Tag: Poetry

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Vibrations of Time, by Carlos

A
ghost abides in my house, although the word ghost is hardly the appropriate
word to use, for I think both he and I prefer to use the word spirit. He is an inconspicuous
energy that lingers around me like the aroma of mint tea on a frosty day or the
taste of orange blossom honey on a warm croissant. I have only seen him once, a
snippet of a shadow that appeared in my periphery vision and was gone like a
summer beam of light. I was working in the garden and happened to look up at
small window above the staircase, catching him as he spied down on me. He is a
fine-featured, tall gentleman dressed in what looks like an Edwardian morning
coat and silk ascot. And although I dismissed him as an overactive imagination
borne perhaps from too many hours under the summer sun or from the expectation
that a spirit should after all reside in a Victorian home, I have never, until
now, spoken of him. I’ve given him the name John, and he seems most content
that I should name him so.
This
is not to say that John has always been a quiet energy, satisfied to waft
through the air like the first sublime notes of Karl Jenkins’ Benedictus. When I first moved into our 1888
Queen Anne, she looked like a dollhouse that had been touched inappropriately
by too many who had taken from her, but never loved her unconditionally. The
windows were broken, and the rooms frigid. Her fine details were gone, ripped
out and sold or simply discarded and replaced by the more modern contrivances
of evolving tastes. As for her garden, only two century-old maples and two
weathered apple trees remained, no doubt, an attempt by early homesteaders to
tame the wild grasslands of a former time. Nevertheless, our attraction to each
other was instantaneous, like two would-be lovers who meet on a quiet dance
floor and see each other’s souls through the haze and shadowy darkness. Putting
an offer, and finalizing the closing, within weeks our destinies were linked.
On my first day in my proud, but sad, house, I sat on the floor and envisioned
hopes and promises yet to be birthed. I sat in terror, pondering whether I
would be worthy enough to respect her and restore her faded self-esteem. Upon
moving in, I immediately hanged my treasured cuckoo clock upon a wall, taking
great joy in calibrating the weights every week to enjoy the automaton’s hourly
call. It became a symbol of my own nesting.
Often
the vibrations between house and me were at odds and tenuous, much like a newly
wedded couple in an arranged marriage. She was suspicious of my intentions; I remained
dubious as to whether I could do right by her, whether I could be faithful to
just one. The energy within the house was impudent, challenging me as though to
undermine me and determine my reaction. 
After the water pipes froze and water fountained throughout the first
floor one frigid winter night, I repaired the damage and remained, proving to
both us that I was not about to retreat in spite of our apprehensions. As I cleaned
from the deluge and pulled up nasty, old carpeting, I connected with the past,
discovering sheaves of 1920’s vintage newspapers, now soaked, that had been
laid down by a former tenant to insulate the floors. Later, she tested my vows
as when during a small dinner party, I shame-faced discovered I had served gritty
sand in our soup bowls. Thinking I had been guilty of not washing the
vegetables, I, to my dismay, ladled out a chunk of horsehair plaster from the
ceiling that had unexpectedly fallen into the kettle. It was not long after
that that John’s presences made itself known. One night something touched my
toe as I lay in bed. I spent a few sleepless hours in a frigid room, not sure
whether I was more frustrated with the blustery winds that tumbled and shrieked
through the dark hallways or the unwarranted caress from the unknown. When I
demolished the upstairs walls, since they were but cheap cardboard sheathing
unceremoniously nailed down between rows of wood furring strips, giving the rooms
a prison-like aura, John was angry, perhaps because he thought that like others
before me, my intentions were to dismantle his world even further. I heard him
stomping angrily upstairs with fury, convincing me I was about to be pummeled
by a would-be intruder. However, when I ran upstairs to investigate, the sound
ceased; he had retreated. Over the ensuing years, the energy in the house gradually
changed to a live-and-let-live ambiance as I jacked up foundations, replaced
floors and windows, brought the plumbing and electricity up to code, and
strengthened the bones of the house. Eventually, chandeliers and fretwork,
stained glass and tile, roses and violets and sweet woodruff gardens graced my
home, mirroring her former self and solidifying my intentions to honor a
promise made when I was young and naive. Years earlier, I had concluded that
John did not care for the raucous sounds of my cuckoo clock since as long as
the clock chimed, his presence lingered nearby; thus, I decided to put the
clock in storage.  I suspect that in
doing so, I finally banished him, for the energy in the house became peaceful and
sedate, a true nest of repose. Yet, in truth, I missed his child-like antics,
his protective aura that pushed away suitors who were not good enough for me,
but welcomed those bathed in an evanescent light. Today, although he never
reveals his presence and rarely leaves a calling card of his ethereal essence, I
know he is still as close as my heart. Ever vigilant and circumspect, I know he
watches protectively over the house, over my now husband and me. We felt his
presence reaching out the night our Jonathan died as though reminding us that
death is a return back home, with a promise of reuniting. I feel his presence
as he keeps guard over me in the garden, trying to coax another poppy or
hollyhock to reveal the scarlet garment encased within her burgeoning bud. I
feel his presence when I am afraid of death and tired of living. Sometimes in
the middle of the night, I walk downstairs and meditate, and although always unobtrusive,
he waits nearby, shielding me from evil. Because I’ve come to understand his
intentions as being altruistic and benign, I’ve decided to unpack the cuckoo
clock and restore its warbling mechanic bird.  It is time to let him know he is not banished;
it is time to restore him to his rightful place in our home.
Our
home remains a work- in-progress, as well as a financial behemoth. More
important, however, it is a haven, a reminder that past sunbeams continue to blaze
and undulating rhythms continue to resonate, reminding me that I am but a
traveler temporarily away from home. I rejoice that time’s vibrations echo in
my life; I acknowledge energy’s immortality. I suspect that when I finally
awaken from my slumber, John, whether he is real or simply an abstract,
metaphysical self-deception, will serve as a reminder of the bewildering
ripples of time. Thus, I conclude that oscillations of time and space ultimately
act like concentric circles radiating from their source, the effect expanding
outward until equilibrium is again restored.
© 23 May 2016 (Denver) 
About
the Author 

Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic
and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.
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We Shall Never Know, by Carlos

A
poet much wiser than I recognized that journeys never undertaken and roads
never traversed, nonetheless have the power to burden. I find myself looking
back over the decades, forever ambivalent about those uncharted journeys. And
although I celebrate that I did take a less traveled road, which, in fact, made
a difference, a wonderful difference, the shadowy vignettes of a past unlived
on occasion haunt me like the dripping of a faucet on a silent night.
He
and I never danced; we never touched; we never spoke of the drives and passions
that might have lubricated our lives. It was a different time, a different
place. It was a time when to unsheathe our souls to judgmental eyes could have
thwarted careers, made futures bleak, and shattered lives like frost descending
upon tender blades of green grass. And though our connection consisted of two
twirl-a-cups gyrating around a circular orb, I have come to believe that had we
lived in a freer world, a more inclusive one, he and I might have given light
to secrets destined to remain forever occulted, held hands on blustery winter
nights, and charted voyages that alas never sailed away. In retrospect he was
my first infatuation, the first man with whom I dared to dream that somewhere,
someplace we could make our peace. We could have been oblivious to a sanctimonious
Brokeback Mountain world beset on
sacrificing us, for no other reason than our souls quested after forbidden
dreams. But we never danced; we never touched; we never found the courage to
challenge the consequences of reaching out to thwart ingrained fears. Thus, we
never transformed hope into possibilities.
We
were so different. He was passionate about Ché Guevara and César Chávez, about
the injustices of Chilean tyrants and brutish money changers. I was passionate
about my intangible world. How often I would find myself walking alone,
surrounded by the voices of poets and dreamers, philosophers and stargazers.
While immersed in my rhymes and rhythms of far-off melodies, I would focus on the
intricate cobwebbed anatomy of elm leaves, on the oceans mirrored within raindrops,
on the starry convolution of heavens above. Thus, in those early years, we trekked
in diametrically different worlds. We allowed our fears of the unknown, of
ourselves, to silence what in retrospect I now know nestled within us. We could
have, we should have, but we never did speak of our cryptic secrets, and time,
like a shape-shifting cloud flitted out of our reach.
Over
the years, I finished my studies. Over the years, I lost my innocence in foreign
lands. I thought of him often, but I allowed myself to believe that the past
was but an epitaph on crumbling sandstone. Years later, an act of serendipity
became our swan’s song when upon my return home from distant shores, I prepared
to root my life. Acknowledging my forays into the future, I celebrated among strangers
at my favorite restaurant. As fate would have it, he was there too, alone,
following a day of toiling in this world of the mundane. Instant recognition erupted
in our eyes, and although we spoke so briefly about things so trivial, we never
unshackled the chains that bound us. After all, the world still remained
dangerous for men like us. Thus, what needed to be said remained forever
fossilized within our respective hearts. Saying goodbye so long ago, I now
recognize that he wanted to say more; I can only hope he knew I too longed to
reach out, but instead with a quiet desperation I stifled my longings. Even as
I walked away and turned to look at him, I could not break the insidious spell
spun by those who had authority over us. And thus, we never danced; we never
touched, we never let the sun break through the storm. We will never know what
could have been. Suffice to say, although the road I took directed me away from
him, I remain forever grateful that this traveler did, in spite of himself, step
toward a wondrous journey. I can only hope his path was likewise emblazoned
with innumerable constellations.
© 28 Dec 2015  
About
the Author 
Cervantes
wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to
this proposition, I often falter.  I am a
man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have
also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor,
a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite
charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask
Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to
Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the
Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic and
a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious
cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of
my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under
coconut palms on tropical sands.  I
believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s
mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends,
people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread
together and finding humor in the world around us.
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Acting by Ricky

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.


Did I mewl as an infant? Of course. All infants do; but I refused to puke “in the nurse’s arms,” because I had class even as an infant. Because I had class, I only burped up on my parents.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.


As a schoolboy I never carried a satchel, just a binder and a handful of books. Those were the days before backpacks became popular to carry school supplies. Naturally, I never, never whined about school; only about having to walk 5 miles to school and back in 3 feet of snow, uphill–both ways. Even then that was only to my children not other school mates and only for those times I missed the school bus.

And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow.


Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Down here you fool. The ladder broke.

(I’m just playing my part as the group’s smart alec.)

I must admit I was hot with passion to and for my female better half and my coming out was quite woeful but I just couldn’t put it into a ballad. Somehow singing, “I’ll be coming out the closet when I come. I’ll be coming out the closet when I come,” just didn’t seem appropriate. Unfortunately, while my ladder still works, it just doesn’t reach the balcony anymore.

Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 

Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.

I hold that being an officer in the Air Force is better than being a soldier, at least comfort wise. In any case, we did take an oath and we couldn’t have beards “like the pard.” (A “pard” is a literary noun meaning a leopard or panther.) There is much emphasis on honor in the military and in-fighting or back-stabbing among members who should be cooperating with each other is also common. Even when facing the “cannon’s mouth” soldiers will defy logic and do the most selfless and heroic deeds but not to advance their reputations; that honor goes to the leaders who order men into foolish battles.

And then the justice 

In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.

I’m not sure my children would agree that I ever meted out justice. They would agree about the round belly but the “fair” part is questionable. My eyes are not severe (unless I’m angry) and once again I have no beard–this week. My wise saws are mostly interpreted to be wise cracks, but I do play my part.

The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.

I’ve definitely arrived in this age but still passing through. I wear slippers and also wear sleep-pants which in my opinion can pass for pantaloons here. Clearly I wear spectacles on my nose but my pouch is a paunch and is in front. My youthful hose I abandoned long ago when they began to smell up the house. Fortunately, I’ve not lost my big manly voice, yet and I’m not looking forward to it either.

Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I’m not sure I ever left my first childishness but when I get to the “last scene,” I suspect that I will not be in any condition to recognize it — or any other actors still on stage with me.

© 29 Mar 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los
Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm
in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and
stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at
South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.
After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where
I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from
complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the
summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is
TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

Posted on

Ashes of Time, by Carlos

Having been freshly purified by a
late spring rain, the crisp air sparkled. Although he had better things to do
than go down to the dark, claustrophobic storm cellar, he knew it was time to unleash
the bittersweet longings that with the passage of time had become infected like
a festering sore. The moment had come to whittle out the once sweet flesh that
had gangrened ever so slowly. He had found every reason that morning to avoid
descending into that dank basement, uncertain as to whether he had the mettle
to confront his past. In a sense, he was decidedly hopeful, for he was finally determined
to expunge the pleasures of his youth, pleasures that had morphed into ghostly silhouettes
from a charnel house. Yet, he was afraid, for by finally exorcising the dancing
demons, he remained dubious as to whether blissful light long denied would
shine through.
He unlocked the basement door and
pulled at the storm doors, casting his shadow into the darkened crypt like an
angel with uplifted arms. He bit his lip and firmed up his resolve as
delicious, yet dead, memories deluged him like a wintry blast of Arctic air.
Descending down into the abyss, his fingers brushed the settled dust from the
spines of long-abandoned volumes of prose and poetry. Motes of dust gyrated
like phosphorescent pollen riding spears of golden sunlight that now flooded the
basement. Like tattered Victorian lace, filigreed cobwebs draped down from shelves
that once held sweet summer preserves and briny pickles. Undaunted, he directed
himself to the back of the basement where earlier he had secretly hidden a
solid box. Subconsciously, he must have believed that as long as the contents
reposed in peace, some day they would resurrect like Lazarus emerging from the
tomb. He released the clasp of the small coffin-like box, and was greeted by
the olfactory assault of yellowing paper, air-deprived cloth, and desiccated rose
petals, all fragile to the touch.
As he gently brushed the sheaves of
paper and the other vestiges of his lost past with his fingertips, time yawned
sluggishly as though from a midwinter slumber. He picked up a ribbon-festooned
pack of letters, and as he unraveled the knot, the pages fell from his hand
like wind-propelled maple wingnuts, He read words penned when he was young,
words that spoke of sensual delight, undying devotion and youth eternal. Alas, time
proved false, like a sundial on a moonless night.  Barely decipherable inscriptions promised the
sweet aroma of new mown grass, promises that dissipated with the wind. Then, he
pulled out a time-ravished linen shirt. Worn one memorable evening as the sun
descended at its western horizon, the fabric had once been the repository of
spicy cologne intermingled with musky summer sweat. The aroma was no more;
nothing of that past lingered except for the soft bitterness of slow decay.
Putting down the vignettes of his youth, mirages spiraled before him. He felt
the sinewy arms of the first man who had ever held him in a manly embrace. Deteriorating
photographs of two, smiling luxuriously at each other, peered back. The
pictures catapulted him back like a time traveler to those days when
strawberries tasted of vintage crème liqueur and carnations sported a clove-like
aroma. He smiled knowing that in spite of ruptured dreams, he was no longer
confined by guilty pleasure within a hermetically sealed casket. In confronting
the dark shadows of his past, his former adversarial friend has taken flight.
Placing the contents back into the box,
he picked it up and gently cradled it in his arms. Retracing his steps, he set
his sights on a smoldering fire pit he has previously prepared. Letters and photos
shriveled into themselves as he cast them into the coals. Sparks pirouetted up
into the heavens like light-drenched fireflies. Scissors in hand, he mutilated the
linen shirt and cast the flimsy pieces into the hungry flames. Soon enough, the
conflagration died down. He bide the memories adieu, grateful for pleasures
they had once offered, but no longer burdened by the guilt of unfulfilled
longings. Shovel in hand he entombed the ashes within a mantle of earth,
Blessing himself for having had the courage to walk in the light of a new sun,
he arose. As he walked away, he felt newly restored. He felt a soothing balm
that healed the toxic past to which he had clung. He felt cells emerging from
within him as zygote coalesced into awaiting embryo. He would no longer hold on
to the guilty pleasures of nights that shunned the light of dawn.
© May
2015
About the Author 
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter.  I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.  I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.
Posted on

Poetry by Will Stanton

My interests in space
arts and time arts, especially fine music, all have taken precedence  over any consistent pursuit of poetry.  Yet, when I encounter well crafted poetry
with themes that speak to me, I am deeply moved.  I already have spoken of my great
appreciation for the poetic craft and thought-provoking themes of Charles
Bryant’s original poetry and amplified translations (available on
YouTube).  For this little group’s touch
upon today’s topic of poetry, I am presenting short poems from two other
people, both whose lives as well as their creations have been meaningful to me.
The first poem is from
my late partner James.  For James,
composing poetry was just one of his several interests, yet he approached his
writing quite seriously.  For example,
James had the intellect and talent to tackle translating the esoteric and
complex poems of the nineteenth century French poet Gérard de Nerval.  For comparison, I read two books of already
published English translations.  I found
James’ understanding of the poems and skill in maintaining poetic quality equal
to one of the volumes and far superior to the other.  My humble assessment was supported when none
other than the acclaimed American poet and literary translator Richard Wilbur complimented
him on his translations.
Yet, James could
create simple, more easily accessible poems, too, poems that the general public
could appreciate.  One such published
poem was “Night Child.”
She
wanted much to understand how the skies
watch
silver-eyed across a purple night,
to
learn at last how early mornings rise,
James
and
fathom fragile dewdrops caught with light.
She
wanted much to comprehend the way
that
flowers celebrate the sun, which flows,
they
said, on yellow contours of the day,
and
contemplate the fashions of the rose.
She
wanted much to know for once how clouds
graze
on a languid sky like flocks of sheep
or
change to unicorns or make grave crowds
of
graybeards dreaming through an azure sleep.
And
much she marveled as her fingers read
of
such a world as blue and green and red. © JHM
For the next poem, it
was like being punched in the gut the first time that I heard it recited.  I care deeply about good people, and I
despise violence and war.  This poem was
written near the end of World War I.  I
had gone to see the 1997 film “Regeneration,”
(DVD released in the U.S. titled “Behind
the Lines”) which was based upon the book by Pat Barker.  The story centered upon the lives of British
officers who were suffering, from what at the time was referred to as, “shell
shock.”   They had been sent to
Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland for psychiatric treatment.  Some of the poor souls appeared to be
permanently scarred emotionally.  For the
less traumatized, the goal was to make those walking wounded sound enough to
send them back to the front.
Among them was the
gentle soul of Wilfred
Owen, a budding poet.  There
he met and was encouraged to write by the noted poet Siegfried Sassoon, who had
been sent to Craiglockhart after he had thrown away his war medal and spoke out
publicly against the insanity of war. 
Sassoon had written war poetry that was true and realistic, in marked
contrast to simple patriotic poetry such as that of Rupert Brooke.  Sassoon encouraged Owen to do the same.
The Craiglockhart
psychiatrists (or “alienists,” as they were known at the time) managed to
persuade Owen to return to the front. 
Just one week before the declared armistice, Owen was killed crossing a
canal in northern France.  The irony and
tragedy of Owen’s death still haunts me.
The finalé of the film
included an off-screen voice reciting Owen’s poem “The
Parable of the Old Man and the Young.“ 
The poem, as well as the whole film, moved me so deeply that I returned
for a second viewing and later purchased the DVD.
So
Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
and
took the fire with him, and a knife.
And
as they sojourned both of them together,
Wilfred Owen
Isaac
the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold
the preparations, fire and iron,
But
where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then
Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And
builded parapets and trenches there,
And
stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
And
lo!  An Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying,
Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither
do anything to him, thy son.
Behold!  Caught in the thicket by its horns,
A
Ram.  Offer the Ram of pride instead.
But
the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And
half the seed of Europe, one by one.
–
– – – –
©
13 May 2014 
About the Author 
  

 I have had a life-long fascination with people
and their life stories.  I also realize
that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too
have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

Horseshoes by Deborah MacNair

When told the subject of this piece
Was horseshoes, I remember thinking, “Oh jeesh.”
“Horseshoes” it said, about them you’ll write,
But what can I say,
That won’t come out trite?
For my story you see
Is pathetic but true,
That I know almost nothing
About the horseshoe.
But one thing I know,
One claim to fame,
Folks throw them at a post,
And call it a game.
When a ringer is thrown,
You can tell at a glance,
This game requires skill,
And not random chance.
If you can’t make a ringer,
Please don’t sing the blues,
For “close enough” counts,
In the game of horseshoes.
Still one question I have,
One question it’s true,
Does the horse ever wonder,
What became of his shoes?!

© 3 March 2015
Posted on

Internal Misery by Beth Kahmann

Can’t cope so I dope,

Can’t stand taunts, jabs, injustices and lack of humanity.

Being ‘Gay’ I’m terrorized and teased mercilessly.

Can’t cope, so I dope and dream after taking lots of Dramamine warding off perpetrators inside my head.

I dream of ending it all.

If I do will that stop bullies, homophobes and the like?

Or will they still harass and call me a Dyke?

Perhaps they swim in their own internal misery.

From schoolyards, to back yards, to cemeteries, my life and death won’t even end in peace.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones-but words can never hurt me”

Yeah, tell that to the teen or Mom or brother that wants to end it all because year after agonizing year they were called Queer.

Denver, © January 2015

About the Author

Beth is an artist, educator, and is very passionate about poetry.

She owns Kahmann Sense Communications bethkahmann@yahoo.com

Posted on

Mushrooms by Ricky

          Why are mushrooms and
children so different yet still in the same Kingdom?  Why are children and mushrooms so alike but
not in the same Phylum?  Does it really
matter?  Yes, it does.
Similarity #1:  Mushrooms are Fungi which thrive in dark and damp places
often sticking their heads up into the sunlight to examine the world above the
soil and to scatter their spore.  Kids
stay in the shadow of their parents, then ever so slowly peer or venture out
into the world beyond their home seeking greater light and knowledge.  Adolescent male children prematurely scatter
their “spore”.
          Similarity
#2:  Mushrooms feed upon
smelly decomposing organic compounds predominantly in the dark.  Children are kept “in the dark” about many
things and accuse their parents of feeding them smelly decomposing organic
compounds.  Yet some parents do “feed”
their children’s minds a steady diet of “BS”, by continually espousing concepts
of bigotry, hate, and homophobia.
Parents unwisely keep their
children “in the dark” to protect them from information which theoretically might hurt or damage the child
or which is too embarrassing for the parent to talk about.  Not talking about sexual matters early enough,
but waiting until the child has already obtained a rudimentary knowledge which
is often wrong and incomplete is not good for the child.  Thus, a child who feels “different” for some reason
has no one with which to discuss their feelings, because the parent has closed
or not opened the door to such information or discussion.  This has a disastrous impact on the child’s
mental health, life, and is hazardous to their adult future.
Parents often struggle with
and wonder why their children don’t remain active in the parent’s church in
which the children have been raised since birth.  I suspect that years of lying and supporting
the myths of Santa Claus and Elves, the egg-laying Easter Bunny, the Sand Man,
Frosty the Snowman, and the Boogeyman finally carried over to the stories of
Jesus.
Parents keep forgetting that
children are NOT STUPID.  They are smart,
cunning, and bear considerable watching. 
Continually lying to them, even if it is a white lie like Santa Claus is
not setting a good example.  There must
be a discussion early on in a child’s life of the difference between a fictional
Santa and a real Jesus – a wise parent will ponder and prepare for that discussion very carefully
or be forced to admit that they
don’t know if Jesus is or was real.
Difference #1: 
Mushrooms
are Fungi.  Children are not Fungi.
Difference #2: 
People
eat mushrooms for flavor or recreational purposes.  Mushrooms only eat people after the coffin is
sealed, and often for the same reasons.
One day at our dinner table,
we were eating spaghetti with the sauce provided by a jar of Prego. 
This particular version of Prego
contained small pieces of mushrooms. 
Partway through the meal, my oldest daughter (7) proudly announced to
everyone that in school she had learned that mushrooms are poisonous and she
would not eat them anymore.  Instantly,
her sister (5) and brother (3) stated that they would not eat them either.  No matter how their mother and I explained
only some mushrooms were poisonous and they had been eating mushrooms in the
spaghetti sauce their whole lives and not died; no argument or fact could or
ever did change their minds or behavior. 
Sometimes, children really can be less smart than a parent wants to
believe.
What is the point?  The two questions that opened the mushroom memory
story are totally irrelevant to my point except as a literary device to get you
to read this post.  The question of “does
it really matter” is important.  It
matters because too many youths are still killing themselves over sexual
orientation bullying and parental homophobia. 
THIS MUST STOP!!!  Open and honest
dialog between parent and child must begin before age 5 and continue throughout
their lives.
So called Christian
ministers who preach hatred and homophobic sermons ARE NOT CHRISTIANS and
should be discharged and shunned until they repent and teach correct Christian
doctrine.  In my opinion, these ministers
could be prosecuted for some form of “breach of the peace” or “inciting
violence”.  They definitely are causing
discord and not preaching Jesus’ Gospel of love and harmony.
I am someone who believes that
every life matters. 
Every youth suicide represents a lost national treasure.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is
a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away
by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to
know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
– Poet John Donnes, 1624.

© 8
December 2013 

About the Author  

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.

Posted on

Favorite Places by Ricky

I
have many “favorite places” depending upon which part of my life I am
remembering.  Only a few can be called
absolute favorites throughout my life. 
What follows is only a listing of those places which are withstanding
the ravages of time upon my memories.

These places are listed in no particular “favorite” order.

1.   Disneyland
– Peter Pan Ride (I first rode this in 1955)
2.   Disneyland
– Alice in Wonderland Ride (I first rode this in 1955)
3.   Lake
Tahoe – Emerald Bay (My first summer home at Lake Tahoe – 1958)
4.   LDS
Manti Temple (Deborah and I married here in 1973)
5.   Mt.
Rushmore, South Dakota (I recharge my patriotism here)
6.   Epcot
Center – Journey Into Imagination with Figment (My family LOVED this ride.  We rode it three times in a row without
getting off the ride to reenter.  This
link is for the newest version not the one we saw years ago.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPr7G-uBmM
  
7.   BSA
Camp Winton (I was a boy camper 2 years and on the “Staph” in 1966.  The “staph” spelling was my idea.  My name is recorded around the “XX” brand
left of center.)
8.   Disneyland
Paris – Space Mountain (My youngest daughter, her friend boy, and I rode this
twice.) 
  
9.   Step-father’s
Tour Boat (I was his deckhand all summer in 1958)
10.   The
California Redwood forest at Trees of
Mystery.  Specifically, the
“Cathedral Trees.”
Cathedral Tree video 1:48
minutes.
The Redwoods

Joseph B. Strauss

Here,
sown by the Creator’s hand.
In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand:
No other clime is honored so,
No other lands their glory know.

The greatest of Earth’s living forms,
Tall conquerors that laugh at storms;
Their challenge still unanswered rings,
Through fifty centuries of kings.

The nations that with them were young,
Rich empires, with their forts far-flung,
Lie buried now-their splendor gone:
But these proud monarchs still live on.

So shall they live, when ends our days,
When our crude citadels decay;
For brief the years allotted man,
But infinite perennials’ span.

This is their temple, vaulted high,
And here, we pause with reverent eye,
With silent tongue and awestruck soul;
For here we sense life’s proper goal:

To be like these, straight, true and fine,
to make our world like theirs, a shrine;
Sink down, Oh, traveler, on your knees,
God stands before you in these trees.

© 7 July 2013

About the Author 

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in
Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach.  Just
prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on
their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my
parents divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com.
Posted on

Our Path, by EyM

True leaders willingly follow.
Best leading tunes in, listens, cares, inspires,
and moves upward.

Maybe the loneliest person is the one
who could never learn to share,
so clamored instead to take control.

If well trained unworthiness kneels
at the feet of the selfish controller,
oppression results.

There on top of their own oppression,
ever pushing downward,
the controller has no chance to rise.

No one comes to them on the tennis court of
life,
to receive their perfect deadly serve.

There stands the domineering controller waiting,
ball in hand ,
completely in control,
and completely alone.

An upward path emerges from courageous sharing
and the ever liberating ability to trust.

A true and strong light shines from each person.
Standing side by side these lights
make bright the path for everyone
to travel onward and upward
together.

© October 2014 


About the Author 


A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench
to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her
Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8.
Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great
outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human
services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties
identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For
Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.