Loneliness is sun on a desert traveler
No shade of friends
I know from experience and observation.
At 19, I said I could get by without other people
Enough to make a novice psychologist blush
Methinks the young man doth protest too much
A cry for help, for friendship.
Oh the variety of perspectives
despondent, delirious with self-pity,
annoyed with the prospect of a steady ongoing existence
Let something spectacular happen, anything
An ear in me waits to hear:
“Young man you have a few more days…
Set your things in order.”
But trailing days bring more of the same
Joy for a mouth sore…sensation from a stubbed toe
They can’t take that from me.
Put me in the infirmary, run tests, find nothing if you must
But act like I’m on the planet
I have felt terrible, my teeth loosening,
Like early starvation, a one-man famine
They have sent me home from school, from work
Only for me to return to no fanfare, appetite regained
Regarding the course of my life…
One of me honored my parents
Another sought a revolution - guess who won?
I did as most others
Stumbled into success, a few vices,
And hard to pin down virtues
Youthful sickness availed,
what I needed
battles with unhappiness,
bottoming-out periods
William James said it’s cruelest to be ignored
I start packing
You walk out humming and return in song
I am still packing
Hoping to hear:
“I will miss you when you’re gone.”
None of us knows what the other is thinking
I see you less than happy
I have left home that way
I have come back that way
I ponder treatises to equip the lonely
Words for what lies ahead
But I stop myself,
Solace is a personal thing
Retiring and rising on a regular schedule,
eating properly,
engaging the spirit
locating sources of companionship
find it for yourself…
If you believe in what you do
The threat is low
At the risk of being heavy handed
Don’t remain in isolation…
Desert-dwellers are consumed with water
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Hopeful Mornings
I’m 14, it’s summer and I’m in South Carolina
working in junk with Harvey
not something Harvey, just Harvey.
One job was to mow Harvey’s yard.
I mowed singing loud enough to be heard,
“I will Meet you in the Morning
just inside the Eastern Gate over there”.
A song to chase away cuss words
and filthy stories Harvey told.
After I mowed, Harvey let me come in
If I took off my shoes
and eat lunch with he and Sunny.
The air condition froze my sweat
My soaked T-shirt stuck to my skin,
but it felt so good.
I thought, if I ever get a house
And a reclining chair like Harvey’s,
I will sit in it all the time
and never work.
I’ll find myself a 14 year-old slave.
We got up at daylight.
By seven Harvey drove up
There in his pickup to get me
I would climb in and say nothing
silence to his house and the work.
The morning air was cool
I took deep breaths of it,
Repeating something my dad would say like,
This is a day that the lord has made
I will rejoice and be exceedingly glad.
I fell in love with mornings.
That was the summer of 1971.
I weighed 115 pounds
At about 5’ 7”.
My skin darkened from the sun.
My muscles grew as large
as limited skin and bones permitted.
Veins rose like roots on my arms
looking to carry blood.
By the time my grits ran out,
me and one of the other sons,
would have gotten coffee and a honey bun.
At a gas station.
The schedule was too tight
for home sickness,
but mom and dad’s voices played in my ears.
Mom said, “Daddy look, he’s too little to work like that”,
Daddy said, “I say lay it to him”,
“Lay in there with it son.”
Theirs were not the only voices.
I heard sermons by Oliver B. Greene,
hymns by Billy Kelly,
invitations by John R. Rice,
above the smells, noise and eye-sore junks
After we removed gas tanks -- explosive,
Starters -- valuable copper
and other salvageable parts,
we hauled cars three at a time
on a flat bed truck,
twenty miles up the road to Greenville.
Once a week I rode with Harvey to the landfill,
rooting around the red-brown soil
for gallon-sized jars of Mayonnaise
Mustard, Ketchup or Salad Dressing,
thrown away by wholesalers,
after it had “spoiled”.
Harvey used it in his “restaurant”
Or sold it in his “store”
Or gave some to mom and dad.
He alone decided when something had gone bad,
And being in the landfill
Was hardly proof enough.
In later summers I worked at the State Highway garage,
a funeral home,
the oil fields,
a transmission parts manufacturing plant,
McDonald’s,
selling vacuum cleaners.
It’s hard to remember specifics now,
but looking back on those jobs,
it’s the mornings I recall.
Mornings of sweet ambivalence
Between interrupted sleep and
the possibilities of a brand new day.
At McDonald’s, in the summer of ‘80,
I got up at three-thirty,
opened the restaurant at four,
buffed the tile floors,
cleaned the fry vat
and put in new grease
to be hot by five o’clock,
and when the truck ran twice a week
I slid the boxes of frozen hamburger,
fries, soft-serve and chopped onions,
down a makeshift ramp of two,
two-by-ten boards.
The freezer was at the bottom of the stairs.
After the restaurant opened,
I ran down stairs to get whatever they called for,
opened it with my box knife
I was trustworthy, a maintenance guy
and ran it all up to them.
During the undergraduate days,
After the Summer of 75
Raleigh and I
got up every morning and ran
Some days he pep talked me
other days, I him.
One morning I told him
getting up early and running
is like a dip stick.
If we could do it,
we had motivation in our crankcase.
I was so wise…
Tanga and I toured Florida with a Baptist
Choir in the Spring of ‘76.
Of all mornings, I came to love
Springs the most,
The newspaper would address
Kentucky basketball.
That year they won the NIT
just before we took our trip.
On the trip, the morning paper
Had stuff about spring training
and the Big Red Machine.
I was awkward, uncertain
but my relationship with the morning
was reliable and full of hope.
If you’re young
And read to here…
I have something for you
I wish you hopeful mornings.
working in junk with Harvey
not something Harvey, just Harvey.
One job was to mow Harvey’s yard.
I mowed singing loud enough to be heard,
“I will Meet you in the Morning
just inside the Eastern Gate over there”.
A song to chase away cuss words
and filthy stories Harvey told.
After I mowed, Harvey let me come in
If I took off my shoes
and eat lunch with he and Sunny.
The air condition froze my sweat
My soaked T-shirt stuck to my skin,
but it felt so good.
I thought, if I ever get a house
And a reclining chair like Harvey’s,
I will sit in it all the time
and never work.
I’ll find myself a 14 year-old slave.
We got up at daylight.
By seven Harvey drove up
There in his pickup to get me
I would climb in and say nothing
silence to his house and the work.
The morning air was cool
I took deep breaths of it,
Repeating something my dad would say like,
This is a day that the lord has made
I will rejoice and be exceedingly glad.
I fell in love with mornings.
That was the summer of 1971.
I weighed 115 pounds
At about 5’ 7”.
My skin darkened from the sun.
My muscles grew as large
as limited skin and bones permitted.
Veins rose like roots on my arms
looking to carry blood.
By the time my grits ran out,
me and one of the other sons,
would have gotten coffee and a honey bun.
At a gas station.
The schedule was too tight
for home sickness,
but mom and dad’s voices played in my ears.
Mom said, “Daddy look, he’s too little to work like that”,
Daddy said, “I say lay it to him”,
“Lay in there with it son.”
Theirs were not the only voices.
I heard sermons by Oliver B. Greene,
hymns by Billy Kelly,
invitations by John R. Rice,
above the smells, noise and eye-sore junks
After we removed gas tanks -- explosive,
Starters -- valuable copper
and other salvageable parts,
we hauled cars three at a time
on a flat bed truck,
twenty miles up the road to Greenville.
Once a week I rode with Harvey to the landfill,
rooting around the red-brown soil
for gallon-sized jars of Mayonnaise
Mustard, Ketchup or Salad Dressing,
thrown away by wholesalers,
after it had “spoiled”.
Harvey used it in his “restaurant”
Or sold it in his “store”
Or gave some to mom and dad.
He alone decided when something had gone bad,
And being in the landfill
Was hardly proof enough.
In later summers I worked at the State Highway garage,
a funeral home,
the oil fields,
a transmission parts manufacturing plant,
McDonald’s,
selling vacuum cleaners.
It’s hard to remember specifics now,
but looking back on those jobs,
it’s the mornings I recall.
Mornings of sweet ambivalence
Between interrupted sleep and
the possibilities of a brand new day.
At McDonald’s, in the summer of ‘80,
I got up at three-thirty,
opened the restaurant at four,
buffed the tile floors,
cleaned the fry vat
and put in new grease
to be hot by five o’clock,
and when the truck ran twice a week
I slid the boxes of frozen hamburger,
fries, soft-serve and chopped onions,
down a makeshift ramp of two,
two-by-ten boards.
The freezer was at the bottom of the stairs.
After the restaurant opened,
I ran down stairs to get whatever they called for,
opened it with my box knife
I was trustworthy, a maintenance guy
and ran it all up to them.
During the undergraduate days,
After the Summer of 75
Raleigh and I
got up every morning and ran
Some days he pep talked me
other days, I him.
One morning I told him
getting up early and running
is like a dip stick.
If we could do it,
we had motivation in our crankcase.
I was so wise…
Tanga and I toured Florida with a Baptist
Choir in the Spring of ‘76.
Of all mornings, I came to love
Springs the most,
The newspaper would address
Kentucky basketball.
That year they won the NIT
just before we took our trip.
On the trip, the morning paper
Had stuff about spring training
and the Big Red Machine.
I was awkward, uncertain
but my relationship with the morning
was reliable and full of hope.
If you’re young
And read to here…
I have something for you
I wish you hopeful mornings.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Those who never knew
In a dream I am talking to a friend
Who looks at me the way they all have
And I at her in my usual way
As I did at those far away
or near but just not here
I might send a message through her
And say, listen carefully
I need you to tell them all
How much they meant to me…
The dream ends and she is there
I look in her eyes to see if the time is right
And realize it will not happen
That was only a dream
She may have replaced the others
But she has no contact with them
Perhaps not even with me
She may even be a symbol or a spirit
Who, when gone and the search resumes
Will join those who never knew
Who looks at me the way they all have
And I at her in my usual way
As I did at those far away
or near but just not here
I might send a message through her
And say, listen carefully
I need you to tell them all
How much they meant to me…
The dream ends and she is there
I look in her eyes to see if the time is right
And realize it will not happen
That was only a dream
She may have replaced the others
But she has no contact with them
Perhaps not even with me
She may even be a symbol or a spirit
Who, when gone and the search resumes
Will join those who never knew
Authenticity
Who cares if a thing is real or not?
Was that the dinner bell asks the field hand?
Why, any bell will bring him in.
Is this really deer meat?
No starving one will ponder long.
Is that the Wells Fargo Wagon down the street?
Who cares if it’s something special for me?
We the people could elect a president
Through a computer in our home
But for the need of voter identity.
When a boat comes over the horizon
you strain to make sure it is your ship.
Any marriage would be in disarray
on the discovery of one fake diamond.
When it comes to personal authenticity
Who cares more, person or audience?
People soon got over learning
Jesse Jackson had a love child.
But how long will it take him to?
The world may call me a hypocrite
but the label hurts most if I assign it.
I prefer to plead my case in a court of law
To doing it in my heart of hearts.
Nothing injures a society more than reduction
in the value of authenticity.
Each person declares allegiance to shared principles
swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth,
or announcing before witnesses
he will stay with this woman until death,
or taking an oath of office.
He has volunteered for a probation.
Through ordained institutions,
societies deal with violations.
The justice wheel is set in motion
and if one is not formally convicted
he may be forever branded.
What transpires in a heart
is determined by what is believed
to be the importance of authenticity.
She will have that hang dog look,
if she accepts that private hypocrisy
is as bad as public ridicule.
If she does not hold that opinion
she will be fine while her sins are hidden.
The society loses its first line of defense
against individual corruption,
when people no longer blush
over inauthenticity.
Despite authenticity’s role
as private parole officer,
there is something more fundamental.
In the end, roughly the same tombstones mark our graves.
People cry at the funeral of crooks, too.
The size of one’s peccadilloes
gets rounded off to the nearest lower number.
Mothers pray fervently for wayward daughters.
Maybe we see authenticity too narrowly
as a relative of guilt.
We can do better.
We should not fear losing authenticity
For we never had it.
The value of authenticity is not in peace of mind
But in how it determines
the way we think, talk, and walk.
Authentic presence is the horse we ride in on.
It is not bravado, machismo, or assiduity.
It is quieter than these.
The authentic person does not live in fear of private rules
but rather lives in cooperation with her own soul.
Bob Dylan said roughly, it takes a good man to live outside the law.
The poet is not quirky because she thinks it’s cute.
She is heeding the universe inside her.
There is only one spirit,
albeit artificially divided into many souls
during the days of our lives.
Harmony is when we resonate
with the voice of the undivided spirit in us.
Any other attitude toward living
is too provincial, too narrow.
When the world sees authenticity
it calls it magnanimity.
Oh, it may call it other less dignified names too
such as geekish, dreamy, overly idealistic,
not of this earth, you name it.
But I will trade all the honors in the world
for communion with the one, ageless spirit.
I know this eternal presence
when it enters my heart,
and it does from time to time,
for in its breast is the essential nature of all
All who came before and those yet to be.
When an authentic friend comes in the room,
my lips form one question.
Anyone for a spot of tea?
Was that the dinner bell asks the field hand?
Why, any bell will bring him in.
Is this really deer meat?
No starving one will ponder long.
Is that the Wells Fargo Wagon down the street?
Who cares if it’s something special for me?
We the people could elect a president
Through a computer in our home
But for the need of voter identity.
When a boat comes over the horizon
you strain to make sure it is your ship.
Any marriage would be in disarray
on the discovery of one fake diamond.
When it comes to personal authenticity
Who cares more, person or audience?
People soon got over learning
Jesse Jackson had a love child.
But how long will it take him to?
The world may call me a hypocrite
but the label hurts most if I assign it.
I prefer to plead my case in a court of law
To doing it in my heart of hearts.
Nothing injures a society more than reduction
in the value of authenticity.
Each person declares allegiance to shared principles
swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth,
or announcing before witnesses
he will stay with this woman until death,
or taking an oath of office.
He has volunteered for a probation.
Through ordained institutions,
societies deal with violations.
The justice wheel is set in motion
and if one is not formally convicted
he may be forever branded.
What transpires in a heart
is determined by what is believed
to be the importance of authenticity.
She will have that hang dog look,
if she accepts that private hypocrisy
is as bad as public ridicule.
If she does not hold that opinion
she will be fine while her sins are hidden.
The society loses its first line of defense
against individual corruption,
when people no longer blush
over inauthenticity.
Despite authenticity’s role
as private parole officer,
there is something more fundamental.
In the end, roughly the same tombstones mark our graves.
People cry at the funeral of crooks, too.
The size of one’s peccadilloes
gets rounded off to the nearest lower number.
Mothers pray fervently for wayward daughters.
Maybe we see authenticity too narrowly
as a relative of guilt.
We can do better.
We should not fear losing authenticity
For we never had it.
The value of authenticity is not in peace of mind
But in how it determines
the way we think, talk, and walk.
Authentic presence is the horse we ride in on.
It is not bravado, machismo, or assiduity.
It is quieter than these.
The authentic person does not live in fear of private rules
but rather lives in cooperation with her own soul.
Bob Dylan said roughly, it takes a good man to live outside the law.
The poet is not quirky because she thinks it’s cute.
She is heeding the universe inside her.
There is only one spirit,
albeit artificially divided into many souls
during the days of our lives.
Harmony is when we resonate
with the voice of the undivided spirit in us.
Any other attitude toward living
is too provincial, too narrow.
When the world sees authenticity
it calls it magnanimity.
Oh, it may call it other less dignified names too
such as geekish, dreamy, overly idealistic,
not of this earth, you name it.
But I will trade all the honors in the world
for communion with the one, ageless spirit.
I know this eternal presence
when it enters my heart,
and it does from time to time,
for in its breast is the essential nature of all
All who came before and those yet to be.
When an authentic friend comes in the room,
my lips form one question.
Anyone for a spot of tea?
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