting to lick my wounds for a few minutes.

We find what we look for in life, Mom. There are lots of reasons for bitterness and we can find them and be great at bitter. Me? I have a sweet tooth for life. I am wired to see the sweetest things in life even when the bitter sours my taste for people for a nano-second or two.

So, I sat on the bench in the first verse and then got off my slightly bruised butt and walked for a while. Wasn't really waiting for a bus. Just needed to sit and lick my wounds for a few minutes. Needed to get that sour taste out of my mouth.

Sweetness comes easy to me. You know that from my many visits to your can of Condensed Milk. I still put Condensed Milk in my coffee, Mom and it has me feel you each and every time. Mother's Milk. Thin Mints and Milky Ways make me think of Dad. More sweet things. More sweet memories. When it comes right down to it, I am a bundle of sweet. Sweet enough to know bitter things and overcome any of my bitterness with sweet belief.

My home is on the road labeled as less traveled. A place of sweetness and light. Sounds almost like a fairy tale. A dream come true. Well, it is a fairy tale come true. Magic healing inside of us. Pixie dust to make the blues turn to jazz and rock and roll. Everything's coming up roses and daffodils.

Bitterness had me sit me for a few moments to catch my breath. Then I was on my way tasting life's warm kiss. It tastes a lot like Condensed Milk, Mom. A real lot. Mmmmm. Mmmmm. Good.
Anyone? Anyone?

Does it really make a difference?

Can the planet be saved?

Is there hope for tomorrow?

When comes the grave?

Will the button be pushed?

Is all this for naught?

Have I done what I should have?

Have I done what I ought?

Then she smiled up at me.

She had barely turned three.

What was the question again?

Note to Mom:

It only took a smile, Mom. One smile. This one was from Meghan, one of the nine Grandkids. Four boys, four girls, and one angel. Was pondering big things. Global things. Things about making a difference and can we really make a difference. Is there enough we can do to move the globe to light and joy?

There is enough going on in the world that we can wonder. Wonder if we really can make a difference. So I was in that state of mind. Something just short of pessimism but low on optimism. Just wondering if recycling, getting along with neighbors, sharing resources, and being nice could change things.

Then Meghan smiled at me. It could have been any of the Grandkids and it would have worked just as well. Could have been any kid for that matter. Yes. Yes, it does matter. It matters today............and even more tomorrow. They are tomorrow and they deserve our best today. That is enough why.

So I smiled and stopped wondering. We walked around the block that day. Same walk we had made dozens of times. Same old rocks, same old houses, same old Pop-Pop. Yet it was enough. Enough to enjoy the simple things like walks around the block.

Simple things are enough. Each of my kids parents their kids differently. Just like each of yours does. Yet I know they would do anything for their kids and want the best for their kids and all kids. They may differ in how they do things but why they do things is the same. They love their kids and want the world to be a great place for them. Today....and all the tomorrows.

It only took a smile, Mom. One smile. It really does make a difference.

Before Your Eyes

What are you looking for?

When will you find it?

While you are looking.

Don't leave it behind.

What are you seeking?

Where do you look?

Be sure you know.

Be sure to look.

Before your eyes.

Be sure to look there and see.

What you long for may be.

It may be already there.

Before your eyes.

See what is yours this day.

Look right here, not away.

Home where your heart truly lays.

Before your eyes.

Not in the mountains or seas.

Longing for what may just be.

Reaching for some other key.

Before your eyes.

Laying right there in your hand.

X marks the place that you stand.

Wake and honor the band.

Before your eyes.

Before its no longer there.

Before you lost all the care.

Before the curtain does tear.

Note to Mom:

Maybe it is an evitable right of passage that we must go looking for what we already have, Mom. Click those heels together, Dorothy. Home is what you hunger for and home is what you seek. There is no place like home.

Yet home is mobile, Mom. It is with us wherever we go when we are loved. Home is where the heart is and the heart is wherever we go. Everyone lives in Mobile Homes. Life is one big trailer park.

The stuff that made me happy in Keansburg is the stuff that makes me happy now. Simple stuff. A house full of memories and stories. Maybe it is me that is full of memories and stories. Perhaps that house really isn't all that important. Although I love the house on 1 Maple and my home in Roy. Two of my favorite places. Those two have dibbs when it comes to my heartstrings. Yet it really is about much more than the buildings. It is the life in them, near them, and all around them.

Life. Faces with names and stories. Bit players in our lives yet we know the gist of their show. At least enough to hope it has a happy ending. Everyone deserves a happy ending.

Not that we have wait until the end for happiness. Happiness is ours for the having. In moments of remembering with photos and stories. Along side friends enjoying laughter and love. Alone when nature surrounds us with magic. Waking from sweet sleep and smiling in the day. The sound of the sigh after our first taste of a really good cup of coffee. In the feather grip of a baby's hand on one of our fingers. Happiness is within our grasp and reaching for us all the time.

Still we often search. Living enigmas. Tumbleweeds wishing for roots. Fish eyeing birds with envy. We look at what we are not and wish we were. We head out into the world to find what is all around us. Round and round we go........and end up with stories to share in front the fire of that place where we know we are safe and loved.
How Little I Knew about:

how much work it took to put in a garden.

how good gardening is.

how simple joy is and how much of it was in my back yard.

how much less I needed to buy.

how to produce what I need to survive.

what I really need to survive.

the local walking and hiking paths.

public transportation and my own two feet.

finding free things and being patient in the looking.

being creative with my yard projects.

my neighborhood and my neighbors.

how many of my neighbors share tips and resources.

how to share tips and resources

how to share tips and resources across the globe

how cool it is to be an environmentalist.

the global impact of each one of my choices.

how much of a difference I made and can make.

how much more I have to learn.

Note to Mom:

Will you put this one on the fridge, Mom? It is more like that than it is a poem. A didn't I do good and isn't this a good list, sort of thing. It might not even belong in a book of poems. Well, this isn't just a book a poems, Mom. It is a love letter. A really long, lots of the poems and stories and stuff in the mix, love letter from me to you. It is me talking to you. People will read it though, Mom. Some people that know me and some people that know you and some people that know both of us. Others will read it though, Mom. Lots of others. People that haven't and may never meet me. Yet they will read this love letter. They will read it and think of the ones they love.

Maybe that is why I started this in the first place. To share my stories about love and know that others love that much and more. Some will read this and it will confirm how much they love. They love as much as I love you and you love me. That will be cool when they read and feel their love. What will be even cooler are the ones that read it and suddenly realize they love that much. It will help them realize they love and are loved as much as the love that shows in this love letter disguised as a book of poems and some notes to my Mother.

Pretty cool. Ain't it, Mom? So I included this one even though it might not belong in a book of poems. It sure belongs in a love letter from a son to a mom. Sons want to do things that Moms want to put on the fridge. Things that others will see and some will even say, "Wow, that is really good." After all, let's accept facts. Moms put some stuff on the fridge that only Moms can really appreciate. Yet there are things on fridges worthy of note.

There are some things I wrote that people printed and put on their fridge, Mom. Really. Cross my heart and hope to......well, no I don't hope to die. Pinky Swear. Let's go with Pinky Swear. People saw some of my stuff and asked if they could put it on their fridge. Heck yeah! My stuff on someone else's fridge? Someone I have yet to meet? How cool is that, Mom? You could put that on your fridge. "My son's stuff is so good, it is on other people's fridges too." Now that's an achievement.

I left this one in, Mom, even though it felt like something that was just for you. Turns out maybe it was for others too. Just like this love letter, Mom. Is it alright that I share my love letter to you with the whole world, Mom? Yeah. That is what I thought you'd say.

Dirty Poem

Alle alle in free.

Come play in the dirt and feel me.

Plant a few seeds and then see.

Row upon row of tranquility.

Questions forgot for the time be.

Gardeners are a bit less spacey.

Watered real well unless rainy.

Tend with your hands on bend knee.

Help yourself feel really happy.

Note to Mom:

I still play in the dirt and get pretty dang dirty, Mom. Playing in the dirt still feels good. Actually, it even feels better. Have a garden in the back yard, worked with Paul Farber to put in a tire/planter garden at the Ogden Nature Center, actually compost, and even sponsor a group called Green Arts. At one forum, the woman in charge introduced me as an environmentalist. Until she said that, I didn't realize I was.

Maybe that is key. We become things before we realize we are those things. When I was involved in Special Operations, we spent time in the desert in New Mexico. Our mission was a very real one.....to rescue the hostages in Iran. Well, that didn't work out and five of the eight people that died in the desert were faces and names I knew. That was a tough time, Mom.

How does that relate to this? Well, I was a supply officer and had several troops deployed with me there and around the world. We were assigned to the Commandos. One of the NCOs had a very serious conversation on the back on a C-130 one night as we flew to gather some critical parts. He said he was a bit embarrassed to be introduced as a Commando. For him, Commandos were those other guys in the unit. The ones that carried the guns and went face to face with the enemy. He said he was a supply troop and that being a Commando had to be earned. My advice to him was to focus on the mission and realize that we had to be as good as anyone in the unit for the mission. We had to be Commandos in that way.

A few months later, he and I were walking across the compound just after launching choppers on one of the last practice runs. We had some Midnight chow and headed back to the landing area to recover the birds. I looked at him and really saw him. Looked at me and really saw me. Sand covered fatigues, go to hell hats, bandanas for our mouths, goggles for our eyes, well broken in everythings, and a bunch of stuff strapped to our sides like gunslingers. We were grizzly veterans of hard word for a very important mission. I stopped him in his tracks. "Holy Shit. Look at us. Look at us." He did. I smiled, "We're Commandos."

Sometimes you become something before you know you are. Sometimes you play in the dirt for reasons that are about anything other than play. I did my job in the military to the best of my ability. I am an environmentalist now, Mom. Didn't see that coming.
Blue Jeans and T-Shirt Man

Blue Jeans and T-Shirt Man.

Life turned out different than planned.

Tried the uniform and even the suits.

Now speaking your mind, living your truth.

Poets and Singers and Hobos and Jews.

Lessons abound once you really do choose.

Trains whistles get you and little girl eyes.

Rip you wide open, in that place where you cry.

Deserts feed thirsts and the ocean just drains.

Moon has your number and werewolves your pain.

Stars adorn nothing and tattoos tell tales.

Whore well the words birthed in your wail.

Yes, you were clueless despite good intent.

Time is restricted and space you just rent.

Breathe every moment and sleep when you can.

You have much more to do, don't bother to vent.

Judge not the judges for you once judged a ton.

Be not above the things you have done.

Smile in awareness as you move to the light

Blue Jeans and T-Shirts fit you just right.
Note to Mom:

Maybe this one is really well placed after the last one, Mom. This is me. Blue Jeans and T-Shirt Man. The most constant of agent of change is me. Yet I am still me. More me. More in tune with my gifts and whatever the heck I am supposed to do with them. This book is the new me.......and yet the old me is all through it.

So this is my look in the mirror. Acceptance. We have to honor where we have been and understand where we are. All those things that came before had to be. Had to know the feel of patriotism and honoring oaths. That level of dedication and obedience is worthy of respect. I learned by living it and then living it even more as my Allegiance broaden. Your son is a citizen of the world. Bigger than any one flag. Greater than any one symbol.

We learn and we graduate and head out to save the world. The learning is really about ourselves. To know what we should be when we grow up. Well, I am still growing up, Mom. Still learning about my place in the world.

Had to make a lot of up on my own. Look at my career path. Military career, corporate officer, CEO of a privately owned business, sales manager, semi-retired, body worker, life coach, test proctor on an Air Force Base, writer, and whatever comes next. They don't have that career plan in any book anywhere. Not bad for a kid that drive the train at the Kiddie Park and delivered soda and beer in the Burg.

So, what do I want to be when I grow up? Well, Blue Jeans and T-Shirt Man sounds pretty good. Let's try that for a while.

A Little Less me

Dreaming in a new way, a little less me.

Feeling such a new day, a little less me.

Standing by the wayside, a little less me.

Watching as time flies, a little less me.

Did you see where he went? It's been a while.

Kinda knew what he was. Liked his style.

Seems he went in hiding. Deep in some abyss.

Hoped it worked out real well. He is kinda missed.

The world really truly matters, a little less me.

Words can fly for miles, a little less me.

Everything is different, a little less me.

All is right in Whosville, a little less me.

Dang, you know some good things. Learned along the way.

Can you share them with me? Each and every day.

Someone had me read this. Now it is your turn.

Good to share what's given. Together we will learn.

Glad you have your new light, a little less me.

Everything will be alright, a little less me.

Such a pretty garden, a little less me.

World keeps right on spinning, a little less me.
Note to Mom:

More or less? Seems like they are one and the same at times, Mom. Maybe more or less is Yin Yang. The more we have, the less content we are. The more we laugh, the less we cry. The more we love, the less we hate. Maybe more or less is balance.

Reminds of that Jimmy Durante song, "Did you ever have to go but you want to stay?" He did as only Jimmy Durante could. Stood at the piano to leave, sat back down to stay. Hat on, hat off. Inka-Dinka-Doo. Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are. Jimmy was so much Jimmy. Maybe that is why I remember him so well. He wasn't trying to be anything. He was just being Jimmy Durante.

Dad liked Jimmy Durante a lot. Whenever the Schnozzle showed up on Ed Sullivan or any show, Dad smiled. Even before Jimmy said anything, Dad was happy. Those are special people. People that make us smile at the very thought of who they are. That is a gift. Jimmy made Dad feel good just by being Jimmy. People like that are divine gifts.

Your Granddaughter Michele is like that. An amazing being of light that brightens the world just by breathing. She became a nurse, Mom. A nurse. How special is that? How exactly right is that? She walks through the world with pixie dust in her wake. We need more pixie dust. Michele as a nurse is perfect.

Your granddaughter Susan is another one with pixie dust, Mom. Her light is amazing. She is a gift to the world. She became a body worker. An energy healer. More. Perfect. Given gifts, learning gifts, sharing gifts. Susie knows dark and light and the light is winning, Mom. She is a walking Yin Yang. Life as a balancing act.

Michele. Susie. Jimmy Durante. People just being themselves. People that spread smiles and happiness with even the thought of them. Gifts.

Maybe there is a little less me and that makes me more. More at peace. More in tune with the gifts that are all around us in this world. More able to appreciate the Jimmy Durantes. More hopeful for tomorrow thanks to the Micheles, Susies, and so many other wonderful beings of magic.

World keeps right on spinning, a little less me. Letting go can be a challenge, Mom. Right up until we realize that less is more.

A New Breed

Is Mother the portal to Womyn?

When you bleed is it time to take seed?

Is Mother the portal to Womyn?

Are you really just here to breed?

You don't need to breed to impact the world.

The powers within Womyn and Girl.

Link together a new Us.

A heard Us, a feared Us, a known Us.

Mothers and Daughters, a powerful breed.

The World as family, love as creed.

Is Mother the portal to Womyn?

How many kids are too much?

Is Mother the portal to Womyn?

Or is there more to you than that?

You don't need to breed to impact the world.

The powers within Womyn and Girl.

Link together a new Us.

A heard Us, a feared Us, a known Us.

Mothers and Daughters, a powerful breed.

The World as family, love as creed.

Is Mother the portal to Womyn?

Must you be we to feel me?

Are you complete when alone?

Must he be deep within you to make you feel whole?

You don't need to breed to impact the world.

The powers within Womyn and Girl.

Link together a new Us.

A heard Us, a feared Us, a known Us.

Mothers and Daughters, a powerful breed.

The World as family, love as creed.
Note to Mom:

I love the Feminine, Mom. You and the Nuns affected me in so many ways. Our house was indeed a Matriarchy and Dad knew it. I knew it. You ran the roost. My childhood was a pincher movement of powerful women. Home and School. You got me coming and going. It shaped me. I was weaned on nurturing strength and honor it in all things since you sent me out into the world.

Quite frankly, the world would be a better place if the Feminine ran in. Beings of unconditional love that can and will kill yet know that is the last resort. Some believe women ran the world and that changed thousands of years ago. Perhaps that is true. It just might be a myth. Likely a bit of both.

We are all both genders. We are all both male and Female. Those energies are within each and every one of us. While the gender of our flesh tends to shape our thinking and even our choices, living above gender is embracing both energies. It is being more.

One of the highest compliments I was ever paid was when someone said I am a male with a female soul. What an amazing thing to be told. It let me know something was working right. The lessons and examples of you and the Nuns shined right through at that moment, Mom.

Let's wake up the Feminine. In all of us. Unconditional love. We are all children when at our best. Play nice. Share. Get along. Pick up your own mess. Wash your hands before dinner. Say Grace. Take what you want, eat what you take. Help out around the house. Go play outside. Be home in time for supper. Be a good boy. Be a good girl. Treat others the way you want them to treat you. Be honest.

The rules are pretty simple. We just need to live them just like you made sure I did when I was a kid. Just like the Nuns did when I was a kid. At times, I feared you and the Ladies in Black. At times. I respected you and them more than I realized and was loved far more than I knew. Yes, the Feminine is my way.

Now, can I just go play, Mom? I will be good. Pretty please?
Word Man

On the cusp of darkness, music touched me with light.

Songs shared save souls thought lost and hopeless.

My words are my lyrics and I shall sing loud and long.

Words and music, Eddie. Words and Music.

I am the Wordman. You be the Walrus.

Let's dance in the fire of change that lights the darkness.

Let's sing while we slay the dragons that heard our silence.

My sword is in my hand, you carry the tune.

The song on my lips is the music of life.

Kiss me with the melody of Kindred Spirits and Common Sense.

Sonatas and Cantatas and Sing along with Mitch.

This Choir of Angels is not to be missed.
Note to Mom:

Mom, I really am a writer. When writing, I am Elvis. On Stage. In the studio. Jamming just because. His life was music. Music was his touchstone. My words are my music and singing is so damn right.

My tune is me. My soul belted out......whispered......acapella.....with the house band......a full orchestra.....pushed to its limits until everything else is the stuff between singing. That is how important writing is for this little boy of yours, Mom. It is what I do......was meant to do........and will keep doing.

Elvis was at times tortured by his gift. He wondered if he was doing what he was supposed to do. His questions were broad and deep. Why me? Why me? Then he sang. When he sang, the questions stopped. When he sang the questions were all answers.

He lost his way a few times, Mom. Made lesser choices. The story of the 1968 Comeback special was a man finding himself again. His concert at Madison Square Garden was called a Resurrection. Elvis lost his way....and then returned to the music where he belonged. When he sang, he was at his best. Those times he sang great stuff, he was even better. Better than his best. When he pushed himself, his best stayed just ahead of him. In the next song.......in the next note. Each time he reached for his best, he moved forward.

The Elvis Songbook is amazing on so many levels. Quantity. Quality. Diversity. Genres. There are blues, torch songs, cry in your beer stuff, holiday standards and not so standards, movie tracks, cover versions, original hits, outtakes, alternative versions, gospel, country, easy listening, folk, pop, rhythm and blues, and, of course, rock n' roll. He sang it all. They speak of people being able to "sing the phone book." Quite frankly, only Elvis and Frank Sinatra could sing the phone book and Elvis had a phone book from more area codes. Elvis did a song for everyone.......and a lot more for most of us.

Elvis sang. Still sings. His music is his legacy. A legacy that outlived the man and anything the man did. I write, Mom.

The song on my lips is the music of life.

Kiss me with the melody of Kindred Spirits and Common Sense.

Sonatas and Cantatas and Sing along with Mitch.

This Choir of Angels is not to be missed.

Watch me sing, Mom. Just watch me.

Poetman

Refused to rhyme at any time.

Artist first, in your face in a second.

Didn't get those that didn't get him.

Didn't get himself much of the time.

Didn't think when he wrote.

Didn't write when he thought.

Dreaded the lulls.

Dreaded the frenzies.

Lived between this side of agony and the edge of ecstasy.

Breathtaking gasps of birthing and dying to birth.

Spit it out then mined it for nuggets of truth.

Masked his cluelessness in stunning revelations.

Hid his suffering and exposed his soul.

Cried wordy tears.

Stepped inside you and made himself at home.

Cursed his blessing.

Lived his truth.
Note to Mom:

This one reads like a eulogy to me, Mom. I am more than a poet but the poet likes being remembered by these words.

Words flow through me when they are ready and then they flow on their own tide. I let them. Careful about spelling and the fundamentals of grammar. The Nuns beat that into me via repetition and fear. The other rules are optional in my poetry.

Tried Haiku. Hated it. Way too limited for me. It is pretty but boxed. Must say it in this many syllables and this many lines. Screw that. I respect it. Just discarded it.

A few of my poems rhyme. Not many though and even then it is hit and miss. If it feels right, it stays. If it is forced, it falls short of truth for me.

The radical me is the writer. Well, truth be told, the radical me is present more and more. I question everything. Used to be much different. One part of the machine that accepted if you did this, this happened. Measured success with someone else's ruler. Followed a path that was approved and expected. Did pretty well, too.

Then I shook off definitions and lived.

Yeah, this poem reads like a eulogy. Living our truth is a good eulogy. Loving our life is a good eulogy. Making a difference is a good eulogy. Came to this world empty, filled up, and left it all behind. Life is kinda like Las Vegas....what happens here, stays here.

My words will outlive me. Let my legacy be a life of truth that mattered. Word, Mom. Word.
My Prayer

This is my body.

This is my blood.

This is my soul.

These are my words.

Share them freely for in the sharing I live forever.

If you wish to know me, I am here and always shall be.

Forever and ever. Amen.

Note to Mom:

We only have stuff for others, Mom. None of it is our stuff. Everything we need is outside of ourselves. We are put here to share and our needs shall be met.

People that gave themselves away fully are really still here. We have their smiles, healing magic, stories, and so much more. Beyond one generation. They live forever.....because they left everything behind for the rest of us.

When I first posted this poem, one woman said it was sacrilegious. Sounded too much like what Jesus said. She was quite put out. I knew it was right then. After all, Jesus said do this in memory of me. Did he say just don't talk about it? Just don't actually say it? Don't dare to say the words that someone said are my words? Don't do that but do this in memory of me?

Jesus gave us an example of sharing ourselves totally. Perhaps the one question we will be asked when we cross from this place to that next place is "What did you give?" Well, I gave it all.

The only things that die with us are the things we didn't share. Life is eternal. Forever and ever, Amen.
Family Plot

Thirty-Three Years.

A Son here that long.

A Father gone that long.

Fifty-Nine Years.

A Father here that long.

A Son here that long.

What's It About, Alfie?

How's it hanging, Bud?

Numbers. Time.

Fathers. Sons.

Death. Resurrection.

Darkness. Light.

Addictions. Recovery.

I said Good Bye.

Knock Knock.

One step ahead.

Twelve Steps together.

A Mother and Child Reunion.

Father and Son ain't no picnic.

Me and Sis are doing fine.

Jack knows we love him.

He knows you did and do.

Family.

More than one name.

More than one parent.

More than when we are here.

Forever and Ever.

Amen.

All men.

All Womyn.

Every single one of us.

Every Mother's Son.

Every Daddy's Girl.

Round and Round we go.

October to September.

January and March.

Calendar pages fall.

Days become shorter.

Time is now and now is worth living.

If you want to see the genie, you gotta rub the lamp.

I reached to the sun and it turned into the night.

Cried into the night and woke up in the light.

Walked up the mountain and ran out of land.

Down to the ocean and slept in the sand.

Nowhere follows me everywhere I go.

Thought it was high when it was low.

Searching for things I knew along the way.

Yesterday ambushed me today.

Shadows in living color.

My Father is all around me.

I let him in and he stayed forever.

Make Room for Daddy.

No One is alone.

I am with them.

We are with them.

Just another Joe.

How's is going, Mac?

They came for your funeral.

Because you saw them every time.

Every single time.

That is my Father's gift to me.

Everyone in sight.

See.

Alle-Alle-In-See.

See.
Note to Mom:

This one is all about Dad, Mom. It flowed one day in a way that was really hard. Yet it kept going. An emotional spill.

Felt important. Significant to others. As if to say I feel him, know him, and miss him and everything is okay. A sweet melancholy. Yes, melancholy can be sweet. Missing and aching yet knowing it is already better.

It surprises me when I remember Dad was old for so long. He seemed old even when I was a little kid. Like he got there and stayed there for a long time. Get old early. Not exactly something that would sell. Yet Dad got old early.

He was so much an everyman. People liked him. I see him in so many people. The best of people. The guy who just does his job with very little fanfare. Quiet heroes that put their family first and often go without and just don't bitch about it. The guy in the back of the shop that cranks out some amazing stuff even though the folks that own the place don't really know his story. Dad put anyone else first. If he had it, he would share it. When someone needed a hot meal, a few bucks, or even a roof over their heads, they knew Dad was a soft touch.

A soft touch. The world needs more soft touches. Dad was hard on himself and easy on everybody else. He forgave strangers easier than he did the man in the mirror. If the world treated Dad like Dad treated the world, he would have been a much happier guy.

Even his sadness was quiet. Until he drank of course. Then it was a pity pot of anger and blame. "These people give ya. They give ya. They give ya the sweat off their balls." One of his standards. It came with the booze.

Yet I am the man I am because of the man my father was. I am proud to be his son. Proud to be the son of someone that really saw people. Proud to be the son of a man that let me know he was proud of me. He saw people. I do too. That is the way it is because I am my Father's son.

Old Home Ways

Forty years ago is clearer than yesterday.

Saluting old bullshit flags from when we mattered.

Pitying the scurried youthful families we envy.

Wishing for a damn steak now rendered deathly and unchewable.

Nightly fight over the remote the main event.

Flirtations eagerly accepted from out of stock advertisers.

Sleep increasing in direct proportion to prayers for anything else.

Outside reduced to within sight of inside.

Dancing without leaving our seats.

Measuring the days by "when do we eat?"

Wishing the news came on an hour earlier.

Pills and shots for things that we don't even understand.

Too happy volunteers smiling as if we are already gone.

Reduced from all the time to occasional to "has it been that long?"

Smiling for no reason except that we finally get the joke.

Note to Mom:

I am glad you lived at home right until the end, Mom. If you had gone to a Senior Citizen's place, you would have taken it over in short notice. You had that way about you. You were sharp as a tack and that makes for natural leaders. The folks would be doing everything Katie's way and be afraid to even think about changing.

Senior Citizens know stuff. We need to respect our Elders. The wisdom there is beautiful to see. A knowing peace and acceptance that things will go rough for as long as we make them. This poem is about that. It is about getting the joke and smiling because you really do understand.

Like Etta and Thelma. Do you remember them? You met them once or twice when you visited Utah. They were the two ladies in the Senior Citizen home that I visited each Saturday for a few years. Started out as something for me and the kids to do so the kids had older folks to visit that lived closer. Their involvement lasted a few weeks. They did not want to go back to a place that "smelled like old people". It was up to yours truly to keep my own commitment to visit some locals that didn't have family close. Etta and Thelma fit the bill. Maybe it was me who fit their bill.

If I missed a Saturday or came a bit late, they let me know. Etta was a soft and gentle soul. A bit sad, she was put in the home just before her family moved back to Colorado. She kept waiting from them to come and take her back "home" to the Rocky Mountain State. In time, she just said she would go home in a box. She was right. She deserved better.

Thelma was the scamp. She knew all the goings on, which kitchen staff were good for a snack off menu, who said what about whom to whom, and everything about anything. She ran the place.......much like you would have. She liked the visits. As if I was her co-conspirator as she reported "How the Home Turns".

At the holidays, I dressed as Santa and even had pictures with Santa time. They loved it. Saw quite a few of those photos on nightstands in the rooms. One March, Thelma turned to me in one of her very rare serious moments and asked if she could ask me something. Wondered why she was so very serious. "You were Santa. Weren't you?' I merely smiled and said it would be cool to be Santa. He gets around. She laughed and gave me a kiss.

Seniors are special, Mom. I believed that long before I got close to being one.
Flap

A wisp of wonder.

Just a pause.

The barest of unformed questions.

Zygote thought, closer to abortion than light.

Wind stall?

Downdraft?

Free fall?

Unsure arms extended for soar.

Silent prayer silenced firmly.

Stomach rumbles quietly.

Mind assures yet questions.

Just a bit.

A wisp of wonder.

Twinge of doubt.

Human.

Oh so Human.

Where did the Earth go?

When did flying become where I am?

Soon the currents will be again.

Soon.

Up calls.

Up calls.

I just must quiet to hear it.

Shhhhhh.

Shhhhhh.

Shit.

Shit.

Shhhhhh.

Shhhhhh.

Note to Mom:

Otherworldly, Mom. Out there in the cosmos and enjoying the trip. Debbie, Sharon's sister said that when I die, they are just going to pick me up in the mother ship. Cool. That's alright with me.

I was out there where the mother ship comes from when this poem eased through me. It feels like a drug-induced poem. It isn't. I am high on life. One night in Alaska, two of the guys cornered Sergeant Rector and asked her if I drank. She said nope. They were surprised. Actually said, "You mean he is like that and he DOESN'T drink??" Made me smile when I heard that. Give me a natural high any day.

Flying. Soaring through the air and then through the waters of any ocean and every sea. Just me. Morphing. Not a dream. No drugs. Just feeling the wind and following it. It crosses time and space. You are on the couch next to me, smiling as I write. Nice to have you here on the porch again. Thanks for being quiet and letting me write.

We are all of that and more, Mom. I believe in stuff. Lots of stuff. Magic stuff. Where people get along. Children are safe and warm. There's enough food at everyone's table. A warm bed to sleep in at night and dreams that dance in places so peaceful that we realize home is all the magic we need. So I spread my wings and fly, Mom. For real. Aching for everyone to know what I know and feel what is inside of me. A love stronger than any thing anywhere. Light brighter than the darkest evil man can conceive. I fly and dream and believe in all of that, Mom.

It began at 1 Maple Ave. Under that roof. In that town. With you and Dad and Sis and Jack. It is all so very simple. We can all get along. The world can be as wonderful as it was back then and as it now for me. This is not fantasy. This is critical. People are dying out there. Dying inside. Wondering if any one sees them. If anyone loves them. If anyone cares. I will fly to them and kiss their boo-boos and hug them until they believe me. I will do my very best to save the world. Because you let me know I can.....and should.

Comfort

I use to be a Burner, but now I'm feeling burned.

Use to be an earner, tell me what I learned.

Use to be much younger, now I'm kinda old.

Was once a damn fine soldier, did what I was told.

Let me lean on you a moment.

Just to catch my breath.

Kiss me with your comfort.

Then we'll get rest.

Ignore my sobs, I'm lonely.

Mommy went away.

Come and feel me in you.

Let's just drift away.

Use to be a poet, got tired of the rhymes.

Use to get a paycheck, felt good at the time.

Use to be a player, now I like to dance.

Once had many lovers, now just want a chance.

Let me lean on you a moment.

Just to catch my breath.

Kiss me with your comfort.

Then we'll get rest.

Ignore my sobs, I'm lonely.

Mommy went away.

Come and feel me in you.

Let's just drift away.

Note to Mom:

One of those pauses when we need to catch our breath and have someone hug us. This poem insisted on being last, Mom. Waited until all the others were done and my soul was so wide open that everything was emotion. Everything was raw and pure. It insisted on being at the end of the line.

Yet it feels right here. I am that vulnerable right now. That spent. A curl up into a ball and just be held place. People need to cuddle more, Mom. Life has me spending more time in and out of hospitals and clinics lately. People need to cuddle more while they are waiting. Maybe they could have designated cuddlers. Huggers. People that really know how to hug. When to just hold and be quiet. When to listen and be quiet. When to speak in true words that touch. Feeling deeply is an art. Feeling others deeply is a gift. We need hugging hospitals, Mom. Hugging homes. Hugging schools. Hugs are magic.

Remember our cuddles, Mom? I sure do. Just holding each other and feeling safe. Sometimes I held you, other times you held me, at all times we felt each other. People were made to fit with others. Our bodies adjust to those we hug.

Everyone understands the fake hugs. Polite exchanges of non-touch. Give me full body exchanges. Presses of flesh and soul. Real hugs are felt.......inside and out. Handshakes disguised as hugs don't fool people. Get in there and hug or quit pretending.

Your son hugs a lot and will hug even more now. I am comfortable with people being uncomfortable. Can hug right through discomfort......,mine and theirs. Can hug until it feels like we need a cigarette after. Hug until we feel like there should be rings involved. We need those kind of hugs, Mom. "Wow. Was it as good for you as it was for me?'. Hug them right into silence. Hug them until when they look into your eyes you see them say, "I love you, too."

"I love you, too." Proof we touched them and they felt it.

"I love you, too." Knowing the hugs really worked.

I love you, too, Mom. I love you, too.

