Unclear

 

 

I'm sorry but I'm still not getting it.

 

Do I turn left now and look for the stairs,

or do I go through the door and then turn left?

 

 

 

 

 

It's always the simple things that confuse me.

 

 

 



Half & Half



The Promise

        Just to be different and in part, to explore the new neighborhood, I took a path I’d not tried before.  It didn’t seem as well worn as my usual but it wasn’t completely overgrown either.  The first thing I noticed was the quiet.   The further along I got into the woods the more quiet things became; street noise and the voices of the neighborhood children playing were gone.  I must admit, it happened so abruptly that it was sort of eerie.

         I’m not sure just how far I’d traveled but I could tell the sun was starting to go down as not only was it getting darker but the temperature was dropping.  I thought of turning back but now I was curious as to where this trail came out.  It didn’t appear to follow a straight direction but neither did it feel like I was going in circles.

         I knew I was pushing my luck continuing on as it got darker but I just kept telling myself, just a little farther, just a little bit more.  I really wanted to see where this trail came out.

         As I came to a small clearing I could see a little better.  In the center of the clearing was a good sized hole.  Two ladders, one on each side of the hole led down and disappeared into the darkness.  The ladders were made out of pipe, like you might see leading down into a sewer in the city.  At the time I didn’t even question the fact that there were two.  That should have been my first question, why two ladders?

The hole looked to be about six feet across.  My first thought was to drop something down just to hear how long it took to hit bottom.  I didn’t see any stones or branches around and the only things I had in my pocket was my keys and a small pocket knife.  I really wanted to toss something in the hole.  Maybe there was water and I’d hear a splash.  Again I looked around the clearing but there wasn’t anything.  Then I did the dumbest thing I could have.  I took hold of the top of the ladder, swung my leg around and stepped onto the top rung.

         If I could climb down a few feet maybe I could see a little further down, so I began to climb.  After several feet I could feel the temperature change.  It was getting colder and the ladder itself felt cold.  Every few feet I’d stop and just listen.  My own breathing was all I’d hear and my heartbeat became noticeable.  What the heck was I doing?  I was acting like a child climbing down into this hole.  Just how stupid was I?  No one knew where I was and I’m sure nobody would hear me if I yelled for help.  Suddenly I realized how scared I was making myself, and yet I continued to climb further down into the hole.

         I looked up and the opening of the hole looked to be the size of a quarter.  I had climbed down really far, and I was actually shivering it was so cold.  What was I expecting to find, and how dumb would I feel if I took another step down only to discover there was water?  Then my shoe and sock would be soaked.  How fun would that be to walk home squishing all the way?

         As I hung there on the ladder suddenly I could hear something other than myself.  I froze.  I tightened my grip and tried to breathe as quietly as possible.  What was it I was hearing?  I could feel my heart beating faster.  Slowly I slipped my arms through the rungs, hugging the ladder close to my body, giving my hands a rest from the cold pipe.  I closed my eyes in an attempt to focus totally on listening.  There it was again.  I heard it.  Someone below me was climbing up the ladder across from me.

I could hear them alternating, first a step on a rung, and then silence as their hand grasped the rail, then a step, then silence.  They were getting closer.

         I knew they were on the opposite ladder as I could not feel any vibration as they climbed.  I wanted to say something.  I felt like saying hello but I was too scared.  Probably neither of us was supposed to be here.  If they were a county worker they’d have a hard hat and flashlight – they’d be making all sorts of noise, and grumbling about having to work so late, but they too were trying to be quiet.  Why?

         They stopped.  Neither of us was moving.  Had they noticed me?  If they looked up towards the top of the hole I’d look like some dark obstruction.  If they did have a flashlight surely they would have the thing turned on.  And why didn’t they say anything?  How on earth did I get myself into this mess?

He started to climb again.  Maybe he hadn’t noticed me; maybe he was just resting for a minute.  I stayed put, still hugging the cold rails.  His breathing sounded labored.  It was as if he were struggling to make it up the ladder.

        I couldn’t stand it any longer, I had to say something.  Surely by now he knew I was here hanging on.

        “Are you alright?” My voiced seemed to almost echo.  His climbing stopped. For what seemed like a long time neither of us made a sound.  Finally he spoke, his voice sounding a little strained.

        “Stay where you are.  Don’t come down any further.  I’m coming up.”

        As the old man finally made his way up to where I was, I could see why he had been having such a difficult time climbing.  His left hand was holding tight to a very large diameter rope.  He had struggled so much as he was only using his right hand to climb.

        We both turned slightly so we could see each other, he on his ladder, me on mine.

        “Please, take hold of this – tightly.”  He reached out handing me the rope.  My natural instinct was to help this old man so I took the rope and held it in close to me.

        “I’m going for help, but you must promise me – whatever you do, do not let go of that rope.”  I was about to say something when he suddenly got louder.

        “Promise me!  You’ll hang on tight and not let it drop.”

        I could see his left hand had been bleeding and that he was completely exhausted.  “I promise.” I muttered.

        He looked at me for some time and then turned facing his ladder.  “I’m going for help.” And he again started to climb up towards the opening.

        “What is it attached to?” my voice slightly cracking.

        “Promise me.” was his only reply.

        What had I gotten myself into?  The weight of the rope made it extremely hard to hang onto.  I tried to pull it up higher, maybe get it over my shoulder but I couldn’t.  I also thought of tying it to one of the rungs but I would need both hands.  What could be so important at the other end of this rope?

        I could still hear the old man making his way to the top.  I wondered what kind of help he was going for, and how long was I to stay here like this?   I almost thought I heard him say something but I wasn’t sure. 


       As I hung there I tried to listen to see if he’d repeat whatever he said, but there was no more communication from the old man.  There was, however, two short tugs on the rope.

 



        

                 

                 

I'm going to need some brushes

A pokey bush did snag my sock

Its thorn snuck in and stung me

A posse caught me with a horse

so with a rope they hung me

A nurse’s aide did hear my call

A glass of water brung me

My English teacher read this poem

upon my head she thumped me

 

I’ll never get apostrophes

And my tenses doesn’t matter

Periods are at the end

While commas – I just scatter

Pronouns haven’t got a pulse

They're not the main attraction

Verbs – now they’re the ones to watch

For they get all the action

 

A writer I don’t think I’ll be

There’s too much going on –

Maybe painting - that’s for me

Something, something…

yawn.

 

 

    


                  OK, maybe not.

 

 

 

Ref: Letters from Ann

I’m very pleased not to be obsessive about dust, dirt, grime and things icky.  I strongly wish, however, to avoid shaking hands with you when we meet.  It’s not a phobia or anything like that, it’s just that having the mind that I do, I tend to envision all sorts of microscopic turmoil taking place on that pork chop you’re sticking out there.

Taking hold of your hand and shaking it up and down does nothing for either of us.  It is a ritual established by early morons who, for whatever reason, felt the need.  I do not.

Don’t even think about the fist-bump, although it provides far less surface area, thus reducing exposure, it displays a mannerism more suitable to primates.

In short, when we meet, stand up wind, don’t reach out and we’ll get along just fine.

 

Signed;

Ann Tiseptic

 

  

Down

the only direction

one can hunker.


 

 

 



The Difference Between Then & Now

 

I could see the hood ornament.  I knew where the front of the car was.

 

Now, it’s nowhere in sight.  It’s like I’m driving a dashboard around town.  It’s the only thing I can see as I’m driving.

 

I liked it the old way.  

Such A Miracle

Last night I dreamt the world was once again flat and at the edges - the oceans spilled over.  I dreamt all of the knowledge mankind had gained over the years had suddenly disappeared.  We had traveled back to the beginning, losing all technological advancements, medical achievements and industrial ingenuity.

 

There was, however, one child.  A special child as it seemed, for as he walked - tiny lights within his shoes would light up.  People were in awe of such a miracle and held this child in the highest esteem.  People would whisper whenever they spoke of him.  Statues were erected in his likeness and on the odd Wednesday nobody had to go to work, for this was a day set aside for him.

 

One day a neighborhood mother had gotten close to the special child and noticed a small label on his shirt.  At first she thought it was a foreign tongue but upon closer scrutiny she could see the letters had been formed in some elaborate scroll and it was not foreign at all.  It said: Tommy Bahama.

 

Word quickly spread across the land, the child was to be known as Tommy.

 

I awoke shortly after the label incident.

 

 

 

 

 

  

Bear Shoulders

It was mostly the wind that was scaring us, flapping our tent and rustling the branches.  But then – when it stopped… it was our own breathing that seemed too loud, like it was going to alert whatever was out there that we were in here.

We were both imagining that we were hearing strange footsteps just outside.  Larry would whisper, “Did you hear that?”  I’d reach over and slug him.  “Be quiet!”  But the loud snort was not imagined.  We both heard it and our eyelids closed tighter and we each tightened our grip on our sleeping bags.  Whatever it was couldn’t get us if we could just lay still and breathe quietly.

Again there came a breathy snort from just outside of the tent but this time we felt the tent move, like it was being pushed by something, something large.  “It’s a bear.”  Larry squeaked from inside his sleeping bag.  I didn’t respond.  I was scared.  My whole body was shaking, as if I were cold, but I wasn’t; just the opposite.  By scrunching up inside our sleeping bags and holding the top closed as tightly as possible, we had turned them into little ovens.  We were both being slowly cooked for whatever was about to eat us.  

I awoke to the sound of tires rolling into our camp sight and I heard a man’s voice yell, “They’re over here.”  I couldn’t believe it.  It was morning.  How could I have fallen asleep being as scared as I was?  More voices were now talking and I could hear a car door slam.  Was it a search party?  Had everyone been out looking for us?  I was still rolled up in my sleeping bag, trying to find the opening.  I needed fresh air much more than I needed rescuing, and I needed to go to the bathroom.

Bright sunlight poked my eyes like two fingers.  As I tried to focus, someone was also pulling at the zipper to help get me out.  As he leaned over, the wide brim of his hat momentarily blocked the Sun.  It was a deputy sheriff.  “Are you okay son?”  His voice felt reassuring, but as I looked around all I saw was our shredded tent and no Larry.

Those were the facts I told the sheriff.  That’s all I remembered.  We were scared and trying to be quiet.  It was hot inside the sleeping bag and I woke up when I heard them come into camp in the morning.

Somehow my story didn’t seem to satisfy them.  They kept looking at me like I had more to tell.  I could hear Larry’s mom across the way.  She sounded hysterical.  They kept trying to calm her down but then she’d start screaming again. I was trying so hard to think, but I didn’t remember anything else.  I had no idea where Larry was, I didn’t know what happened to his sleeping bag.  I thought he’d fallen asleep like I did.

Someone handed me half of a sandwich and a metal camping mug of milk.  As I ate the sandwich I watched several sheriffs on horseback ride into camp.  From what I could tell they had been out searching the woods.  None of them looked happy.  Up on the dirt road I could see a camera crew and a NEWS 4 truck.  They seemed like vultures perched along the ridge waiting to swoop down and pick the bones of my missing friend.

Startled by a woman’s voice from behind me I jumped.  “I’m just going to take your blood pressure.  Set your milk down here for a minute.”  Her perfume was strong, almost gagging me but I didn’t want to say anything.  She wrapped the strap around my arm and began squeezing the little ball.  As it squeezed my arm tighter and tighter I suddenly remembered Larry grabbing my arm through the sleeping bag, trying to hold on as he was being dragged away.  How could I have forgotten that?  A tear rolled down my cheek.  “I’m sorry, am I hurting you?”

Once a week, for the next couple months, I had to visit with Mr. Oblinski.  He was a psychiatrist.  The school counselor told my parents it would help me.  Mr. Oblinski had the police report and my statement from back at the campground.  The one big inconsistency with everything was between my statement and the police.  According to them, there was no nurse.  No one had taken my blood pressure that morning.  There was nothing squeezing my arm, at least – nothing anyone could see.

What I didn’t tell Oblinski was that every now and then I can smell the thick odor of the nurse’s perfume.  I didn’t think about it until just now, but it’s always when I try to remember that night.  Images flash in my mind of Larry’s sleeping bag being dragged away, the loud snapping sound of branches – or maybe bones breaking; and that awful smell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Need Just One Handcuff



This one is my favorite

 

 

I always wear this jacket when I go to the beach.

 



This has never felt like home to me.

When I hear that statement I have to wonder what it is that actually generates the feeling of being home.  Is it family, or friends?  Is it as simple as familiarly? Could it be safety or comfort, or maybe a portion of each of these things?

Whenever we contemplate moving, we wonder if that new place will feel like home.  We buy a different house, fill it up with our stuff and meet the neighbors, but then what?  Suddenly we find we’ve been plopped down in a strange community, surrounded by different stores, odd gas stations – maybe even different languages spoken here and there.  What would ever make this feel like home?

Looking at the complex motivational factors that go into moving in the first place I’m reminded of an exit interview I had at one job.  They were curious as to why I was leaving and the person on the other side of the desk said,  “People are either drawn towards something or repelled from something.  Which are you?”   Taking the high road I chose to avoid saying the job stunk, and simply suggested greener pastures awaited.

I haven’t yet discovered the secret to the feeling of home.  I’ve had it on occasion, which suggests to me that it is a fluid thing and not so much a constant reality.  I know that doesn’t help much, but for now it’s all I have.

 

 

Ben Franklin

"If you would

not be forgotten

as soon as you are

dead and rotten,

either write things

worth reading,

or do things worth writing."

 

 

 

Suddenly I don't feel so bad about

my lame rhymes.

 



"At" is Superfluous

 

 

Even though I had purchased the potion it was another thing altogether to get myself to try it.
 

If the gypsy was right in what she said, not only would I be cured but I’d once again be able get the voices in my head to start using proper English.

Really, the way they talk is driving me nuts.

 

 

"Where are we going to meet at?"

 

 

 



Everything Happens for a Reason

…so this guy hands me his business card.

 

“Thanks”, says I, and we part company.

 

Some years later I’m cleaning out one of my desk drawers and what do I come across but this business card.  So long ago - I think to myself.

 

I wonder….

 

I guess all I can do is try it.  So I fold the card into thirds and tuck it under the table leg.

 

Yep.  That’ll do it.  

 

 

...a fine time to tell me.

 

 

 

 



Body of Evidence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Yes, I've used this picture in other posts, but how often does a pic like this come along?)

 

 



The Awakening

 

I awoke to such grumblings, the likes I’ve never heard.  I, having taken so long to fall asleep, now startled and annoyed at such rudeness – what was this loud agitation? Surely not an earthquake and thunder has always kept its distance.

But here it is again – shaking my pipes and rattling my nerves. It had to be a man-made event for Mother Nature had long since gone to bed, freezing her ground and covering herself with a thick blanket of snow.  It could not possibly be her making such a racket, and not at this hour.

Was some intruder attempting to gain access?  If so, they need to work on their element of surprise.  It’s as if they were dragging a bag of clown shoes behind them.  And yet, somehow familiar – this sound, now that I am a little more awake. I know it from somewhere, but where?

Then, as if the overhead light had snapped on, it came to me.  I suddenly knew what it was, and just as quickly I knew that I was to blame, although my explanation might pacify a judge, my own stupidity was – at this very moment – handing down a very heavy fine.

In my haste to escape winter I had failed to clear the sprinklers of water.  I neglected to shut down the timer that was scheduled to keep my lawn lush and green, and now – in their attempt to simply do their job, they were trying to pump gallons upon gallons of water up through the frozen ground.

A laughable force against Mother Nature, for my pipes were splitting, sprinkler heads were bursting against the pressure and although I wouldn’t see it until summer, my wallet was suffering major leaks in all directions.

 

I might as well get up.  I'm wide awake now.