There’s a scale to friendship. From the casual, wave-across-the-street kind, to the occasional-get-together kind, to the floor-that-stops-your-fall-and-lifts-you-up kind. From the many in your contacts list to the few in your favorites list, friends fit somewhere on that scale. This little poem is an homage to friends, especially the iridescent ones you carry within.

Friends, in Residence

I find you along my walk,
a shining treasure
I pocket with the others.

Like fireflies, you light
the dark doorways,
the shadowed corners,
the Escher chambers of my memory.

Parted by the paths we take,
yet, with me you remain,
a friend, in residence.

And if fortune be friend to me,
I, too, will flit like a firefly
through your memory.

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. That would be delightful!

Something for the tip jar 🤍

Walking alongside a creek a few years ago I noticed something like a cairn, except it was an architectural feat. Rocks arranged into arches and counterbalances without any adhesive. It seemed outside the laws of gravity. I was entranced. I then contacted Michael Grab, the creator of these magical pieces to ask his permission to publish a poem I had written along with the pictures you see here. He graciously approved. Thank you, Michael, for sharing your talent and enriching our lives with awe.

Escaping Gravity

Suspended.
In this world,
not of it.
 
I release
the anchors,
those great, earthly concerns that
trap our spirits and
ground our flight.

Fused with stillness
from some sacred realm,
I shape the impossible
and place the precarious in

Nature, who both applauds
and shrugs. Like a wise parent,
she is proud but not surprised
at her child’s creation.

About a year later, to my astonishment, I came upon Michael intently focused on building one of his impossible rock formations in a shallow river. A few people had gathered on the banks nearby to watch him, as did I. We wouldn’t dare interrupt him. Even breathing seemed like a step into the danger zone of collapse. When he was finished, I introduced myself as the person who had contacted him months before about the poem and pictures. His quiet, hesitant response revealed some vague recollection of the event. He eventually managed to muster, “oh yes”. Whether the memory went into his archives or his trash bin is a mystery that will confound the world for eternity…no doubt.

I asked myself two questions. How can rocks be simultaneously heavy, solid and ethereal? And, is there something to learn about being less memorable than a rock? Yes. Much.

It’s perspective. You might recognize the famous “Earthrise” photo taken by astronaut Bill Anders on Christmas Eve, 1968, during the Apollo 8 mission. It was the first time the earth had been photographed by a human from this vantage in space. Astronauts say traveling through space and seeing our planet from that perspective changes them. They henceforth see themselves as citizens of earth more than individual countries.

This fascinating video, To Scale: Time, elegantly depicts this concept of perspective. How long have humans existed within the timeline of the universe? The human brain isn’t equipped to grasp the measurement. But if the years are visualized as distance, we can actually see how much of that distance has been occupied by humans. The answer at the end is poignant and humbling.

Here we are with our noses in our phones, participating in social media, scrolling, swiping, addicting ourselves to attention – wanting it or giving it, rarely ignoring it. Wrapped up in ourselves. We’re on the third rock from the sun. Being less memorable than a rock is eminently appropriate, given that the rock was here millions of years before we were and will continue to be here long after we are gone. And forgotten.

But while we are here, let us honor the ubiquitous rocks and try to emulate the ones that hold sparkling secrets of breathtaking beauty inside.

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. That would be delightful!

Something for the tip jar 🤍

There was a time, until about the 1950s or ’60s when movie theaters played films on a loop. The audience could come in at any point in the movie, see it to the end and then stay to see the beginning. It gave birth to two terms: “Continuous Showing” – doesn’t matter when you arrive, the show will be playing again, and “This is where we came in”.

Years ago, I made a collagraph (a type of printmaking), and titled it Continuous Showing. If I had made it eons ago, its subject would still be relevant: War through every age, the movie on a loop. I’ve been pleading for peace forever even though I know I’m just pissing into the wind. I also know I’m not alone.

An aggressor strikes. A nation calls upon its people to defend. The photo below from WWI captures a response to a nation glamorizing war, claiming it would be short, with guaranteed victory. The volunteers believed they were going on a great adventure. What they walked into was a killing field of nightmares seeded for PTSD. None of it would have been necessary without the first three words of this paragraph.

GI Joe Doll

He’s thinking of the romance
of his dress uniform.

Dismembered by the child-at-play,
GI Joe doll is thrown in the closet corner.
Although he lay in parts
his senses are on auto replay. He

sees
  the blood and bones
  of butchered bodies,
tastes
  the sweat and grime
  of suffocating fear,
hears
  the shrieking whistle
  of flesh-tearing weapons,
smells
  the trench stench
  beside his puking brothers,
feels
  his fading soul
  departing

The day he is reassembled
how handsome he will be
displayed in his plastic box
wearing dress blues, medals and
arms.

Too graphic? Not enough for the people who lived it.

War Torn

Time has etched its course
upon your shell but has not
released the bits of hell
knocking on the walls within.
Eyes now heavy and creased
turn vacant when buried scenes
rise like specters to haunt you.

Time does not heal.
It embeds.

I’ve included this poster because, although it’s from WWII, its title has carried forward every day somewhere. It is as relevant today as it was then and will be tomorrow. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction that we ask Freedom from Fear “of what”. The list is long and persistent. I’ll leave it there for you to make your own list.

Jane Goodall, the personification of kindness, struggled with a truth she learned about the chimpanzees she studied. They could war. They could attack with vicious brutality. The events that revealed this trait are described in this article about the Gombe Chimpazee War if you’re interested.

In her 1990 memoir Through a Window: My Thirty Years with the Chimpanzees of Gombe, she wrote:

For several years I struggled to come to terms with this new knowledge. Often when I woke in the night, horrific pictures sprang unbidden to my mind—Satan [one of the apes], cupping his hand below Sniff’s chin to drink the blood that welled from a great wound on his face; old Rodolf, usually so benign, standing upright to hurl a four-pound rock at Godi’s prostrate body; Jomeo tearing a strip of skin from Dé’s thigh; Figan, charging and hitting, again and again, the stricken, quivering body of Goliath, one of his childhood heroes. [Goodall 2010, p.127]

She took some heat for publishing this because it might lead to the conclusion that war is inevitable; if you believe in evolution, it is part of our inherited DNA. She responded with a version of “not so fast.”

During an interview with our national treasure, Terry Gross, Dame Goodall explained why it doesn’t have to be that way.

I believe that we have quite a strong free will and that we are able to choose the direction we go. We don’t have to go around being violent. In fact, most people don’t. Most people are quite disciplined and we have to also remember that equally deeply rooted in our primate heritage are compassion, love, and altruism because we find wonderful examples of these qualities in the chimps that we’ve studied.

There’s the crux: We can choose.

Jimi Hendrix summed it up with the purest clarity:

When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.

If “thoughts and prayers” worked, if we showered the powerful aggressors with thoughts and prayers to choose differently, to choose love, would it work? Is that a rhetorical question?

Peace and War

Peace:
She sits stoop-shouldered
backlit by a gentle haze
still radiant and
alluring
in her tender way.
Man infinitely longs for her
while she, forever hopeful,
sighs,
I am always on perilous ground.

War:
He stands spread-eagle
in hell’s doorway
still awful and
alluring
in his collared cloak of causes.
Man hotly lusts for him
while he, vain and powerful,
boasts,
I am always forging battle grounds.

The following is excerpted from Mark Twain’s short story War Prayer written about 1905 but not published until about 1923. If you’re interested in learning about the background for his searing prose poem, there’s a good recounting here. For those who see their version of God as either being on their side or abandoning them, please recall that word choose. I’m no God expert, but maybe S/He just isn’t taking sides in the children’s disputes.

“O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it –

“For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

“We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.”

You can also watch Jesse Welles’s moving recital of this prose poem here.

On earth, we hear the cries of pain and grief, the rage of loss and injustice, the eternal mourning of the masses. What does the universe hear? Humanity’s haunting howl echoing across the canyons of time.

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar ❤️

There are so many proddings for us to exercise. We all know we should. I could list the benefits you’ve heard a thousand times but it’s easier to say every part of you benefits, including your brain. Research shows that exercise is a natural antidepressant. So just do it. Right? If you’re the type who actually likes to exercise, no problem. “I’m out the door, on a run, off to the gym, climbing a wall, playing [insert sport].” Ugh. Those who groan at the thought of exercise may chafe at your enviable goodness and wish they had been given the exercise gene. To them, may I suggest trying to find your playful ingredient? If you find just one activity that you enjoy (I’m not even going to call it exercise), one thing that you could look forward to, that’s your secret sauce of enticement.

If you live with “I know I should but I just can’t make myself,” maybe start with something gentle. Qigong would be a perfect first step. Tai Chi would be a natural progression when you’re ready. And who knows? You might then move on to yoga or pilates. Or not. If not, then at least you’ll be moving your body with these first steps. This site has some pretty good information about the differences between Tai Chi and Qigong. When you’ve digested that, a search of those terms on YouTube will give you a lot of video options to guide you through the moves. Bonus point: Unlike going for a walk, you don’t have to get dressed for them. You can do them in your jammies (or your skivvies if that’s your thing). Still feeling meh about movement? How about dancing? At home with your playlist, the “like nobody’s watching” kind counts!

If these thoughts are too intimidating, remember that all movement counts. Do heel lifts while brushing your teeth, squats before sitting in a chair, on the spot jogging while waiting for the microwave. You get the idea.

Finally, you could make a pact to only watch your favorite show while you are doing some kind of exercise. Something as simple as watching while lifting weights at your own pace would be an impressive start.

Since we’re on the topic of moving to your groove, here’s a little poem about bicycling that might excite your erythrocytes. Even the pleasure of a picturesque car ride couldn’t match the rapture of a bicyclist on a peaceful road. Not even close.

Ecstasy

She has the most glorious commute to work
on a winding country road. That alone
is bliss. But beyond this, on
one sunlit morning, she passed a cyclist,
bare chested on his steed.
He was gliding, head thrown back,
arms outstretched like a running child,
gathering all
the light of day,
the rush of air,
the ecstasy of gratitude.
He was gossamer catching every
microscopic morsel of the moment:
Breathless, shirtless, wind-kissed ecstasy.

Whew. Spicy.

Runner’s high ain’t just for runners. :-)

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar ❤️

The movie Amadeus exquisitely portrays the struggle someone with talent (Salieri) has when confronted by the astonishing genius of Mozart. You can have the most incredible lucky breaks and the toughest work ethic imaginable but you can never be the Greatest Of All Time if you don’t have the gift of innate talent. Some of us can put in exhaustive hours slaving over essays and studying for exams while our roommate majors in amusements and last-minute glances through textbooks. His A grade comes with a side of beer and debauchery while yours comes with insanely tenacious work and gallons of late-night coffee.

Chasing GOATs

This curse of mediocrity.
Salieri’s progeny
labor in obscurity,
striving yet another day,
railing at the celestial knaves
who wrote this play.

Please don’t fall into that mental state.

A desire for greatness without the inborn talent can seem like a curse. No matter the category – sports, music, art, writing, whatever – for the people without that rare spark of exceptionality there can be emotional consequences. Negative self-talk can silence the awareness of all the talent they do have. Jealousy can sour their attitude towards life in general.

On the other hand, those who feel admiration and appreciation for the great ones can be freed from chains of self-deprecation to ascend to their own level of greatness (however it is defined). Please don’t ever feel mediocre. Never give up on your passion, no matter if it stays in your personal space or reaches the entire world. Why? Because if you don’t practice your passion at some level you will always feel an empty spot in your life that you cannot fill with something else: The itch you cannot scratch.

(Aside: If your passion is something that brings harm to others, disregard everything I just wrote…except for the mediocre moniker.)

As for the GOATs, their lives aren’t all frolics in the sunshine. Just ask Mozart. And all the famous people who struggle with addiction, depression, and breakdowns. Sometimes it’s the GOAT who feels cursed.

Now a question: Who do we have to thank for the term The Greatest Of All Time? Muhammad Ali? LL Cool J? It seems hollow because All Time keeps getting longer and records keep getting broken so the term is questionable. With the speed of information transmission and social media, there can only be GOTHMs, Greatest Of This Hot Minute. Maybe we could add another label that celebrates effort. SHEEP: Super Human Exceptional Effort Person. With GOATs perceived as leaders and SHEEP perceived as followers, I betcha the desire to chase the title of SHEEP wouldn’t make it onto the bucket list. Or would it? Witness the marathoner who crosses the finish line in record time vs. the runner on crutches who crosses it 12 hours later. One is following the other but which acronym is actually the greater?

Social media and marketing can put a spin on anything. Wouldn’t it be fun if they met a challenge to create a campaign turning SHEEP into a badge of pride? Just think of where it could be used to praise effort over outcome:

For students, athletes, employees, creatives, scientists, volunteers, service workers, on and on. The list encompasses just about every field of endeavor. It would open the tent to multitudes where they feel welcome, appreciated, at home. Different from a participation prize, which dilutes the SHEEP concept of reward for extreme effort, it could incentivize the disengaged to goose their effort in pursuit of belonging.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar ❤️

Share Poetica Etc.

For those who manage to survive past middle age, there are two words that grow in size and number: New normals. All-of-a-sudden-gradually, they appear. We’re humming along when suddenly we realize something we could do before with ease is now more difficult. This is the first of our new normals. They tend to add up over the years. Physical changes aside, one of the worst aspects of aging is feeling discounted. People no longer see us as relevant.

When I considered these elements of aging I wondered, what ties all this together? I think it’s fear. We fear the diminishments. The fear is so prevalent, it’s actually got a name: Gerascophobia. Or FOGO, Fear of Getting Old, if you prefer something actually pronounceable and memorable. There are studies and statistics about this but I question their accuracy when one study tells us that 87% of us have FOGO and another one tells us that 53% do not. I’m no math genius, but it leaves me saying, huh?

While we love Eeyore, let’s not get caught up in the negative. It’s important to know there is also beauty in aging. As that unnoticed, seemingly irrelevant person, we can be the ultimate observer: The one who pauses, appreciates, embodies a lifetime of earned wisdom to inform our opinions, guide our decisions, and impart knowledge to our peers and the youth coming up behind us. Although the time we have left may be shorter, it can also be richer. Besides, there might yet be happy surprises waiting for us in Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates.

These next poems speak to two possibilities we fear that suddenly appear, gradually.

Fading

My rag bag of memories
is wearing thin,
crumbling to weightless bits
floating away on the wind

Molasses

I remember the me
whose words
hopped out like popcorn,
bouncing from brain
to lips in staccato
confidence.
Now molasses thoughts
mosey along my tongue,
taking their time
as though
a lot of it remained.

This sensitive video by Kelly Boesch eloquently describes the beast and the beauty of aging, with emphasis on the latter. Kelly is an extremely gifted artist who uses AI as her tool of expression. Whether you are for or against the use of AI in artistic creations (or anywhere, for that matter), I hope you will watch her video for its message, and not get caught up in debating its method.

While aging isn’t easy it also has its gifts. It can be your peaceful niche where years of experience give you perspective on the little things that are the important things and the big things that you navigate with aplomb. Whether you are younger or older in your journey, respect yourself through all your ages. Walk in pride and dignity. Be humble but not submissive.

Finally, this is what Substacker, The Old Grey Thinker, had to say about the invisibility aspect. Case in point. He writes perceptively and authentically about retirement, aging, technology and other useful observations. It’s worth your time to visit his site.

I just caught my 18-year-old niece explaining AI to me with that special tone reserved for the digitally challenged elderly.

Little did she know I was coding neural networks when her parents were still dating.

At 67, I’ve become a stealth technologist. I understand the algorithms but play along with the ‘confused senior’ stereotype. It’s become a fascinating sociological experiment – watching people’s surprise when I drop technical knowledge after they’ve finished their well-meaning explanations.

This isn’t just amusement. It’s strategic advantage. Being underestimated creates space – to observe, to think differently, to operate without the pressure of constant performance.

Perhaps aging’s greatest gift isn’t wisdom, but invisibility with insight.

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar :-)

This article, Part 2 of Parent and Child, is kind of a downer. Well, not kind of. Not every child is wanted and loved. Here are three poems depicting difficult childhoods. Just three out of infinity. If taken across the centuries, they would be uncountable. These children need to be seen and heard as much as —even more than —the cherished ones.

This little poem delivers a punch to the gut far beyond its brevity:

Secrets
 
In the closet of swallowed secrets
the child pupated to a stone,
wearing his necklace of abuse
an invisibly flashing neon noose.

While we have symbols to celebrate the defiance of, and courageous victory over, diseases like cancer, survivors of child abuse have no symbol. Their secret is wrapped in suppression, fear, shame, anger, a veritable alphabet soup of emotions, all causing an invisible, lifelong, haunting pain. And when a few brave ones do tell their story, how often are they believed? If believed, how often silenced to protect the perpetrator?

And as the coin remains thus, imagine the myriad circumstances that could cause these two incidents of separation:

Last Chance
 
Unjustly vilified,
you arrived at the orphanage,
shaking
with fearful anticipation of the outcome.
This was your chance
to repair the damage 
and bring her back to your picture book life.
 
This was your chance
to reclaim her,
to undo life’s bruises
and dress her in a pretty frock.
 
But, brainwashed by the vilifiers, 
she said no and turned away.
Rejected you. Dismissed you.
 
She didn’t know
that silent slap her eyes threw
across your anguished face
would banish your motherhood
and soon enough
her own
when she watched her sobbing child
recede in the rear-view mirror.

Belying
 
That smile blinds the day
like a bolt of energy
erupting from the page.
Now, that is joy.
See how he presses
his two kids close to his sides
as he kneels to their height.
See how his glowing face beams
I will never leave you.
 
As it turns out, picture imperfect.
Circumstance had other plans.

Share

Share Poetica Etc.

Gratitude and special thanks to my paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar :-)

Adults often ask children what they want to be when they grow up. Some years ago I posed this question to an eight-year-old. In a nanosecond she shot back, “famous.” I glanced at her mother. Who knows? Maybe mom wanted the same thing at that age. What she got was devotion to her daughter. This single mom held multiple jobs at the same time she was getting a university degree and raising her child. It sounds impossible, heroic. Her sacrifices for that child reminded me of the unsung potato that receives little celebrity for its life-supporting sustenance (see what happened when there were no potatoes during the famine that started in 1845.) This poem likens that life to a sustaining one of doing without and dealing with challenges while still enjoying occasional fun and celebrations, underpinned throughout by love and laughter. Imagine the depth of that love:

Giving Life

It was a meal of mashed potatoes,
unevenly caressed with butter,
hiding lumps and sink holes,
served upon a plastic platter.
 
Laid upon a common table
spare of cutlery and frills,
a few exotic bottle labels,
more erratic stains and spills.
 
An unheralded event
unnoticed by dismissive time,
a hearty source of nourishment
for those who gathered to imbibe.

Then imagine this:

The Sock Drawer
 
She has an invisible drawer
of phantom socks.
Pairs of metaphors 
for captured vignettes
of their shared moments
in colors quiet or bold
befitting the stories they hold.
 
Not aligned chronologically
but strewn haphazardly,
untethered to linear time,
ready for her random recall.
Pressing one against her cheek,
she replays its scene and smiles
or weeps.
 
They were a matched pair until
her child was snatched away, too young.
A life gone, but not done.
As she wails at this half-empty drawer
the colors leach into its darkness
and her life drains to pastel.

She’s fallen into a yawning void, literally doubled over in pain. The raw, rough edges of her anguish may smooth with time but she never again will be whole. The distractions of daily life may give her a respite from the heart-shredding pain of her loss, but in the quiet alone times, her throat chokes shut and her spine bends forward from the weight of her child’s absence. It happens to millions. If you are one of them, I hope you find a way to acceptance, peace, and purpose.

Now, back to that eight-year-old introduced at the beginning of this article. She’s grown into a young lady with a radiant soul emanating from a gentle presence. She doesn’t need to seek the limelight. She is the light. Do you think her mother had anything to do with that?

The next installment in this 2-part article will be subtitled The Other Side of the Coin because, to many, the fateful flip of a coin can seemingly determine who experiences a loving parent/child relationship and who does not.

Author’s Note: In depicting these stories people share with me, words are my artist’s medium. Whether a story is written by me or a guest author, you may relate to one of them. If so, what a pleasure to think it might enhance your fellowship in our caring Arts & Culture community.

Gratitude, and special thanks to my supportive paid subscribers!

For my free subscribers, if you want to say thanks for this article, you can make a one-time donation below. Sweet.

Something for the tip jar :-)

Share Poetica Etc.