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While the World is on Fire…
The global news today is more of the same:
People that hate and accuse,
Nations with wars and coups,
Apathy and gridlock that refuse
To face the climate crisis blues.
The world is on fire,
And I’m by my modem
Just writing this poem.
Go ahead, accuse me of avoiding the flames,
But hate is something I can’t mitigate,
Peace talks I cannot negotiate,
Funding I cannot appropriate
And hearts I cannot ameliorate
To make the climate crisis abate.
Yes, the world is on fire,
And I’m still by my modem
Just writing this poem.
But maybe my writing has beneficial gains,
I CAN post ideas for all to observe
Ways to peace, ways to serve.
My Congressman I can disturb
By putting nerve into my verbs.
And writing my psyche preserves.
So, while the world is on fire,
I remain by my modem
Just writing this poem.
Lost in the Wild
Why did I agree to go?
The question taunts me with each uncertain step I take through waist-high weeds in a sprawling field. Thick woods lie ahead. The foreboding sea of conifers and evergreens stretches to the horizon. Gone is the azure firmament and noonday sun, replaced by dark skies and ominous black clouds.
I am alone somewhere in Michigan’s eastern Upper Peninsula.
My cellphone is dead.
And I am lost.
Why did I agree to go? Why did I let my friend convince me, a certified urban adult, into taking part in an orienteering meet for his Cub Scouts? I had never heard of orienteering. Mark, the troop leader, told me, “You’ll have fun. It’s a scavenger hunt, only you’re looking for topographical clues like depressions, elevations, that kind of thing.”
“Of course,” I lied to Mark when he asked if I knew how to read a topographical map and a compass.
At this moment, I’m sure those two things are sneering at me from inside the pocket of my cargo shorts, along with the list of topographical clues I was supposed to hunt for.
Now, I am tired and hungry and desperately hunting for a way out.
It seems like hours since I last saw one of Mark’s Cub Scouts. We all began the meet together, but one by one they vanished into the woods, each searching for different clues.
I trip over an old log. The bark skins my shins, but I arise, limping through the weeds and into the darkness of the woods.
Why did I agree to go? I had a chance to speak up when Mark told the kids and me at the outset: “If you get lost, follow your compass west and wait by the railroad tracks; someone will come by in a pickup.” But which way is west? Is north the black half of the compass needle or the silver half?
I break off twigs to get past dense trees and cut my hands on the sharp ends. I am bleeding as I finally leave the woods and enter another field of deep weeds. A green valley lies between two large hills.
The wind is picking up. A thunderclap jolts me. I hear creaking.
There is something in the left side of that gap amid the weeds and trees. It is not moving, but I approach with caution. I see it clearly now. An old screen door with torn metallic webbing is standing upright, flapping in the wind. A crash startles. The screen slams into a thick, moss-covered wooden door.
I reach out and touch the screen door. I stop it from flapping.
But I cannot bring myself to touch the dirty doorknob on the other door.
I peek behind and see a wall of dense trees and weeds. I let the screen slip out of my hand, leaving a bloody palm print.
“Is anyone here?” I summon a yell.
The only response is the creaking screen door flapping again in the wind.
Heavy rain begins to fall and a dazzling lightning bolt strikes the door with a monstrous crash.
When I come to, the screen door and its wooden companion are still there. But there is a deep black streak and smoke is rising. The wooden door seems to be ajar; brightness emanates from the crack. I approach cautiously, pull back the screen, and try to peer into the fissure. I cannot see a thing, other than light. So, I push the wooden door open.
I step inside and find myself in an open field under calm, blue skies. I can see the sun and feel the warmth on my skin. And directly ahead I see a thick yellow arrow resting on the weeds. A hallucination? I take a few steps in the direction the arrow is pointing in. I am no longer limping. My hands are not bleeding.
I see railroad tracks and break into a run. I fall on my knees on gravel and kiss the rail.
“Hey!”
It’s Mark’s voice! I look up and see a pickup truck heading toward me. It stops and Mark jumps out.
He grasps my right hand with both of his and says, “My buddy, we thought you were lost!”
I laugh and reply, “Me? Lost? You’re kidding, right?”
The Traumatic Text
Her text said,
"You need to die."
I read it and shuddered.
I cried.
I wanted to die right then and there.
The sender was my best friend,
my confidant,
the one with whom I dared to share
my innermost thoughts and fears.
She knows the monsters that haunt me
and that I try daily to overcome:
Fear of missing out.
Fear of losing a friend.
Fear of losing her.
I trusted her to keep my secrets,
and tell me the truth in love,
especially when I needed to hear it.
My phone vibrated,
but I refused to look at the text.
I peeked and saw her name,
but turned away again.
I screamed, as if that
would make it disappear.
Through eyes awash in tears,
I finally brought myself to look.
The text said,
"Sorry about typo. Should say,
'You need to diet.'"
And I added another monster
to my list:
fear of texting.
The Remark at Dinner
When you said,
"I wonder what the poor people are eating,"
I smirked.
When I looked
at the bland mashed potatoes and meatloaf,
I wondered:
Were Dad's words
deluded, a lie, or kudos to the chef, Mom?
When I grew up,
I saw Dad's words for what they were:
A declaration that perhaps
he has climbed into the middle class
through sweat and love
for his wife, his family, and grocery bargains
like meatloaf and spuds.
When you said
those words, I didn't realize we were barely scraping by.
I didn't know
that your hard work would end your life
at sixty-five.
I wish I could again hear you say,
"I wonder what the poor people are eating."
The Forgiveness Conjunction
"Forgive her," they say
with earnest or a nudge,
"Don't hold a grudge
today or any day."
Tired of their pleas,
I give in somewhat
and say, "Okay, but..."
And I won't say "please."
My critics won't relent.
"Forgiveness is clear-cut,"
they say. "It has no 'but,'
no asterisk for anger to vent."
I attempt to rebut.
Yet they say, "Fix your mindset;
forgive and forget."
"Okay, but..."
The Solitary Man
No one dared approach the man. He lived his life alone in bluster, certitude, and anger. The last person to offer him advice was reduced to tears in a blistering tirade.
But shouldn't someone tell him that he soiled himself?
The seat of his pants was wet. However, passersby looked the other way. Until one woman gingerly entered his path.
"I know you from the neighborhood," she said. "Sir, you need to..."
His eyes narrowed. Neck veins bulged.
"Calm yourself," the woman said. "Even independent sorts like you need to depend on something."
"What?" the man snarled.
"Right now? Depends."
The Case of Nostalgia v Anger
"All rise," the bailiff shouts to the courtroom.
Judge Worth Knowing takes the bench.
"Be seated, everyone," the bailiff says. "Our next case is Nostalgia v Anger. Parties are sworn in."
The judge looks up from his papers and studies the litigants.
"I see, Miss Nostalgia," Judge Knowing begins, "that you are seeking a restraining order to prevent Mister Anger from intruding upon your everyday thoughts, dreams, and activities. You say that he is a clear and present danger to your placid dwelling in the past. Am I reading this correctly?"
Before the plaintiff can respond, the judge turns to the defendant.
"And Mister Anger, I see that... Lawyers, please restrain your client! Thank you. Now, where was I? Mister Anger, your defense is that Miss Nostalgia only sees what she wants to see. And that you are countersuing for harassment, claiming that Miss Nostalgia is intruding upon your everyday thoughts, grudges, and nightmares. And you also want a restraining order?"
The judge tells the parties to rise.
"I will not have you two taking up the court's valuable time," Judge Knowing says. "Cases dismissed. Work it out."
The bailiff tells the courtroom, "Next case, Solitude v Rambunctious."
The Rote Stuff
If Benny was a rowboat, he would only leave shore when the water was calm. And then only to go from Point A to Point B and back. No deviation. No exploration. No spontaneity.
Then Benny received a frantic phone call on the way to his zookeeper job. His daughter needed him. But roadwork and detours slowed him down. He blew a tire and had no spare.
Benny left his car. He gritted his teeth. He ran. He hoped to find his daughter's house.
Long ago, there was this horse...
On a dark night long ago, we're talking first century or earlier, a sad, unnamed horse was trying to find his family when he encountered a flock of animals. The horse asked the shadowy shapes, "Are you my family?" When the sun rose, the horse saw that he was standing amid a flock of wooly animals known as baa-baas.
The horse turned red and said, "I feel sheepish." And he went to a horse tavern to drown his sorrows.
This is a threefold origin story:
1) How the sheep got its name,
2) The joke, "Horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Why the long face?"
3) America's 1972 hit, "A Horse With No Name."
Going Down
A storekeeper yells strange words when I tell him I’m lost and must drive to the main road far below this cliffside village.
I follow his pointed finger, but two trucks barrel at my sedan. I swerve onto a narrow road. I smash through a barricade and my car is airborne, spinning wildly. I’m blinded by the sun. My vehicle lands upright on another road and I slam into a traffic sign at the main drag.
I open the door and shout to oblivious pedestrians, “How do you people get down here?”
A man replies, “Just like you did, Americano.”