It happened one day, when I discover humility: from the beginning, to its beginning, when I was unable to peel an orange, bake bread— or, crack an egg… before I made my breakfast, drank my coffee and settled for cold cereal.
I still get up for one more day’s length —from my inviting bed, and make my many visits to my children and grandchildren; catching up with things I never heard, though has been repeated several times. Any way, I usually, on my way out, steal from large pottery bowls, an apple or an orange, sometimes cashews left on the counter tucked in-between in a smaller bowl.
Waving a right handed good-bye and a thankful smile, I drive through Center Sandwich village, before sunset and well before the June’s moon will rise.
I get home, make a late supper, take in another amazing day; then I go to bed smiling with my beads in grateful prayer.
Presence is not known
Until it reveals itself
In true existence
The greatest movie in the evening, I go and watch, when I become bored with myself and have no desire to make a meal or take a walk or even to pop popcorn and turn on the TV —I look out my window.
I watch the leaves dancing on branches making songs from the wind; so I rise and go outside and join in on the chorus as a movie extra, in the production of the “H.M.S. Pinafore”.
Mystics from the past
carry you through the seasons
—you met once before.
On Monday morning, he opened his door, ole slim Lewis just raised his price, at the corner store. Raisin’ the price of flour from 5 cents to 15 cents a pound, no less no more.
I can still hear mama sayin’, “I’d just as soon pick a handful of dandelions and trade them evenly for a pound of pork rinds than give him —the extra dime”.
without honey glazed biscuits,
fried in pork fat rinds.
He feels the strength of her independence,
when she stepped forward —naked with strangers in a local stream;
far from her parents and her lover sitting, with tee-shirt
and dry swimming trunks, life guard symbol on his seam. He is wondering
whether to sit, or, to hold up her abandoned towel —to stand
up, to greet her, with a smile and without giving her any shit, holding out
both his hands.
Yo’ Bro’ wass’ happinin’?
Looks like love has seen a ghost,
Groovin’ and strollin’. 😊
Memorial Day 2018
The threat of death whether on the street, or, worse yet,
being an actor in the theater of war. Death, is ever-present
in all of them; from desk, teaching, jungle, or sand.
Whether killed, captured, or not;
is this fear, whether dismissed in discipline, forgot.
It is because of them, under constant threat,
you can sleep tight, and won’t let the bed bugs bite.
R.I.P …mon père, mes oncles pendant la deuxième guerre mondiale et mon frère cadet, le Vietnam.
Songs are hidden in the words we speak. —sometimes in harmony
with the background hum of those we did not
know or ever meet.
Our melody can sometimes be disheartening
as well as our belly aching, vomiting
between the screeching cacophonous dominant notes
we may have perceived.
My music repetitively keeps playing yesterday’s Rock & Roll songs,
Rhythm & Blues songs, gospel’s black and white songs
—they are all fine—
But, go to the window and lift the shade
and hum them—
as you look at the sun and the future of rain.
Sing off-key if you must —loud and unalarmed.
Sing the songs that are hidden in the conscience that spoke without a word-
putting you in music unharmed.
Hum the song for unity in freedom
that has morally and musically given us;
without disrespect to life in the words
or thoughts written in our songs.
Or, what we sing.
The Banjo Player
I was talking to an old banjo player, pushing a 103 yrs old the other day. I asked him how his band was doing. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with one hand. “It’s over. There were four of us. One is dead, which left three of us unable to play his part and ours at the same time. Besides that, one is as Cuckoo as a broken string. The other young fella, in his late eighties, besides losing his hair has also, seemingly, lost the beat. Towards the end, we realized we were all playing different tunes insisting the other guy was messing up… and looking at each other with the stare of “each of us had better catch-up”. And, what was worst, when we were all on the same song, forgetting the words, we would automatically pick people out in the audience and break out into “Happy Birthday, to You…”.
We still keep in touch…”’
There was a moment of silence, thinking he was reminiscing when he suddenly blurted out, “Now where was I? Oh ya! That was quite a box of good cigars”, sitting back in his chair with a great big smile.