the faithful skeptic

I’ve been here before

2012-01-10T07:35:00.000-08:00

another hotel and I realize

I’ve been here before

two, three times maybe four

to Dallas, not this hotel

but only for conferences

airports, shuttles, hotels,

meetings, USA Today, networking,

meals and goodbye

there were two times

I got away

to see the grassy knoll,

and those making a living

keeping conspiracies alive

same with

Orlando, Vail and Chicago

and others I can’t recall

there was the time I visited the Nelson’s

and went to Wrigley with Mark to see the

Cubs play the Tigers

we sat down the third base line

on Father’s Day, without any of our kids

oh, and also Atlanta,

except for the trip with Kyle

to the 2000 All Star game

the year he graduated and I

had won the radio contest

10 things i didn't expect in 2011

2012-01-06T05:27:00.000-08:00

https://www.catapultmagazine.com/ten-things-5/article/ten-things-i-didnt-expect-in-2011

I missed a week of advent

2011-12-19T09:06:00.000-08:00

I missed a week of advent

as if it disappeared

or maybe never happened

I was in another place

with decorations and

carols all around

and greetings of cheer

from nice, new people

friendly, but unfamiliar

I sat in hotels, meetings and planes

that little convinced my heart or

soul of the soon coming day

I have returned home

bearing an unseen weight

of responsibilities and

expectations with slight chance

I’ll catch up

or be caught up

advent, again

2011-12-11T18:05:00.001-08:00

only a fool

would retell a story

that resists a change

that the world adores

only a fool

would think life

might breath anew

on a dreary, winter morning

only a fool

would reach

for faith and hope

again and again and again

Advent writing project

2011-12-06T19:10:00.001-08:00

check out the advent writing project at "wide open spaces" http://charitysingleton.blogspot.com/2011/11/week-1-day-2-advent-writing-project.html

Seem So Different

2011-12-05T09:03:00.000-08:00

There’s little buzz in our home

Advent begins, Christmas approaches

Decorations are an obligation

And only a few materialize

There’s talk of times past

And of kids now grown

Wondering how we did it all

Guilty whispers that can be ignored

How can an empty nest

Seem so busy?

How can a season

Seem so different?

again

2011-11-28T09:33:00.001-08:00

times like these I get the Psalms

anguished pleas to a distant God

cries for justice, if not revenge

bargaining, begging

sleepless nights

and all too long days

no quick fixes, or simple explanations

only the waiting,

and the memory

that it was different

and the hope

that it may be different, again

the thirty-year itch

2011-11-25T07:09:00.001-08:00

On the tangle of questions and desires at the point of church transition.: http://www.catapultmagazine.com/church/article/the-thirty-year-itch

happy thanksgiving

2011-11-24T09:32:00.001-08:00

have a great day of thanks and enjoy my grandpa goodson's pumpkin pie: http://bellingham.komonews.com/news/community-spirit/692883-let-feasting-begin-grandpas-pumpkin-pie

some say it’s easy

2011-11-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

some say it’s easy,

natural, you can’t stop it

“involuntary” droned

the science teacher

some days

effort overwhelms

crushes my ribs

and empties my lungs

some times it takes more

much more

an act of tenacious will

a choice to continue

too bad

2011-11-14T09:19:00.001-08:00

seems it’s not true

lemmings don’t actually

spend their days waiting

to join the mass hysteria

and head for the nearest cliff

too bad

it’s a great image

helping describe, maybe explain

acts of humanity

that should never have been

another cover-up, (alleged) cover-up

2011-11-10T08:40:00.000-08:00

story says it was years ago

people knew

important people

famous people

they looked away

thought it would be forgotten

hoped it would be forgotten

prayed it would be forgotten

really, forgotten?

kids molested

boys raped and abused

young boys

lost souls

throw aways

tossed into hell

for one man’s pleasure

in the showers

maybe a hotel

or a home, the safe place

could have been on the road

by that man

man of power

sorry,

allegedly by the man of power

there is nothing alleged

about the lives of the boys

struggling toward adulthood

with memories that none

should bear

lost trust

fears beyond reason

hope beyond reach

I was thinking

2011-11-07T10:21:00.000-08:00

I was thinking

I’d go for a walk today

Down to the library

To return a book

With a title I don’t remember

And that I haven’t yet opened

Then stop by the post office

And check for mail

Swing by the creek

To see if salmon are running

Thrashing their way home

To soon and certain death

But I looked out the window

And saw the bucket

Filled with water

From earlier showers

Raindrops began to splash

On the surface

Fulfilling the forecasts

I’d hoped were not true

Lessons for a season as an outsider

2011-10-14T08:41:00.000-07:00

i have a new piece in Catapult Magazine today. please check it out: http://www.catapultmagazine.com/outsider/article/lessons-for-a-season-as-an-outsider

August Evening

2011-10-06T12:17:00.000-07:00

it's national poetry day so i'm re-posting one of my favorites.

August Evening

sitting next to Connie
old, hard, wooden stadium benches
red paint, chipped, gouged and peeling
she puts on her sweater
I put on my sweatshirt

band plays hits of some artist
we know little of and care less for
overbearing 80's synthesizer
annoys me
she doesn't seem to notice or care

beyond the stage I watch carnival rides
loop, spin and race into the evening
colored lights intensify
sky drifts to darkness

near full moon glows above the trees
growing smaller as it brightens
yellow to orange to almost white

we come to the fair almost every year
it's something we do
we learned this spring she has cancer
treatment, fear, hope shadow our days

we talk a bit, decide to leave
i am ready, but hesitate
how many more times we will go to the fair

merit award 2007 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest

I think it happened something like this… #6 - Boredom

2011-09-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

#6 - Boredom

The guys grew tired of record stores, sporting goods, and watching girls. We ended up in a stationary shop. Wandered while the lone clerk reluctantly followed. I picked up a stapler, wove through the shelves, turned a corner, slid it behind some envelopes, and bolted.

The clerk met us at the exit. “I think you forgot to pay for that stapler.”

“What stapler?”

“The one you picked up.”

“You accusing us of stealing? Go ahead. Call the cops.” We smirked, shrugged, offered up our empty pockets.

He feigned looking, backed off. “Get out. Don’t come back!”

We laughed and walked away.

I think it happened something like this… #5 - Russell

2011-09-19T09:15:00.000-07:00

Russell

His puffy red face and misshapen mouth were the result of beatings and non-existent teeth.

He collected bottles and scavenged garbage while mumbling threats to imagined people. He’d pedal fast, bent over the frame of his rusty, crooked bike. Kids would chase and taunt, but never really tried to catch him. Nobody wanted the game to end.

We heard rumors that he lived in a shack near the market. Some older kids bragged to a wide-eyed audience that they sure showed him. “We broke in and trashed the bum’s place.”

I stayed clear of Russell, out of fear or pity.

Going Local

2011-09-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

i have a piece in Catapult Magazine this week. here's the link:

http://www.catapultmagazine.com/going-local/article/my-go-local-rant

Thirty-five

2011-09-14T06:15:00.000-07:00

9.14.74 Connie & I were married. I wrote this poem in honor of our 35th anniversary 9.14.09. I'm re-posting it today, our 37th.

Thirty-five

Sometimes I wasn’t sure
We’d make it
Sometimes I wasn’t sure
I wanted to

When we started
I assumed we’d get here
Expected us to stay together
But had no clue what was ahead
Or what it would take

It’s not a milestone,
Like fifty
But well past twenty-five
People notice twenty-five and fifty
Appears thirty-five
Is no big deal
According to public opinion,
At least

Memories made
And more forgotten
Seasons of devotion
And trials of anxiety
Grace remembered
And offenses forgiven
And much forgiven again

It is the choice we made
The path we’ve followed
And I would choose it again
I think I do
I hope we do
Everyday

April Fool’s Day

2011-09-12T06:25:00.000-07:00

I am re-posting this poem during this our anniversary (37th on 9.14) week.

Someone should make a law
That we hold all weddings on April 1st
Because only fools would make
Those promises

Promises to
Put another person first and
Stick with them
No matter what happens

To love
To sacrificially give
All because of a promise;
It’s almost un-American

There are too many examples
Of failure and despair
Outsiders mock it,
Rationalize, and degrade it

Some lie through their teeth
They make the hollow promises
For convenience
To get what they want

But some, the true fools,
Still make the promises
Maybe their youthful zeal
Blinds them to what’s ahead

And some, more foolish yet,
Keep their promises
Not because it’s easy
Or because they meet all expectations

But true fools believe the promises matter
That love cannot be forced
That it’s sometimes found
By two fools

Who learn to laugh together

I think it happened something like this… #4 - Until Morning

2011-09-06T11:06:00.000-07:00

Until Morning

On the best summer days, we’d play with friends all day and sleep outside at night. You might get to have one friend over. Maybe two.

We’d wait for lights to dim and our parents to sleep. The big maple at the end of the block was our gathering place. We whispered jokes and lies in the dark. Coughs stifled laughter. We’d light and flick matches; in later years, we smoked. Sometimes Denny would strip naked and run around the street.

At the sight of a house light or sound of a car, we scattered to our sleeping bags until morning.

I think it happened something like this… #3 - Clyde

2011-08-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

We knew safe territory. Cut troughs, trails in the woods and trees to climb. There were shacks in forgotten pastures, as if put there for us.

And we knew the places to avoid. Crabby old people or reactive young parents. Most frightening was the house where Clyde lived. He was a few years older than us and strong beyond unbelief. Everybody called him retarded. It was all we knew. He’d yell and chase. Attack at his little brother’s command.

We never saw him at school. He disappeared by the time we hit high school. No one knew where. No one asked.

I think it happened something like this… #2 - A Wad of Bills

2011-08-15T14:57:00.000-07:00

Story #2 in a series of 6 fiction 101entries (a story in 101 words or less) exploring growing up in the '60.

A Wad of Bills

Donny showed us the wad of bills, lots of bills. We followed him to the drug store lunch counter. Burgers, fries and sodas. Cherry for me. Whatever we wanted. He sweet-talked the waitress. She was maybe sixteen, but to us she was a woman. He offered to buy her presents. She refused. Time wore on and someone mentioned getting home for dinner. Donny promised more tomorrow.

After school, we anxiously waited for Donny, dreaming. Doug arrived. “Donny’s dead. He took that money from his dad’s wallet. He’s grounded forever.”

After mumbling and a few shrugs, we started a ball game instead.

I think it happened something like this… I Wonder (1 of 6)

2011-08-09T08:23:00.000-07:00

This is the first in a series of stories based on memories of growing up in the 60’s. Each story is 101 words or less.

I wonder

I wonder what stuff in my memory is more story than fact. Like Johnny from Sunday school, who swallowed his gum and choked to death.

It happened at the grocery store. In my memory, he was wearing a navy blue suit with short pants, because that’s what he wore to church. I was always glad I never had to wear short suits. He was with his grandparents, so his parents didn’t see him go.

I think we would have gone to the same school. We might have been in class together, maybe even sat next to each other, but we didn’t.

Mystery Lode, chapter 5

2011-08-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

http://www.bellinghamherald.com/2011/08/08/2089799/mystery-lode-chapter-five-fresh.html

a poem for my dad

2011-08-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

My dad died on 8.1.07. I wrote this poem a decade later. I'm re-posting it on this day of memories and missing.

August 1, 2007

ten years gone

a decade

August 1, 1997

we were over the mountains at a hotel

waiting to get the kids from camp

I was planning to visit the next week

got the call

you were gone

all the things you don’t know

within days, OK a few months

I had a new job and car

Michael moved out (was in foster care)

we would have talked and you would have cared

I can’t believe you don’t know

I imagine you in your family room

sitting in your chair

(it’s upstairs in our guest room now)

your television and sound system

(big screens and theater sound are the rage,

I know you’d love it)

you’d put in some action movie

tell me “listen to this”

sound would overwhelm the room

it would be impressive

I want to hear you rant about the government

and the unending stupidity of people

I want to play Upwords

just the two of us

you keeping score

for little reason

because you would win

again

Sadie

2011-07-12T09:20:00.000-07:00

Mr. Parker gave us Sadie. She was brown-red with white flecks. Her tail and tongue flapped when she ran. She followed me to school and slept with me every night.

One afternoon, Billy, the biggest kid around, threw a punch at me. Sadie lunged, pressing her teeth on his neck as a deep growl escaped her throat. Billy squirmed loose and took off. I ran home to Mom, bawling, gasping for words of explanation. Sadie was protecting me.

Mom was sitting on my bed, not Sadie, in the morning. “I’m sorry. Dad took her to the pound. She won’t be back.”

"Mystery Lode" chapter 1

2011-07-11T07:08:00.000-07:00

http://www.bellinghamherald.com/2011/07/11/2089795/mystery-lode-chapter-one-a-surprising.html

Whatcom writers shine in 'Mystery Lode,' Herald's new serial story

2011-07-10T10:19:00.000-07:00

http://www.bellinghamherald.com/2011/07/10/2092824/whatcom-writers-shine-in-mystery.html

My Best Stuff

2011-07-05T07:18:00.000-07:00

I’d always wanted to do stand-up. My family was funny. Dad was so quick; his words would be in the next county before the cousins got the joke.

This was my moment. I had an audience, the coveted captive kind. They were laughing, crying and choking. Everything I said was killer, even the words that slurred worked.

I used my best stuff. The teenage couple “lost” in the woods. A priest, a pastor and a rabbi go fishing.

Then she cut me off. “The anesthesia will wear off in a few minutes. You can have visitors in an hour or so.”

Back of the Bus

2011-06-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

We giggled holding hands on the bus in fourth grade. Our first dance was at the seventh grade sock-hop. In tenth grade, I surprised him with a kiss in the library. We said a rushed goodbye on graduation night. Lost contact until the ten-year reunion, both married with kids. At the twentieth, he sobbed, telling me of his divorce. The thirtieth, I unloaded the grief of my husband’s cancer. The fortieth coincided with our sixth anniversary and I felt like a kid again, holding his hand and dancing. Duty and habit led me to the fiftieth, without him, I left early.

Teach your children well

2011-06-24T11:47:00.000-07:00

I have a piece in catapult magazine this week, "Teach your children well" a case for a more accurate and hopeful view of today's young adults...

http://www.catapultmagazine.com/my-generation/article/teach-your-children-well

Not a Bad Start

2011-06-20T10:29:00.000-07:00

A real kiss with a real girl. Not Mom, Grandma, or one of those Aunts I hardly know.

I wanted to get it right. You only get one first kiss. I mean, a guy could become a hero, or mess up and never live it down.

We were walking home together on Tuesday. My hands started sweating. Heck, everything was sweating. I wanted to run but stopped walking instead.

“Becky.”

She turned. I lunged, making a smacking sound, almost missing her lips. She started to laugh, but smiled. We started walking again, silent.

Not a bad start for a third grader.

Clichés

2011-06-07T09:35:00.000-07:00

Let’s put this one to rest
I understand
That clichés endure
Codifying folk wisdom
To, usually, transcend
Time and circumstances

Yet I recoil when I hear one
That undermines
All which I believe
The very principle
That guides my life
And orders my days

But it would be feeble
To fight
To think
I could convince
The long gone
And unknown authors
To reconsider
For my convenience

Everyone Agreed

2011-05-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

Without conversation or discussion
Consensus was reached
Everyone agreed, she was
The most beautiful one in the room
Servers fawned
Men glanced, avoiding stares
Hoping neither she nor their companions would notice

Angles, curves,
Soft dark hair
Falling just right on her shoulders
That stare,
She looked at everyone
But saw no one
Disinterested, bored again

He ate and babbled throughout the meal
An office day and news he’d heard
Fidgeting with his phone
As if something more interesting
Would appear on his screen
Eventually calling for the bill
Without noticing she’d touched nothing

Pondering

2011-05-23T09:39:00.000-07:00

I heard a song recently
From when I was a kid
I’m sure it was recorded
In the sixties
Sort of country humor
Simple, catchy
I’d guess it
Crossed over to
The pop world
And worked its way
Up the charts
Hanging on as long as
It could hold
The attention of adolescents

But five decades later
I hear it anew
And what was sweet
And funny
Has become dark
And foreboding

I am left pondering
What has changed more?
The song, the world
Or me?

Until

2011-05-16T09:27:00.000-07:00

I love the early morning
Being the first out of bed
Making my way by memory
Avoiding corners and shoes
Occasionally getting it wrong
To the regret of my foot or shin

The night chill hangs
Until I close the window, kick start the heat

Sounds are few, distant, muffled
Until seasonal birds fill the yard

Darkness slinks away
Until morning has again arrived

Time pauses, then gains momentum
Until it rules the day… and morning is gone

The Enlightened West

2011-05-09T13:17:00.000-07:00

Don’t worry
You’ll never see
A rebel flag
Or hear Dixie

There are no signs
With layers of paint
Covering old restrictions
That unofficially linger

No, not here
Not in the
Enlightened West
We were never like that

We cover our
Prejudices well
You’ll never see them
We promise

Anyway

2011-05-02T08:02:00.000-07:00

Some give God the credit
Others assign the blame
Seems presumptuous of both
Trying to justify
What they would have done anyway

It rains all the time, doesn’t it?

2011-04-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

this is the weather
they all
talk about

rain that vacillates
from a constant drizzle
to pounding, pouring

no umbrella can
withstand the wind
no coat can restrain the chill

the clouds hug my shoulders
weeping, dark
and shifting

seems it
will last forever
but I know better

it only lasts
long enough
to keep them away

Yet still...

2011-04-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

Another day of Pagan rituals blended
With evangelical fervor
We squint through the twilight
Morning, standing damp-footed
In dewy, cemetery grass
For yet another sunrise service

I bow my all to Easter

Relatives and once-a-year attenders
Drawn by the scorn of a long
Gone grandma or some family curse,
Now days called expectations,
Arrive at church

I bow my all to Easter

Brunch in the basement
Between services for
Egg and bread casserole
Hastily made the night before
With fruit and dry ham, barely warm

I bow my all to Easter

Overflowing sanctuary
New bright colored dresses
And enough ladies hats to force
Even the most polite teenage boys
To smirk and jab their friends

I bow my all to Easter

Similar sermon with
A “zippy” new title, louder
Does not make it different
Or better, there is one
Easter story, get over it

I bow my all to Easter

“He is risen.” “He is risen indeed!”
Some shout, others mumble
The silent few, hope not to be noticed
Their obligation is clear
Attendance “yes,” participation “no”

I bow my all to Easter

Families, friends gather for dinner
Kids search for quickly hidden eggs
A few may not be found ‘til July 4
Too much food and obvious table talk
Candy, pictures and goodbyes

I bow my all to Easter

Cars chase dusk, disappear around the corner
A messy house, colored egg shells,
Shiny foil wrappers, flimsy colored plastic grass
Dishes to wash, leftovers to organize,
Should have sent more with the others

Yet still, I bow my all to Easter

original post: April 2009

For God and Country

2011-04-11T11:57:00.000-07:00

The setting
On Wednesdays we gather
Early, before another day’s work
Some for more than fifteen years
Brothers in faith and life
We talk and sometimes listen
Questions, news, a book or two
Fears are whispered on occasion
Prayers offered

The first question
“Whose dad was in the military?”
Nods and affirmations from all
Stories soon follow
Of the “Big One” and Korea
And times in between

Next question
Who of us served?
We know the answer
Only Bill
His stint as an officer
Holding the Navy together
And keeping the
World safe for democracy

Last question
“How many of our kids
Have been in?”
Although not unexpected
The silence holds us for a moment
Until someone changes the subject

Opening Day

2011-04-04T20:47:00.000-07:00

It’s Opening Day
And I must admit
That my hope fails to spring eternally

A decade of futility
Or loss of “the voice”
Both accentuate my unease

Don’t get me wrong
I’m glad it’s here
And I’d love to be surprised

But there’s an edge
That makes me wonder
Will this season bring redemption?

Layover

2011-03-27T09:58:00.000-07:00

Chicago, Denver
Maybe Memphis
Please not Houston
Somewhere else

No longer here
But not yet there

Time absent of
Context
Becomes unrecognizable

Voice of authority
Garbles overhead
“Would I know if they called my name?"

Masses wait, some are better
At this game than others

How strange
To be a place
That no one
Wants to inhabit

Another Long Goodbye

2011-03-25T20:41:00.000-07:00

Today we said our Pittsburgh goodbyes
We were able to coax
Puggy to play his drum
It was quick
But we have video evidence
We’ll watch in a few weeks at home
Reassuring ourselves
Of the goodness of this trip

It’s not the last day
That’s tomorrow
When we’ll be up before dawn
To get everyone moving
And off to the airport
Fourteen or so hours
Of flying and waiting
That’s the official end

Saying goodbye with predictable
But honest tears
Reflecting exhaustion, joy, and fear
I will travel the final leg alone
And arriving at home
With a confounded sense of time as
My desire for sleep vacillates
With a restless disquiet

Things Heard in a Van While Driving Students, from the INN, Around Pittsburgh for a Spring Break Mission trip…

2011-03-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

It’s Thursday! Seems like we just got here…

Did you see that guy?

Which one?

I feel like we’ve been here forever…

That one, the tall one…

You were supposed to turn back there…

I can’t believe how friendly the people are…

Go around the block and maybe we’ll see him again…

Who made this CD?

I’m getting so much more from them than I’m giving…

How can there be so many empty buildings?

No, I meant back there, that street…

I did. It’s special music for our trip…

What’s for dinner tonight?

I haven’t seen a Starbucks all week…

I’ve never felt so close to a group…

Now you really need to turn around…

I think I’m going to change my major, maybe quit school…

I gotta come back here someday…

My parents will never believe I did this kind of work…

Wait, let me check my phone…

It’s March, it happens.

Everybody’s OK

2011-03-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

It didn’t quite
start the day,
but we had to
call 911 before
heading out the door.
(Everybody’s OK; don’t worry.)

Not sure if we lost more
time waiting for the ambulance
or trying to change
a flat in
downtown Pittsburgh.
(Everybody’s OK; don’t worry.)

At lunch I’m driving to
check on the 911 student
when a car crosses in front of me,
hitting the car coming up
in next lane.
(Everybody’s OK; don’t worry.)

Tuesday

2011-03-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

morning

Scattered awakenings
Quiet words spoken around the table
A morning message
From a neighborhood pastor

the work day

Cement poured
A sidewalk built
Drain installed
Roof resurfaced

Relationships, old and new,
Explored and empowered

evening

Reflection, conversations
Listen, and listen again
Words, songs, prayers
Rest, sleep, peace

conclusion

Goals accomplished
Finished projects
Friendships built
And memories shared

Puggy’s House (That’s Not True)

2011-03-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

We spend the day
At Puggy’s House
Listening to stories
Of playing along side
“…famous people…”
Ray Charles and others
“…that you wouldn’t care about.”

He speaks of being thirteen
And making his first recording
“…you know,
(drawing a large circle with his hands)
A big, black record.”
He’s been told it’s on the Internet
But he doesn’t have that

Puggy says
That some people
Say they don’t like his music
“That’s not true,”
Puggy says.
“When I see their foot tap,
I know I got ‘em.”

We climb a rickety ladder
Two stories to strip
A hundred years and untold layers
Of gummy, enmeshed tar paper
From his aged roof
We’ll finish tomorrow
The stripping, at least

Pittsburgh 2011 mission trip
Day 3, Monday

Church

2011-03-20T16:47:00.000-07:00

Church, real church
Wall of sound
Flash of motion
Joy ignites my heart
Passion joins soul and flesh
As songs go on and on

Then the preacher begins
With a delicate whisper that turns
To a holy rage
As the congregation
Stands, claps, shakes
They holler their praise

And then there’s more
Always more

The preacher and the band
A seamless blend of
Prophetic words and
Pulsating sounds
I am enveloped, all of me
And then it’s done

Pittsburgh 2011 day 2

After a morning at Mt Ararat Baptist Church

Outbound

2011-03-19T22:51:00.000-07:00

Anxious anticipation
Over preparation

Restless sleep
Early rising

Quick goodbyes
Peaceful drive

Intense transition
Stragglers arrive

Rude employee
Endless lines

Flight delayed
No surprise

I’m Ready

2011-03-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

I promised Mom if she grounded me one more time that I was leaving. She never believed me. You gotta understand…a fourth grader can only take so much.

And don’t think I’m stupid. I’ve been preparing. I started saving my allowance and hiding granola bars. Thinking of what to take, where to go. I’m planning.

Parents are meeting with the teacher tonight, getting my grades. I know what’s coming. Two weeks of no TV, no games, no friends after school. Study time.

Can’t do it. Tomorrow, after school, when she sends me to my room, it’s time for action. I’m ready.

Lent, again -- a poem for Ash Wednesday

2011-03-06T14:00:00.000-08:00

i have posted this before as a reflection on my learning and living within the season Lent.

Lent, again

Small Baptist church
Edge of the city
Family farms were gone
Ever widening streets
Car lots and early stage
Of strip malls
Good people
Almost "country folk"
My mom's people

They knew the Bible
They loved it
They tried to live it
No creeds of rituals so
They believed

Lent was bad, almost evil
Empty routine of
False religion
Catholics and Lutherans
Maybe some others so
Far from faith

Home is not so distant
Four or five hours down the freeway
Decades later, now about four

Yearly ashes to my forehead
The joy of sorrow
The smudge of death
The touch of some pastor
I hardly know

What was once forbidden
Now is my food, my life

I worry for a moment that I may later see
Someone I know at the
Store who won't understand

Six weeks Wednesday at noon
Sitting with Glenn
Sometimes others join us
A hymn or two
Short sermon
Some good, some not
Prayer

Lunch in the basement
Church cookbook casserole
Creamy salad
Water or tea
Neither of us drink coffee

Talk of family and sports
Maybe the sermon
Church friends and politics
Work updates
We say our goodbyes

Giving up something, maybe
Remembering, anything to help

Holy Week, the beginning with
Sword ferns posing as palms
Maundy Thursday
It took a long time to
Understand the "Maundy"
Good Friday
It's trite,
But who ever thought to
Call it "good?"
The dark, quiet and waiting

Easter and
It's over
Day of joy
Get my life back, again
Not sure I want it
At this cost
The seasons end

I hope it will come again
Next year
Or maybe, I hope
I'll be here next year
To remember that
It happened
Jesus suffered
And I live

Someone Else’s Story

2011-03-01T13:16:00.000-08:00

It would be news, if it weren’t so common.

Local kid makes good. Until another small business fails. A lifetime’s dreams evaporate into legal arguments and red ink. Credit card living bleeds into personal bankruptcy. Divorce and distance from the kids; a typical chapter of this story. Suicidal thoughts fluctuate with counseling appointments and an increased dosage. Until the insurance dries up. A boarded building, an empty house. Another body in line at the mission. The one they used to ignore on the drive to work.

But it’s a recession. These things happen. They’re just supposed to happen to someone else.

In honor of Project Homeless Connect Thursday March 3 in Bellingham.

http://www.whatcomvolunteer.org/events/project-homeless-connect/

The Guidebook Said

2011-02-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

The guidebook said,
“Upon entering the park,
Go left.
People naturally go right.”
Seemed to work for us

Was that how
Robert Frost did it?
Went left instead of right
Avoided the crowd
And wrote a nice poem?

a child’s game

2011-02-14T06:37:00.000-08:00

following Christmas vacation
our anticipation gradually builds
until the list is distributed
into our greedy hands

on a perfect white sheet
ditto, blue ink
the letters seem to melt,
fat and fading

I beg my mom to
take me to the store
to get the best cards
hoping for a comic favorite

socialism rules
it is a sum zero project
everybody gets one
enemies and friends

cards slip stealthily into
handmade, oversized pouches
covered in red, pink and white
taped to our desks

when the day arrives,
we watch the clock in agony
silently willing for time to pick up the pace,
for the party to begin

each year brings
a subtle awareness
that this is more than
a child’s game

Your Best Self

2011-02-08T08:46:00.000-08:00

Allowing a machine—or
At least we think, hope it’s a machine—
To take on the role of deity
With guarantees of happiness
And compatibility?

I laugh at the TV commercials
Which try to verify the power
Of their system
Parading testimonials of couples
Engaged or even married for a year or two

They have not faced children
Or a family death
Or a job set back
Or even trivial things,
Like holiday traditions with in-laws

Go ahead,
Create yourself,
Your best self,
And push the button
Maybe you’ll get your “happily ever after”

But proceed with caution
See if you can make yourself forget
That your 97% match
Crafted their image
As well

To Be a Family

2011-01-31T15:01:00.000-08:00

In our mid-twenties,
We had been married a few years
What comes next for fully-fledged adults?
We looked into adoption
(There’s much more to the story here
but we’re moving on)
Maybe it’d be more accurate to say,
Adoption found us

An overwhelming world before us
Of social workers and lawyers,
Phone calls and “visits,”
Paperwork and classes,
Anticipation and confusion,
Prayers and tears,
Choices and acceptance,
Waiting and wondering

Time passed until,
In a stretch of ten months,
We adopted two sons
Spring brought Kyle,
Who would later become
the younger brother of Michael,
the older son who joined our family
the next winter

Our boys are now men
With children of their own
When we reflect over thirty years,
We see a thread of
Grace in the fog
That guarded and guided us
To become a united tribe
And to be a family

this poem is posted as part of the High Calling focus on adoption & foster care this week. check out: http://www.thehighcalling.org/culture/random-acts-poetry-mistaken-identity

As a pack

2011-01-25T09:42:00.000-08:00

We were like tribal nomads
forgetting what society dictated at school
Giving into instincts and urges,
we reveled in our primal roots

We wandered the streets and woods as a pack
with an unspoken, but agreed upon, leader
Until a mother called us back to civilization,
tempting us with a hot meal or comfortable bed

We’d gather on summer mornings
and set off for Mt. Baldy
This was our name for it
Although it was really a butte

We’d pack pocketknives, BB guns, and matches,
stopping at Kienows to trade empties
for Shasta pop and Hostess pies
(A nickel a can; brand names were ten cents)

We’d walk through the relatively new
suburban homes to the trail
And make our way past shady trees
to the clearing on top

We’d celebrate and reenact the battles
of cowboys and Indians or the “big” war
Imitating what we’d seen on TV,
hurling slurs we’d not admit today

Wounds, imagined and real,
were part of the game
Becoming lore for friends
and our yet unimagined children

Occasionally we’d go over the top
down to a creek on the far side
It was someone’s farm, I realize now,
to catch frogs or salamanders

Some we’d maim or kill in ritual fashion
which I’d watch with a fearful pain
No one noticed I was unable
to participate or protest

The surviving creatures came home,
displayed in jars or tanks on dressers and desks
Unfed and neglected in murky water
they would die with little recognition

Fish in a barrel

2011-01-18T09:29:00.000-08:00

Lawyers are easy targets
For ridicule and jokes
(I know, I’ve told them,
And basked in the laughter)

Until you know one
Like my brother-in-law, Bob
The family calls him “a good one.”
A rare commodity to some
And words of reluctant
Acceptance for others
He does not help matters by
Doing that criminal defense stuff
When I read a story or watch the news
Seeing the carnage of another
Mad man (or should I say person)
Then Bob tells me the story
And I’m conflicted, wondering
What is truth and justice?
When humans play god.

recession redux

2011-01-12T12:31:00.000-08:00

this recession’s an enigma
as I sit in a place
that survives,
wait, it thrives
selling little more than
coffee at four or five
bucks a pop

a constant buzz
from the tables
a crowd at the counter
while cars wait
at the window
filled with those
too harried to step inside

I remember history book pictures
and family stories
my great-aunt “Arkie”
wiping her plate clean
reminding me to not waste
“we never know
what will happen next.”

They’ll Never Ask Me

2011-01-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

I’d love the chance, but it will never happen. Probably a good thing. If I was asked, I’d chicken out and rattle on with those overused praises. Spreading sunny futures throughout the room.

But in a daydream, I get to be honest and say what I want. To say something different, maybe make someone think.

I walk to the podium after the inflated introduction, let the applause drift. I clear my throat, hoping to discern the mic level. I say an obligatory thanks and then I let them have it. I tell them what I really think.

Let’s begin by realizing that you are not the greatest generation. Few of you will likely fulfill your hopes and aspirations. The world’s problems and selfish desires will wear you down to lives of blasé survival.

You will not solve all the problems that our generation hands to you. You will vacillate between cluelessness and overwhelming fear.

Remember that you are the generation who follows the societal declaration that everybody needs a degree. So we made it easy, dumbing down the curriculum until you can’t tell the athletes from the academics.

I pause for a breath and look into the audience. Instead of crying mothers and bored fathers, I notice murmuring. Whispers that lead to stirring. Administrators confer in the back and finally some brave soul shouts my damnation. Demanding that “someone” stop this.

How quickly I go from celebrity to target, the problem.

Before I can resume my address, the president places a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back, and leans into the mic.

“Thank you, sir, for those challenging and inspiring words. I am certain your hope was to join us in honoring this class and supporting our school. We will now move forward to the ceremony of conferring the degrees for this class.”

And once the problem has been identified and blame assigned, a sense of calm is interpreted as resolution. The ceremony, and all of life, returns to status quo, thank God.

Of course, take care and do not invoke that deity’s name at an official gathering in a public institution.

August Evening

2010-12-12T09:57:00.000-08:00

sitting next to Connie
old, hard, wooden stadium benches
red paint, chipped, gouged and peeling
she puts on her sweater
I put on my sweatshirt

band plays hits of some artist
we know little of and care less for
overbearing 80's synthesizer
annoys me
she doesn't seem to notice or care

beyond the stage I watch carnival rides
loop, spin and race into the evening
colored lights intensify
sky drifts to darkness

near full moon glows above the trees
growing smaller as it brightens
yellow to orange to almost white

we come to the fair almost every year
it's something we do
we learned this spring she has cancer
treatment, fear, hope shadow our days

we talk a bit, decide to leave
i am ready, but hesitate
how many more times we will go to the fair

merit award 2007 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest

It’s Not Easy Being Four, for Nevaeh (& her Grandma)

2010-11-30T10:15:00.000-08:00

It’s not easy being four
When you go to grandma’s
With all those big people
Talking and laughing

It’s not easy being four
When your brother and cousin
Yell “Go away!”
Because you’re too little

It’s not easy being four
When you aren’t the only girl
Or the littlest one
Since your baby cousin was born

It’s not easy being four
When grandpa tells you to
“Pay attention” and “Slow down”
And “Listen” again

It’s not easy being four
When you try to keep up
But trip again, or knock something over
Because you’re still growing into yourself

It’s not easy being four
When you have something to say
But everyone is busy
And no one listens

It’s not easy being four
But when you sit on the couch
And grandma reads you a story
It’s kinda nice

They speak of angels

2010-11-22T19:54:00.000-08:00

They speak of angels,
Blinding lights and
Silver wings aflutter,
Not quite flesh
They seem to hover

Protecting our offspring,
And the aged we ignore,
Shepherding believers
As well the doubting score

A dance without music
Of magic and mystery
A child’s dream
And hope in senility

But not disappear

2010-11-16T09:42:00.000-08:00

Before you decide
To stroll down memory lane
You might want to consider
What lies behind

Like that patch of decaying grass,
By the river on the other side of the dike,
Where things unspeakable
And unforgettable evolved

You may find it has a power
That you had overlooked,
Or fear that became rage that begat confusion
Which dwindled to a whisper

But did not disappear

Everyone does

2010-11-08T08:21:00.001-08:00

pilgrim, poet, prophet
i'd like to think
i have something to say
or, at least, somewhere to go

i'd like to think
a lot of things
about one’s worldly significance
especially related to me

yes, me
big surprise
another aging person
fearing an empty end

keep your head above water
don't follow the crowd
it all makes sense
but you forget too soon

everyone does
you'll get your turn
i'd tell you to get ready
but there’s really no way

breath after breath
step behind step
dust again dust
and i'll soon be no more

She found her peace

2010-06-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

Sitting by the window, she’d seen it all. Rain, in its near unending forms, could come at any time in Oregon. The annual dusting of snow could produce a bitter blizzard, just once or twice a decade. Without warning, fog was an early morning surprise as it drifted over the ground. Those dismal gray days replicated for weeks on end. But there was an occasional bright sunny summer day too. In the evenings, the moon shined bright as it danced through its phases, creating its own calendar. She knew her place and found her peace in sitting and watching in silence.

Resolution

2010-05-19T20:07:00.000-07:00

A call and settlement cancelling the court date, ending the work of lawyers and insurance reps.

After long days of waiting news came from the hospital. She was six, brain damaged.

Her mother wailed as the ambulance left surrounded by sirens, flashing lights and confusion. People ran in panic, a neighbor called for help.

Blood pulsed from her gashed head, pooling in the street. We froze after hearing flesh, bone and steel collide. She was out of sight, I’d choked a prayer, we’d swerved. She’d bolted into the street.

It was dusk, we were driving back to school.

Right over the plate

2010-05-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

The baby-faced rookie wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks straight into the eyes of his childhood hero. His mind races, split-seconds before the action.

Last game of the season, my first year in the bigs. Neither team’s going anywhere. He was playing when I was in little league. Never faced him before. Sounds like he’s done after today. Full count. One chance to put him down… or make his day. Why not? Throw him a fat one, let him go out with a dinger.

The ball heads toward home, maybe going seventy-five, right over the plate. He swings high.

“Strike three!”

Afraid of finding out

2010-05-06T08:37:00.000-07:00

She said it was my choice. Marriage or college? Said she trusted me to decide.
Right. Just like she said I could date anyone I wanted, or spend the money that grandma left me to visit Disneyland for Christmas with friends. Said she’d never interfere. She didn’t have to; I always knew what she wanted.

I wasn’t like my brother. He did what he pleased and lived with the fall-out. She’d explode, saying, “You don’t really love me.” He’d fake remorse and then charm her into forgiveness.

I never trusted it’d work for me and I’m still afraid of finding out.

It’s easy to write about baseball

2010-04-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

It’s easy to write about baseball
It’s not like football, four boundary lines
Ninety degree angles of absolute control
Gladiators fighting over an odd shaped ball
Or basketball, soccer or hockey
Again, all are confined to a rectangle
Chasing an object back and forth

Baseball is unique, it stands alone
Not confined to a box, there are the lines of
First and third which give definition
But are not the last word

It’s the outfield, with a different shape
And measure in each park, it’s not the end
You can leap and stretch over the wall
And steal a home run, or the ball can
Continue flight over the fence
And if it is lucky, out of sight lost in infinity
Maybe still traveling
Theoretically still in play

The rhythm, the space and pace
The absence of time
The whisper of eternity

I still hate it

2010-04-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

After years of alcohol and absence, Dad tried making amends by turning us into fishermen.

He’d wake us early on Saturday. The stream was an hour of erratic mountain road away, guaranteed to make me car sick. We’d park before first light, unload the gear, and hike to “our spot.” If we were lucky, we only had to suffer a chilly drizzle instead of the usual downpour. Dad was quickly lost in the zone. We’d run and laugh, throwing rocks into the silent, inviting creek.

“Knock it off! This is serious business. Shut up, stay put, fish.”

I still hate fishing.

The long walk

2010-04-12T22:31:00.000-07:00

Picking strawberries, that’s what you did in the summer at thirteen. Up early to meet the bus, one the schools no longer wanted, with a cranky driver who doubled as field boss.

Spend the day bent over the rows. The weather jumped between blazing sun or pouring rain.

This day the rain came in buckets.

“Can we go home? Please? This is crazy.”

“Keep working.”

We’d show him who’s in charge. “We quit!”

“Okay, start walking.”

Five hours later, we’d covered an unknown distance, drenched and exhausted, only a mile from home the bus passed us. The driver laughed, waved, honked.

I looked like her

2010-04-08T07:53:00.000-07:00

They said I looked like Grandma, red hair and all. Named me after her, Sarah Joy. I don’t remember her. There’s a baby picture of me on her lap. She died of cancer later that year. Stories made her out to be perfect.

I rushed home after school and straight to my room. Dropped on my bed as tears overwhelmed me. Momma knocked and opened the door.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Words gurgled through my crying, “Oh, Momma, I’m pregnant.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. How do you think I got here?”
Sixteen and pregnant. Turns out it’s a family tradition.

Guess we’ll find out

2010-04-01T07:45:00.000-07:00

At twelve I was smoking. Same age my dad said he started. By thirteen I was drinking. Just like Mom. At fourteen, I’d shifted from petty shoplifting to jacking a car. Had my fifteenth birthday while working at the state farm for boys. Sixteenth too. Back home when I turned seventeen. Mom would look at me and cry. Dad yelled about anything. School was a waste of time. Friends shifted. Can’t say why. Turned eighteen, dropped out, left home, stayed with friends. Did some stuff. The judge says I’m an adult now, I’m old enough for prison. Guess we’ll find out.

Christine Said “No!”

2010-03-25T13:47:00.000-07:00

she said “no!”
emphatically
actually there was
an explicative before the “no!”
I will not repeat it
for it belies her image,
at least the one
most want to ascribe to her

we should know better
for even though, as usual,
she was wearing
the cute, trendy outfit,
and that hair,
redder than an Irish Setter
dazzling in the noon-day sun,
whispers of a simmering
fire in her soul

she said, “no!”
to another mechanical device,
a battery powered miracle of modern technology
to (hopefully) improve
her current malady,
which is little more than a continuation
of all the past maladies,
which are only one way
to tell the story of her life

the expletive was deserved
and I think we all agree
that she can say “no!”
any way she wants
that she has had enough
that she has earned the right
to stomp and swear and
shake her fist at things unseen

and we join her in wanting it
to stop, to get better
we pray, we wait, we hope
and we wonder,
frustrated, confused, angry,
but we join her in refusing to give up
for we cannot accept
the alternative

You’re wasting my time

2010-03-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

The crowd chattered for blood, mine. I thought they were my friends. I thought wrong. My thoughts pushed me forward into his rushing fist. I staggered, dizzy. I couldn’t quit. I rounded a right, praying to connect.

He grabbed my arm in mid-swing and laughed, “Pathetic. You’re wasting my time.” The adolescent giant had me by eight inches and fifty pounds.

It was a magic moment. His laugh dripped of arrogance. The crowd turned. A rare breath of humanity appeared in teenage boys. They started cheering for me, not him.

Stunned, he looked at the crowd, then bolted into the darkness.

How times have changed

2010-03-11T10:06:00.000-08:00

One drizzly morning, she sailed for the farthest tip of South America. He left the West Coast for Japan a few weeks later. They left knowing that they wouldn’t see each other for five years. No rendezvous in Hawaii, just because. No plane trips home for a sibling’s wedding or grandparent’s funeral. No phones or Internet. Letters would take weeks on the journey across the sea. That was all they had. That and memories and commitment. They’d write, send and, wait. Letters would cross; their stories lost sequence. Tenacious hearts endured. Five years later, they returned home and married. They’d promised.

Parables

2010-03-09T07:48:00.000-08:00

Here we go again
Sun’s high, baking my back
Perfect day for fishing the lake
We could cookout, maybe take a nap

But, no, as usual, people find us
They want to hear his stories
Come on, at best he’s got twenty
And they all end about the same

How many times will I have to watch it?
He spins some convoluted tale
About selfish, greedy, conniving people
With a twist ending of justice (I call it injustice)

They nod their heads, but haven’t got a clue
I don’t either and I’m with him every day
Doesn’t matter, they always ask for more
He’s bolstered by their energy

I learned a long time ago to fake understanding
Otherwise he says that “Eyes and Ears” bit again
I don’t want to look stupid
So I let the others do the talking

I’ve learned to listen to my friends
And offer my agreement when
A reasonable consensus forms
It’s safe to go with the crowd

He’s determined to reach
The “holy” city by Passover
Great…more people…more stories
Guess I’ll follow along

Momma kept staring (part V of V)

2010-02-28T08:00:00.000-08:00

V

“We’ll go see her soon. In a couple of days.” Aunt Heather was strong and her words convincing. We finally walked inside the house and I noticed Jack sitting at the entrance to the kitchen, not moving or not speaking. I guess he’d been there all along.

The three of us sat at the table for dinner that evening. Jack, my aunt, and me. Dad didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Aunt Heather tried to explain, but it didn’t make much sense to us.

The days drifted into weeks and we didn’t see Momma. Aunt Heather kept saying, “She’s not quite ready yet.”

One night at dinner, Aunt Heather told us we were going to her house. She had things she needed to do at her place; she had a job and they needed her back, and Momma wasn’t getting better anytime soon.

My mind raced. She was talking about moving, not just visiting. Leaving my home, my friends, my school, and my parents. Well, leaving Momma, at least; by then, we had figured out that Daddy had left us all. I loved Aunt Heather, but this was home and I needed to be here. I’d never lived anywhere else and I had never thought of leaving.

I begged, pleaded, and bargained. I told Aunt Heather she could move into our house. She could have our room. We’d sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed. We’d be good, work hard. Her friends would come and visit. She could find a job here. She listened, even cried along with me at times. Held me a lot. Nothing worked. By the weekend, we were packed and gone.

Momma kept staring (part IV of V)

2010-02-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

IV

A few weeks later, I came home for dinner to an ambulance in the driveway. I feared Momma might be dead, and for a split-second, I wanted to run. I didn’t know where I’d go; I was just afraid to find out what was happening inside. But the door was open and I could see people in the living room—they looked like firemen—at the couch, talking to Momma. I started to walk toward the door, but Aunt Heather saw me and quickly gathered me on the porch, so I couldn’t hear or see what was happening inside.

“Your momma’s sick,” she explained again. “She needs more help than I can give. She’s going to the hospital.”

“What’s wrong? Does she need an operation?” Momma had told me that people went to hospitals for surgery and to die.

“It’s not like that. She doesn’t need an operation. It’s like I told you with the soldiers.” I could see she was struggling to find words to help me. She finally put her right hand to her chest. “It’s her heart. She’s sad. But not a regular sad. This is a sad that won’t go away. It’s so big she can’t feel anything else. There are doctors that can try to help her at the hospital.”

The ambulance drivers had moved my mom to a stretcher, and they were coming our way. Her eyes were beyond the stare. Her eyes were almost totally empty. I could tell she didn’t see me. I didn’t know if I should say something, or try to touch her. She was out the door before I could decide.

The ambulance doors slammed and they quickly drove off.

Momma kept staring (part III of V)

2010-02-28T07:55:00.000-08:00

III

One day after school, my great-aunt Heather was at the house. My mom lying on the couch; she was awake, but she didn’t notice me. Aunt Heather put her index finger to her mouth, nodded for me to be quiet and follow her into the kitchen.

“Your momma’s sick. She needs our help. I’m gonna stay here for a while.” She did her best to comfort me; if anyone ever could, it was her.

Life got better and worse at the same time. Aunt Heather helped us get up and ready for school, she cooked great meals, and she watched TV with us. She’d tell amazing stories about when she was a nurse in the war; in Korea, not the “The Big One.” It had been a few years before I was born and my dad was there too, but they never saw each other. She said she helped soldiers in the hospital, the ones who hadn’t been wounded, “not by bullets, at least,” she added. Jack asked why soldiers were in the hospital if they hadn’t been shot.

Every day after school, I’d still come home to find Momma on the couch. She didn’t say much and it was scary to watch her stare without seeing.

Momma kept staring (part II of V)

2010-02-28T07:51:00.000-08:00

II

After school, Mom might still be in bed; sometimes, she sat in the front room, looking out the big window. Looking, but not seeing. Eyes squinted; she’d ask me for a hug and then go back to her staring. Sometimes in the afternoon, a variety show played on the TV, but no one watched it.

After school, I was back out the door and off to find friends, hopefully without my brother tagging along, as soon as I could. When I came in for dinner, she was still in the living room, or maybe already in bed.

Dinner would be a mix of whatever we wanted, as long as we could find it and fix it ourselves. We thought the cooking was fun. Didn’t pay much attention to the cleaning up.

We’d watch TV until the late news came on. Most days, Jack fell asleep next to me. I’d half wake him and guide him to our room. I’d roll him into his bed and climb up to the top bunk. He kept sleeping, but it took a long time for me to fall asleep. I’d wait, listening to hear if Dad came home.

He often did, but really late. And most mornings, he was gone by the time I woke up. Mom said he had two jobs because he loved us so much. A day job, like other kids’ dads, and a night job to help for extra things. He had to work Saturdays, too.

Sunday was the day, if any, that I’d see him. We could watch cartoons all morning, if we didn’t fight over which ones. When he finally got up, he’d read the paper while taking a hot bath. I knew when he’d gotten to the funnies when the laughing started. If he was in a good mood, he’d play with us for a while in the afternoon and make something fancy for dinner. He’d put records on the stereo and turn up the volume while he drank beer and cooked. Mom was all smiles at having her family together. She was still in her bathrobe on the couch.

Momma kept staring (part I of V)

2010-02-28T07:46:00.000-08:00

I

Most days, Mom would be in bed when we left for school. Or, at least, when we tried to leave for school.

In the morning, I’d listen to the sound of my favorite cartoons from the living room as I made toast and hot chocolate. I’d smell the steam, then dip the corner of the bread into the hot cup. I’d watch the butter float away, expanding to the edges. I guess it looked like an oil spill, but I loved it. After I’d brush my teeth, I’d rush toward the door, hoping to make it before she could call, “Boys, come back here! I wanna see you before you go!”

My brother Jack and I would grudgingly walk down the long hall to her room. Dust played in the sun beams that peeked through cracks between the drapes. Cigarette butts in the ash tray reminded me that Dad had been there recently, although we had not seen him for days.

We had to sit on her bed as she prepped us for the coming day. I’d fidget, afraid of missing the bus. Afraid of not being with my friends. Afraid of being responsible for my brother. Afraid of missing the bell and being late for class. Afraid of explaining my tardiness to the teacher again, with the whole class listening. I hated being late.

Before we could go, we’d all hold hands and pray, finishing with hugs and a kiss. I’d bolt for the door, jump off the porch and race across the yard, looking around the corner to see if the other kids were still waiting for the bus. My brother would call after for me to slow down. No kids in sight meant that the bus had come and gone. We’d start walking.

Sister Said She’d Help

2010-02-25T07:34:00.000-08:00

I was the new teacher. School was a mile from the interstate, but the community was easily fifty years behind the times.

Recess duty and I’m talking with a veteran teacher. We watch two boys playing basketball. One was in seventh grade the other in eighth. They moved in tandem, switching from offence to defense with the turn of the ball. Score is kept but matters little.

She lowers her voice, “They think they’re cousins. But they’re not. They’re brothers. Born too close and their mom couldn’t handle it. Sister said she’d help and raise the little one. Never told ‘em.”

My soul stirs

2010-02-22T08:04:00.000-08:00

My soul stirs
What will another sunrise bring?

My soul stirs
Memories, hope, and expectation
I forestall anticipation to prevent disappointment.

My soul stirs
Anxious yet willing
Aware but uncertain
I will wait while shadows linger once again.

My soul stirs
Words may emerge
An answer is unlikely
Silence, is that the response?
Absence, its own confirmation.

Resurrecting Easter (a very short story)

2010-02-17T09:12:00.000-08:00

Easter’s just Easter. Eggs, bunnies, and ham dinner. Preachers rant about resurrection. Catholics and Lutherans make a season of it. But, they’re not real Christians. At least, I’m sure, the Catholics aren’t.

Christmas, that’s a real holiday. Every business plays carols and decorates; TV runs unending versions of “A Christmas Carol” and that Charlie Brown show. How could you not be spiritually moved?

If Christians— and I mean real Christians— are going to save Easter, they need some major help. Maybe the church leaders should turn this thing over to the business community, and we might be able to save it.

April Fool’s Day

2010-02-14T06:53:00.000-08:00

How long?

2010-02-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

How big could an eighth grader be? Willie towered over me. He’d been held back twice. Held back, no one flunked anymore. He wasn’t trouble. He simply didn’t do anything. Didn’t talk. Didn’t study. Didn’t care.

I called his parents and requested a conference. I planned to ask if there were ways we could work together to help improve Willie’s grades and prepare him for high school.

His dad showed up a few days later. “How long does Willie have to waste his time here before he can quit and make himself useful on the farm?” he asked.

Got my answer.

I do not beg

2010-02-08T08:26:00.000-08:00

I do not beg for you to answer
I do not expect my pleadings fulfilled
I do not press for you to prove yourself
I do not desire the childish rush
Of emotional connections,
Rooted in infatuation, delivering
An adolescent pseudo-spiritual climax

I am tired of the stories
Of what is supposed to be
As I seek
Follow, listen, and wait
It does not ring true
It never has

But the fear of exclusion,
Hovering failure
Long caused me to
Mimic the words,
And teach the expectations to others
Possibly damning them to
An unending state of guilt,
Confusion and fear
Terrorized from within
That they are the only ones
Who do not have a “relationship” with you

Like the songs that
Fill our Sunday mornings,
Or other scheduled times,
If we are really trendy
We read the texts that crowd
The Christian bookstore,
With terrible beginnings
And overwhelmingly
Victorious denouements

I’d be better served to
Keep quiet
To know contentment
Being satisfied with
What has been entrusted to me,
And then to wait and listen--
No, to actually clear my
Schedule and mind
And wait--
Not to see if God shows up
But to discover
If I can discover
What has always been

The Critic

2010-02-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

“You’ll see. Monday morning, there will be a dozen or more in the inbox,” the aging staffer explained to the newest, and youngest, member of the editorial board as they checked the newspaper’s “Feedback” email account. “The guy’s crazy, but he keeps the fire burning.

“We wait every morning for his daily venom. He’s old, but he adapted quickly with the change from letters to email. He mentioned saving money and not having to use envelopes and stamps. He was glad to be done with ‘that damn, backwards United States Postal Service.’”

The old timer stood, picking up his coffee mug as he rose, and the rookie followed suit, trailing him to the staff break room down the hall.

“It’s always the same,” the staffer continued as they walked. “He hates the liberals for spending his money, and hates conservatives, too, for not getting anything done. He must just rummage the web all day looking for anything to support his ranting.”

“The critic?” another editor asked as she walked into the break room. She held out her mug for a refill, after the rookie finished filling the chief’s cup with stale coffee from a dingy pot. Taking a drink, the veteran nodded.

“He focuses mainly on local politics, candidates, and causes. As far as he’s concerned, the whole town has gone to hell. He drones on and on about the old days, when he was a kid,” the second editor elaborated for the rookie.

“But watch out if someone gets caught in his crosshairs; they are as good as DOA,” the old timer said, reminding both the underlings not to disregard the crackpot. “People still talk about the year he undermined both major mayoral candidates and that ‘hippie kid’ snuck in.”

“He hated the kid, too, but considered him better than one of those career politicians,” the second editor noted as the three of them walked to the conference room, where four other editors waited to begin their morning staff meeting.

“If we don’t hear from him by noon, we joke about checking the police blotter,” the old timer said with a small smile, and the other editors laughed while the rookie chuckled nervously.

***

Darkness arrived early in December. It was cold and black by his daily dinnertime. He started at the unusual sound of his ringing doorbell. Must be one his kids, probably his son. He opened the door, beginning to speak. Out of the dark, the shotgun pellets shredded his chest; he slumped to the floor.

February plea

2010-02-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

As the second month
February is easy
To forget or ignore
Something about following
January’s celebration
It’s too short
Even when we
Add the “twenty-ninth”
Every fourth year
Optimists herald longer days
The approaching spring
Yet darkness and drizzle
Soon overwhelm their
Heart-felt cries
Ash Wednesday arrives
About mid-month
Begging us to embrace the barren
And retrench for
The weeks of sacrifice
And self-denial
To not rush to spring
To quickly
But to somehow
Enter into the
Lingering death of winter
With hope of again
Discovering a new resurrection

We Don’t Care

2010-01-28T07:20:00.000-08:00

Rural junior high basketball. We’re an average team. But those Catholics. They usually beat us by thirty plus. Forty-three when we visited their place.

At our gym, I tell the guys, “We’ve got a chance. Go fast, don’t sub. Okay?”

No one protests. The game starts.

Halftime, we’re up seven. Their coach is livid. They have no idea how to play from behind.

Three point lead after the third, our shooter fouls out.

One minute left and it’s tied. Our guys are exhausted. Their coach is red-faced and screaming. We’re laughing.

They win by one in overtime. We don’t care.

We awake to the new morning

2010-01-25T08:08:00.000-08:00

We awake to the new morning
Giving thanks to the creator and sustainer of life
For another breath

We awake to the new morning
Remembering all who have helped
Us to arrive at this moment and place

We awake to the new morning
With regret for our selfishness
That we have wronged and harmed others

We awake to the new morning
Knowing that forgiveness is rooted in love
That God is love, so we are forgiven

We awake to the new morning
And we choose to live by faith
Being and doing as the Spirit guides

We awake to the new morning
And we hold to the hope that is within us
More than ourselves, other than ourselves

Nothing Changes (a short story part 3 of 3)

2010-01-21T08:21:00.000-08:00

III

I start surfing the web. They usually give you thirty minutes; if I’m lucky, I can sneak an hour. Check on scores, play a game or two, and look at my hometown paper.

Mostly I skim, but a photograph makes me stop, scroll back.

The numbers are right there next to the door, 2010. My address, our address, 2010 East Division. Hoses snake from fire trucks through the open doorway into the smoldering shell. Enough of the house is left for me to know it was mine. Or, it used to be mine at least. Seems like almost half of it was gone, smoke drifting out my old bedroom window and any other open space. Or maybe it was mostly steam by the time they took the photo. The picture caught my eye, but the headline told the story.

Two dead in local fire. I already know the rest, but I keep reading.

I read their names. My parents, gone. Article said they were probably passed out, intoxicated. Big surprise. They both drank too much. They each had their own reasons. Everybody has things to forget or cover-up or try to escape. Said a cigarette may have started things, they were probably asleep. Probably didn’t know or feel what happened. More surprises.

Mrs. Beecher, from next door, woke up about 2 a.m. when she saw the flames outside her bedroom window. Said they were nice neighbors. Said it was so sad. More stuff about the house and fire. Something about how my dad was a big deal in high school sports. It doesn’t say that they both dropped out to get married when he was seventeen and she sixteen and pregnant, with me.

I think about calling my grandma. Maybe later. Paper said there’d be a funeral next week. It mentions me as their only child. Said no one knew where I was.

Not sure what I’m supposed to think or feel. It had been nineteen long, cold years since I’d seen them. This doesn’t change things. I had no plans to see them again; ain’t going to start with a funeral. Even when I lived at 2010, I’ve always been on my own. Nothing changes.

My table just opened up; if I hurry, I can get a nap before I go back to the streets and start bumming for lunch money.

Nothing Changes (a short story part 2 of 3)

2010-01-20T08:49:00.000-08:00

II

I grab my backpack, stuff my things in, and zip it tight. Make my way through the basement, down the long hall and out the “guests” door. It’s still drizzling, would have been a tough night.

I wander for a few blocks. Still got about two hours before the library opens. I know which streets have the best awnings and sometimes I wait for the rain to let up. If it gets much colder, I’ll head for the market. If no one complains, they don’t chase you out too fast. I think about looking for work, but thinking is as far as it usually gets.

I look down the street to the bank clock. Looks like the bank is long gone, but the clock’s still running. Almost time for the library to open. I want to be there when it does. I’ve started a few books. Never finish ‘em because I’m a slow reader. Dropped out after ninth grade. Anyway, you can’t get a card to check them out without an address.

There’s heat and a bathroom at the library. A guy could almost live there. Helps me forget what I don’t have. But sometimes it makes me remember what I had, too. What I lost.

If I’m lucky, I can get my favorite table, the one in the far back corner by the business books, and maybe sleep for an hour or two. Window looks out at the park. It’s away from most of the library traffic and right by the heat vent. Nothing feels better than that quick heat, almost burn, when your pants hit the back of your calves after getting baked by the furnace blast. You’ve got to get there early, though. Have to decide what’s more important: my favorite spot or a computer. Both go fast.

I’m too late for the table, make a quick turn and grab the last open computer. At almost every station is someone I ate breakfast with a couple of hours ago. I nod to some, ignore others. Too bad they can’t combine the library and shelter. It would make our lives much easier.

Nothing Changes (a short story - part 1 of 3)

2010-01-19T08:42:00.000-08:00

I

Same town, same shelter, same bed. Lumpy mattress, not enough blankets. Snorers and screamers make erratic music throughout the night. Four nights in a row, might be a record for me. If I can keep from getting into a fight, I might make it a week.

Breakfast is the same, too. Both the coffee and oatmeal were cold and watered down. Some say thanks, a few nothing, and one or two want to fight about the quality as we shuffle through the serving line. What are they expecting, a restaurant? I’m just glad to have something in my gut. Not any worse than the stuff I got back home when Mom would stumble around the kitchen after a night of fighting with my dad.

Guys scatter about the room to find seats. A few seem to have their “places” and it’s best to let them have ‘em. Others go for the corners, wanting to be alone. A low hum builds until laughter makes everyone look the in same direction, wondering what the story was about.

Gotta be out of this shelter by eight. No use being lazy if you want to come back. They all have their own rules and it’s hard to remember. I can get dinner tonight, if I go to chapel first. Fair enough trade-off for me. You can sleep through chapel; just have to be there at start time.

Jesus Prayer

2010-01-15T18:58:00.000-08:00

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy
Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy
Lord, have mercy
Lord, mercy
Mercy

Closure

2010-01-12T18:19:00.000-08:00

He found peace in the steady hum of the machines, practicing lines in his head to get the conversation started.

It was so cliche. They’d never really talked. Now death was near, and they’d have their moment. A real conversation. Things long sensed but never confirmed. This was his chance. A son who wanted his father’s approval. He sensed it was finally near. A new nurse entered the room. Shift change. She forced a smile, introduced herself.

“When do you think he’ll be able to talk?”

“Talk? I’m sorry. I think the doctor will be here soon to discuss final decisions.”