Pot Luck

 

There are empty hallways where factories once grew.  Office carpet that is no longer destined to wear-out. 

These are the discarded wrappers of society. Life’s litter.

Silent timeclocks hanging on broken walls.  Buildings so full of quiet they are deafening.

 

       This is the footprint of progress.  Missed and crumpled schedules, dead forklifts and petrified cranes remain motionless.  Back-orders never to be filled, switchboards that no longer blink and conveyer belts without a pulse.

 

       From the highway, travelers see only broken windows and grass growing up through empty parking lots.  They cannot see the old sign-up sheet still posted for the company picnic.  In pencil, Bob’s name, saying he’ll bring the mustard.

 

 

        ZC

There's a reason it's called Left to Write

 

Presently everything runs smoothly

all the gears mesh

there is good, clean oil

and the timing is perfect.

 

Toss in an editor, a supervisor

a manager, scheduler and bean counter

and it all falls apart.

 

An influx of ideas and suggestions

an unfavorable blend of personalities

and before you know it

 

It all gets Blogged down.

 

 

            ZC

 

The Send-off

 

It was the gathering of umbrellas
along with the quietness of the crowd
that seemed to put a damper on the funeral.

Unlike a wedding
there were no dress rehearsals
they had to get it right
the first time.

It’s a shame he couldn’t be here
He would have loved this
everyone dressed up
looking good.

 

 

 

Perfection is a Rumor

The oboe adds to the mystery, just as a campfire adds to a ghost story.   Some things just go together.  Of course, there are always mismatches.  There are some otherwise perfect jobs out there but then there is an obnoxious boss in the mix, not qualified to supervise a house plant.  Once in a while, if I choose to add cream to my morning coffee, lumps come floating to the top.

It isn’t a question of taking the good with the bad, it’s why does the bad have to show up at all?  It seems to be sprinkled in all aspects of daily living.  An air bubble in the toothpaste that suddenly sends a sputter across the bathroom mirror, or you peel the little sticker off the apple only to discover that is where the bad spot is.

Then again, maybe all of those things are the justifications for the word annoyance.  Without them, we wouldn’t be annoyed.  Every word out there needs to have a personal description, and annoyance is no exception.  Static electricity is just life’s way of saying, “Don’t get too comfortable, we’ve got you surrounded.”

 

 

 

     ZC

 

 

 

 

just the same

 

There is such a thing as a sad smile.  I have seen it.  It has been captured in photographs, usually black and white.  Often accompanied by a feeling of loneliness.  Sometimes, although not often, I see it in the eyes of pets.  It is an undeniable communication, unspoken and yet transferred instantly. 

There are places like that, sad, quiet places, void of laughter, yet going through the motions of daily life.  Places not yet aware their spark has died out.

Individuals have the ability to bounce back, more so than towns.  Collective loneliness tends to form its own anchor.  Creating a resistance to change that permeates the structures themselves.  It is felt, even by those just passing through.

 Harry Chapin sang about it in his song, Taxi. 

 

“…it took a while but she looked in the mirror, and she glanced at the license for my name.  A smile seemed to come to her slowly.  It was a sad smile just the same.”

 

 

ZC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Collection

In 1969 the Apollo mission returned to Earth with rock samples from the moon.  Unknown at the time, one of the samples was not a rock but, in fact, was an egg.   Top scientists at the time warned officials against letting it hatch, stating the possible ramifications of releasing an unknown virus or mutant strain into our environment. 

The egg was placed in a locked security room with military guards stationed at the door, around the clock.  The room was held at a constant temperature and humidity.  Several closed circuit cameras watched the egg from every angle, with highly sensitive microphones just inches from the specimen.  A motion detector was also aimed at the egg.  The slightest movement at all would trigger an alarm. 

On September 8^th. Professor Constance Sherman held a meeting with several government officials and shared her findings with them.   According to her calculations, based on the size and density of the shell, the gestation period for this egg should be approximately 57 years, which would be now, then she added, “But that isn't my main concern.  The bigger question, is where’s Mama?”

 

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

It's How We Got Here

 

It isn’t so much the miles I’ve traveled, as it is the number of things packed into each mile.  Looking back down the track towards grade school I can see long sections of track with nothing but weeds running along each side.  I can see that now as time wasted.  My total focus was on playing and having fun and I was good at it.

The days through my teen years didn’t change much from that, although things seemed to pick up speed.  Close friends came into the focus, as did cars and independence.  Each job I tried was like a train station.  I’d stay for a short time, look around, get the feel of the place, but as soon as the next train came along, I’d get on it, and off down the track I’d go.  I saw employment as more of a Smorgasbord, just trying this and that to see what I liked.

The military train ran through different countries, exposing me to different architecture, different people, speaking foreign languages and odd food choices.  That time went even faster, although the heavy scent of garlic somehow permeated my memory. 

The station marked Adulthood came with baggage already piled high.  The bills were much larger and non-stop.  Everyone around me was serious and although we were all on the same train, each person was heading someplace else, with different goals and all very important.   I could tell there’d be no going back.  This station stretched on for miles, but now I had a traveling companion with me.  We looked out the windows together and found that we laughed at the same things and it never mattered if our seats faced forward or back, we enjoyed the ride. 

By the time we reached the Retirement Station, most of the steam was gone.  Our wheels had lost most of their traction, our gears were making more noise than usual and all of the other passengers now seemed to have the same goal, just make it to the next platform. 

We don’t wander too far from the Club Car these days.  We share stories of our adventures and listen to the maintenance reports of others.  Platform 80 is just over the next hill.  We might have to release the brake and coast in, but we'll make it.

 

 

 

 ZC