Posts for June 24, 2025 (page 5)

Rays leave the sun, absorbed into a leaf
Plucked from a tree here at Walden.

I am stunned by beauty, by nature, by earth;
Of creation and birth, soiled when all done.

Fragmented chatter burrow into attentive
Eyes, demanding attention and perceptions.

Thorough are the letters sealed with a stamp;
Slow, but deliberate—with words of intention.

The journal is the journey of the mind:
Boundless and mine, timeless in bind.

Ice cracks the lake like an imperfect fault
Of civil disobedience, authentic and reflective.

Truth is found within; beginning with me,
Thoreau, and the government to overthrow.

I tread the same paths
hoof-falls echoing on the smooth rock
worn formless and without ornament
by the countless before me.
I follow the others that broke from the flock
untended by the shepherds, forgotten.
Yet the wolves are simply cried for;
apparitions in the trees.
They do not yearn for blood
and they have no mouths for teeth.
They wail and howl incessantly
mournful calls to the moon and the sea.
In their song, in their pain
we catch glimpses of the truth.
For the wolves are not dangerous
not killing, exploiting, and castigating.
The wolves do not disown their own young
and abuse the young of others.
They do not hide behind a paper-thin guise
and defend their actions with flawed rhetoric.
They do not follow an outdated
centuries old storybook
twisting its words
without grasping the meaning.
They do not carry staffs
with which they punish and warn.
Though demonized by the pastoral shepherds
they are not the wolves in sheep’s clothing.
Neither is what it seems.

Billie who slept
on sidewalks nearby
would also slump against
our house in a stupor

Billie’s world was small
dwindled to this locale
where he claimed his hard bed
and no one messed with his cart

I worried about
his dreams
getting caught
in our walls

I suppose they did
because I still think of him
sleeping under the bright parking lot lights
which made him feel safe he said

I think he just wanted
to be invisible,
for no one to confront him
as he kept his routine

when 911 would come often
he told them
he was just resting from
folding his laundry and they would leave

911 finally took him away one day
where he died
in the hospital
of a very long list

When I turn the corner
and look around the side wall
of our house, I still imagine
I might see Billie

close, but not quite
actually, not truly close
just something
and that’s not enough
an inkling, an ounce
a mentioned deliverance
does not equal what my heart needs
therefore, I choose
myself even if

Part II

Again, too hot. Dressed in a thin white cotton dress, I climb into my empty tub, sit on the edge, and view a painting by October, my Oma’s alter ego.

All is calm in this sea scene— all ocean blues with soft grey mountains in the background, boulders strewn on the shore—  broad brushstrokes of bistre brown for jagged rocks—  but the sands— smooth, and where the water touches shore, silky.

It feels safe to dive into this ocean— and so I do.

I round a bend, jump: my grandmother sits there!

Overhead, three large seagulls squawk against a soft sky. My dear, go! I never intended you to see me in this landscape. But since you are here, I must ask— why are most of my paintings hanging in bathrooms? I thought they were gifts you valued from me?

I dig my toes into the sand. I explain they are. Then I tell her, Oma, I saw Russ yesterday in his Sails on Stormy Seas. No reply from her. He sent me away with a message of love for you. I know you loved him, too.

Finally, she says, You know I was lonely– divorced at twenty-two with two kids. Marriage suitors lined up at the door, yet I fell for my boss.

I smile. But then you bought him out. There was your opportunity.

She shakes her head. No, my dear. You see, it was never the right time to divorce a Catholic wife. I made our choice. And I have no regrets. But it is time for you to leave. And turn up your air!

She splashes me.

The salty waters reach my lips. We both laugh, then look to the sky. It’s the same ol’ game.

I start. Oma, what do you see?

She replies, What I painted, silly— serenity. And you, my dear, what do you see in your Kentucky skies?

I look outside the ornate gold and canvas frame and smile back at her. Oma, I see my serenity, too, that— the most treasured gift you gave me as a child.

An ekphrastic from Las gaviotas sobre la playa Manzanilla de México by October 1. Date: 1965. Oil on Acrylic. 20 x 24. (Translation: Seagulls above La Playa Manzanilla of Mexico.)

You wear your pride
like armor fused together
by ignorance—
unwilling to yield,
even as truth cracks beneath your feet.

You don’t see it, do you?
Eyes welded shut by your own certainty,
your pulse syncs
not with justice or wisdom—
only with the echo chamber
of your favorite headlines.

The leader you hate
could cure cancer
and you’d call it a cover-up.
The one you love
could burn the Constitution
and you’d call it cleansing.

You’ve built a faith
not on evidence,
not on hope—
But on the poisoned stem 
of a cynic’s crown.
Just look at you,
hunting for any flame
to prove the world’s on fire—
even if you have to light it yourself.

How miserable must life be?
How much must you crave
the role of a victim—
to dig through ashes
just to say,
“I told you so”?

You ignore the laughter
of children,
the healing,
the quiet victories
of neighbors who still believe
in something besides
the downfall.

I know—
peace doesn’t get clicks.
Unity doesn’t trend.
Hope doesn’t fit
your doom-scrolling gospel.

So here you are—
a prophet of collapse,
preaching to a choir of cynics,
while some of us 
choose to build bridges
from the bricks
you keep throwing.

Wake up!
Not everything’s falling.
However, you might be—
and too proud to notice.

Temp 96 degrees
Feels like 103 to me

It’s a 

Perfect day for a swim

It’s a

Perfect day for ice cream

It’s a

Perfect day at the beach

It’s a

Perfect day for an ice-cold drink

It feels like 103

But they say it’s only 96 degrees

Q: Why does it take ages to get your S&*t together?
A: Well, that’s why life’s so long.  

we’re fishing. i don’t even know if you know how to fish, but we’re fishing on a dock in the searing summer sun, lazily kissing each other’s faces and lacing loosely together our bodies as lovers do; haphazard, precarious, familiar, routine.

much like the way it feels to hold a graphite club in my hands, leather gloved fingers interlocking, a counterbalance of clubface and weighted grip. how my muscles sing at the rhythm, the momentum of arms cocked back, L to L, swinging, crashing down in a near perfect arc. o how that pale dimpled ball collides with the sweet spot. perfect, solid, pure and right as rain. it’s an old habit, this muscle memory and recalled recollection of what composes a natural swing.

so many ligaments, digits, tendons, trains and trails of thought intersect at the pinnacle of this club-and-ball sport. you’re the seven iron in my hands and i’m not even worried about missing this shot. i predict you’ll carry 120 yards and roll the rest, though secretly i hope for 134. (one time it rolled out to 150, and ever since i’ve prayed for a few extra lengths.)

but back to us casting our rods, tiptoeing the edge to peer through murky water at the little minnows as they race past, catching flopping sunnies and taking them off sharp silver hooks. we glance over the glossy water like wide-eyed children; insatiable appetite for discovery—that sweet, innocent kind of wonder i now feel in moments of prayer, or when we’re looking wholly at one another.

nonchalant, i bring this up to you, and learn that you do know how to fish. but you’re from chicago, well really an hour from chicago, and i guess my assumption is that illinois city boys might not know much about bluegills or golf. you continue to prove me wrong.

if my hypothetical rusty seven iron slices deep into the beyond of a red-staked water trap, would you cast a line after that, too? i don’t always hit straight, it’s true. but then again, you feel right in my arms and my heart and i flash back to a solid shot.

honeysuckle haze
o’er hazard pond. swing, miss, fish
for white blots near shore.

It is in you and in all things of you.
It is in me and in all things of me.
It is in the comingling of our forms,
The design of our union and
The architecture of Providence.  

It is in the strands of your hair,
The mantle of the divine articulation,
A raiment of sunbeam and starlight.  

It is in the gentle curve of your hip,
A sinuous perfection of design and grace,
A study in the duality of balance,
Our shared radiance of life,
From your center to my periphery.  

It is in the imbued joy of your being,
And the sharing of jubilation,
The Celebration Song spoken among friends,
Our disposition of happiness
For which I thank you.  

It is in the story telling,
The Myth making,
The lesson learned and given,
The parable of the soul,
The fable of our lives to be
Passed on out of memory.  

It is in the lifting of burdens,
The weight easing,
The unlooked-for companion,
The defying of gravity,
The banishment of weariness,
The ceasing of toil and
The delight in doing.  

It is in the sorrow sharing,
The season of fading flowers,
Lillies and Roses,
Our jointly held abode of anguish,
The soothing, healing touch of
My kindhearted grief warden. 

It is in the shadow of your footfall,
A grace given to the leaves of grass
Beneath your lithesome tread
Unto the depths of the earth,
The living, breathing rock.  

It is in the timelessness of stratification,
The eons of evolution,
The mutable saturator of life
An inevitable plan of forethought.  

It is in the clever witted laugh,
The turn of thought inspired by divine fortuity,
Words we speak in unison,
The angel’s breath which becomes our unison voice unawares.  

I perceive my love for you resides in all these things and others besides. 
I count them daily in multitudes of
Forms, shapes, processes and designs
Which impart to me a joyful elation.
They appear before me as a secret covenant
Which has been given to me alone
Out of the depths of time before history,
A wonderment before my sight.
I cannot name them all
Lest I am forever celebrating your praise.  

Yet my prayers always are for you and your joy.
My prayers always are a Celebration Song sung to the heavens,
To announce my delight in knowing you. 
My prayers always are a benediction of thanksgiving.  

As the Celebration Song is in you and in all things of you.
As the Celebration Song is in me and in all things of me.
As it is in the comingling of our forms,
In the design of our union,
The architecture of Providence.