On Forgetfulness

If you hear me complain that I cannot recall
     where I put my car keys,  or my dead cell phone,
     when I came home from wherever it was that I went yesterday ...
Please ask me if I can remember
       the very first time our baby grabbed my finger,
           or called for me in the middle of the night,
               or how I felt when the school bus pulled away
  that September day, so many years ago.

Dallas

When comrades have fallen, people feel fragile,

Suddenly humble, when all has gone wrong.

You cannot hide sorrow behind your bravado.

Heros will crumble, no matter how strong.

DaeAnna's Blessing

May you find security when you're caught out in the cold.
May you find serenity when chaos has control.
Until you learn you're not alone, without having to be told,
May you hear a small voice say, "It's OK".
                          " It's OK, I'm right here with you."
Everywhere you go.

Reuter's photo of Dae'Anna,  "the bravest little girl in the world", aka, " the small voice from the back seat".
     

Some Ideas for My Epitaph

• Oops !
• Still don't have a clue
• 'Tis a far, far better something-or--other
• DC al Fine
• Lift-off, we have Lift-off !
• 42, it IS 42 !
• Gone Fishing (with the worms)
• LOL
• Would someone please feed my cats
• Pickle Me Elmo
• Vacancy
• Ungrateful
• My name is Ozymandius ... Oh, wait ...
• God Almighty, I'm free at last
• Still thinking outside the box
• I'm right behind you
• Error 404 -- File not Found
• At least I'm not hungry
• This, too, shall pass
• Do you want to dance?
• I have to pee real bad !
• Life and Death:  a dream within a dream ... but which is which?
• Fuck the flowers -- go get a shovel !

Seriously, how about "Perchance to Dream"

As a Rainy Day Dawns

Note:  This would make a better song than a poem.  Thus, it is a Work in Progress. 
Suggestions are welcome

As a rainy day dawns,
a weak old man yawns.
His legs and hands ache,
so he knows he's awake.

With groans and with moans
and creaky old bones,
with grunts and with sighs,
the man tries to arise.

His vision is blurred.
He can't hear a word.
With each wheezy breath
he's closer to death.

Accepting his pain,
he smiles at the rain.

When his feet touch the floor
he thanks God once more
for the gift of the dawn
and  the strength to go on,.

TRUST -- the saddest poem I've ever written

I remember the first time, twelve years ago,
   when a spring-loaded kitten
      jumped down from my desk and sat on my lap.
His name was Shamus,
   but we sometimes called him "Wild Thing",
      so I was delighted to have earned a little trust.

Today, "Wild Thing" was sitting on my lap for the very last time,
    as we waited for the vet to open that dreaded door.
He was serene -- I was sad,
   but also delighted that he put all his trust in me.
I remember thinking how his life is truly in my hands,
     and how it troubles me to have already made a decision
         that he doesn't know about ...
 or does he?

One More Night

When my ashes are entombed,
my soul will go into the Gloom
to feel the Burn
                    or see the Light.     

I asked the Keeper of the Gate,
"Do I really have to wait?"
 I want to learn.
                    She said, "Alright."

If you perceive a fuzzy glow,
then you will know that I went Home
but have returned
                    for one more night,
                    for one more night.
                    

Port-of-Call

At birth,
      we disembarked to a port-of-call
             full of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure.
We may view it as a furlough,
       as a life sentence of imprisonment in a body,
             or as an all-day pass at an amusement park.
When the Captain blows the whistle,
        we stop what we're doing, return to the ship
                     and sail on.

A NEW YEAR (and I don't care)

5:30 am, January 1, 2014.

A new year and I'm still here. For that, I'm grateful.
Yet, what difference does a new year make?
Every day, every hour, every minute,    
every breath is a new beginning,
If I declare it to be so.
On we go.

One step into the future is a step out of the past.
But what of the moment? Where am I now?
If always coming or going,
     when does a human have time for being?
When is Life?

We leave the past behind:
      the celebration and the sorrow.
Memories are safe there -- nothing can hurt them.
Tomorrow has hope and fear, dreams and tears,
     and maybe even glory.
Is that the real story? I don't think so.
Every story has a beginning and an ending.
That's what we remember,
      but it's the middle that really matters:  
      where the peanut butter meets the jelly.

When I look at my hands, I can see where I am and where I have been.
I feel the roughness and the callouses, the stinging that lingers,
      the wounds not quite healed.
One hand is empty - nothing to clutch, nothing to do.
The other holds a pen.
Ah!  There is the moment  - alive and well,
     creating something, pausing, moving, stopping,
     making sense out of life.  So it goes.

Let the revellers toot their tin horns.
Let them have their new year. I don't care.
All I want is one more breath.

MEMORIES of my COUSIN BOB -- and the RED PLASTIC SCISSORS

Memories of My Cousin, 
Bob Kirk:  a personal reflection

Part I.  The Red Plastic Scissors

I have no memories older than this one -- a gift from my cousin, Bob.  I was no more than 2 years old.  He was in his early twenties.  My mother was his Guardian; and Bob lived with us when he was in college.  I know it was no later than 1948 or 1949, because Bob moved out when he and Jeanne got married; and we moved across the street in 1950.

The "boy's bedroom" had dark maple bunk beds for my brother and me.  I can vaguely see a desk and a single bed. I guess that would have been Bob's bed.  I remember Bob sitting in the chair at the desk, graciously letting me try to cut his hair with a pair of red plastic scissors.  I'm not sure if the scissors were sharp enough, but I do remember that both of us were laughing.  When you've been on the planet for only a couple of years, it's a big deal when you're allowed to do something new like this.  I'm sure Bob had no idea how special that moment would always be to me.

After 64 years, I finally got around to start writing this thank-you note to him ...  and another 6 months to finish it.  My mother always told me to slow down.  (Bob, please tell her I'm OK.) 

_____________________________________________

Part II.  More Memories of Bob -- some big, some small.  

• I remember being puzzled about Bob's last name being different from his brother's.  This was long before Bill Shatner decided to become a Kirk, too.
• I remember when Bob took me on my first airplane ride, sometime in the late 1950s, perhaps 1957 -- on a twin-engine plane with propellers, probably a DC-3, Mohawk Airlines from Boston to Rochester, NY.  It was nighttime -- and pouring rain.  Back then, planes didn't just roar:  they whined and rattled, too.  The flight  was awfully noisy, very dark, quite turbulent and terribly exciting -- but not scary, because Bob was there.
• I remember the house on Seneca Parkway in Rochester.  I recognized the street 50 years later, when some of my NY "family" bought a house a few doors down.  
• I remember a compliment that Bob gave me in that house. Bobbie had tripped over the cord of a big ceramic lamp, which was on the end-table next to my chair.  The flying lamp would have crashed on or near her.  Only a skinny kid could have made that diving catch behind the chair.  I was surprised and pleased to hear such a loud, enthusiastic "Fantastic catch, Vinny" from Cousin Bob.   
• I remember being delighted to learn that Bob was bringing his family back from Rochester to the house they bought on Front Street in Weymouth. 
• I don't remember if I ever thanked Bob for splicing the mast on my first sailboat, the first time I somehow snapped it -- half-way up.
• I remember being impressed by Bob's oil paintings, and those by my own Dad -- and I listened when they talked at the Cape with Van Coleman about technique and composition.  
• I remember, when many a Christmas morning was winding down, the joy of realizing that there would be more fun in the afternoon, when the Kirks arrived like gangbusters.  Sometimes, I didn't realize it until the door burst open.  Suddenly, the day had new life.
• I remember thinking that my Cousin Bob had the ideal family -- better than the Nelsons -- and I confess that there were one or two times when I would have preferred it to my own.
• I remember how Bob told me, as an adult, about his remarkably successful battle with arthritis.  He got me interested in Hatha yoga; and it has helped a lot.  That was one gift from Cousin Bob for which I did express my thanks to him.

Thank you, Bob, for all the inspiration that you gave me through the years.  We miss you here -- but I do believe that you and Jeannie are together again.  I also believe that if we could see you now ... Well,  there's a song about that.*  Please tell  Fr. John that we miss him, too -- and ask if he read what I wrote when he crossed the bar not so long ago.**  You do have Wi-Fi there, don't you?

With Love,
     Cousin Vinny

    

___________________________________________________________________
*   Click HERE  or Google "If You Could See Me Now - Don Moen".
** Click HERE or Google "Meus Deus Pater".

LOOKING YOUTHFUL: Another Semi-Serious Sonnet

If you want to look young, just consider the crayon.

There are some that will alwaysok new.

With tips that stay sharp and wrappers that stay on;

But not Red, Yellow, Purple or Blue.

Likewise, Orange and Green are quite quickly worn down

'Til just a dull stub doth remain.

Even gloomier shades, like the Black and the Brown,

Are soon sticks made of wax on the wane.

Yet the Okra, the White and perhaps the Chartreuse,

With their wrappers that haven't been torn,

Simply stay in their box for they don't get much use,

So their points hardly ever look worn.

But what pride can you take appearing so youthful,

If it means that you're not very useful?

Author's Comment:

Many well-preserved people lead useful lives.  In fact, keeping busy helps keeps you young.  This poem refers to those among us who value appearance only  ~  and don't look deeper.   I'd like to incorporate this point into the poem ...  but who ever heard of a sonnet with three stanzas?

Hey!

Just because it's not about you

doesn't mean that you're not affected by it.

If someone closes a door on your finger or in your face,

even if it's unintentional, 

you have a right to say: "Hey! You closed the door on me!".

If you don't say "Hey!", at least once in a while,

you'll slip backwards toward Irrelevance.

Some people want to be irrelevant.

It requires no courage -- but the cost is self-respect. 

Others refuse to be ignored.

Have no expectations.

If you say, "Hey!" and they get defensive,

rather than apologetic or compassionate,

that's the time to turn the other cheek.

Just watch your fingers next time.

The Prayer of the Children

If you happen to recognize this men's a capella group, please let me know.

I'm breaking my own rule and posting something that's not my own work.  I wish it was.  Click to the right of the "YouTube" logo to get the full screen video -- and grab a tissue.

What is LOVE? Who is GOD? Mysticism for the Shallow Mind

 LOVE is GOD ~
     for GOD is LOVE (1 John 4:8) ~ 
All of it! 
Every warm feeling or thought, 
Every kind word, spoken or written,
Every secret longing, every unselfish action or prayer ~
    ever and everywhere, since the first light of the first dawn.
The unseen, often unfelt, centripetal force that makes us One.
That is what Love is -- and that is who God is.  
Powerful beyond comprehension.  
All the rest is garbage or glitter.
Any more questions?

--  an excerpt from the imaginary anthology, "Mysticism for the Shallow Mind"

Parallel Universe

(click to enlarge)

Olivia's World

 With photo credit to Lisa Hawthorne and apologies to Andrew Wyeth.

(click to enlarge)

Life is NOT Just a Bowl of Cherries...

(Click Picture to Enlarge)

Life is NOT Just a Bowl of Cherries. 
Sometimes Life is a Bowl of Berries.
Sometimes Life is a String of Pearls.
Sometimes Life is a Bag of Squirrels.
Sometimes Life is a Bowl of Warm Piss.
Life is What Happens ~  It is What It Is.

In Memoriam: Meus Deus-Pater

A man of joy.
A man of sorrow.
Easy to love.
A contemplative genius
Too deep to fathom.

He looked like Santa Claus.
The children, for a while, believed he was.
No ... the beard was too well trimmed.
More like Hemingway, I'd say, though
Hemingway's prose was not as poetic.

He excelled at everything.
Even warfare for which he later atoned.
After bombing Nantucket, accidentally,
A fighter pilot in the oxymoronic Pacific War.
He came home more penitent than triumphant.

No mother, no father -- but embraced
by aunts, uncles, cousins and a brother,
plus a new brotherhood of disciples
of Ignatius, in which he made reparation
for acts of war by facilitating Acts of God.

A teacher, missionary and spiritual director.
On countless occasions,
he touched thousands of souls
in hundreds of ways over scores of years,
sharing the grace of one God.

Not without a demon.
In his hour of darkness
he made it down that hallway
with the help of others.
I know he helped them, too.

Even after being struck down,
unable to talk, unable to walk,
his eyes were clear as a starlit sky.
I looked into those eyes one day
as I cut up his chicken dinner.

There was no doubt that my Godfather
was still in there, with an awareness
that would make Buddha smile.
Liberation would inevitably come.
When the Father called, he went in peace.