Go Figure...

 

they didn't buy it.

It's good I don't know

 

How many Mondays will I get in my life?  How many sick days or snow days?  How many awards or trophies will I win?  How many beers will I drink?   How many close calls will I have?  How close to the edge will I get before someone pulls me back?

 

Do I thank them or charge them overtime?

 

 

 

 

 

The strong smell of Bleach

 

From several states away

Not knowing becomes magnified

The questions are many, answers few

Concerns fester,

 

From this far away
I believe the doctors are morons
the nurses incompetent

And the crossword left abandoned at the nurse’s station
needs a four-letter word following, CODE _ _ _ _.

 

The hallway hums like a nervous hive, fluorescent bees chewing. I’m states away, squinting at the buzz, trying to catch a single, honest wing. Questions breed like fruit flies in the bowl—tiny, endless, evasive— answers are the bruised pear, sweet somewhere under the skin.

The intercom coughs. A shoe squeaks. A clipboard yawns. Faith feels like a thrift-store coat with someone else’s name stitched crooked. So I hire my rage as night watch: it patrols the perimeter, shakes the vending machine, rattles the blinds, calls everyone a fool.

At the nurse’s station, the crossword waits like a locked door to a different room. Four letters after CODE, the square grins: BLUE, I mutter, and the sound drops an decibel . Maybe the answer is always BLUE—breath held, faces turned, a lump in the throat— or maybe it’s OPEN, a simple latch lifted when someone remembers we’re human.

Moron. Incompetent. Words clang like pan lids. But somewhere, a hand that knows the map draws a slow circle and says: here. Somewhere, a tired person gets it right without applause, and my fury, hired guard, takes a break and drinks a paper cup of silence.

The crossword closes like a curtain. I’m still on the other side of the continent, holding a pencil that won’t reach. So I write the things I can’t ask on the margins: WHO // WHEN // WHAT NOW.

 

 Hello?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gravity of the situation

 

After Hours

The hum of the lights has stopped.

The paper jam in the copier can wait for tomorrow.

Night janitors empty waste baskets and check coin returns on the vending machines for change.

The whiteboard in the conference room tells a grim tale of loss sales and poor judgement.

A Biplane sputters overhead and spots a lone figure on a ledge of the office building.

Nothing they can do now.

 

 

 

For the Record

 

Let them form their opinions

from the bits and the scraps

from the gossip and snickers

while they set their own traps,

While on those in disfavor

they openly trod

taking cover, of course

behind the word God.

Yes, I’ve a glass house

but with Windex galore

I’ll not throw a stone

but stand as before,

I am what I am.

Nothing more.

 

 

We are the generators of scary

 

Just as a waterfall can generate electricity, so too can shadows spark the imagination.  Rushing water brings about power, while darkness creates invitations to a nonexistent reality.  Those thoughts that lurk in the recesses of your mind tend to step forward when prompted by shadows.  Never quite welcome in the light of day.

 

 

 

There seems an endless supply

 

One could spend a lifetime wondering
from where the bubbles come.

But I feel I should keep trying.

It's someone's job

 

Who be sitting at the AI desk
reading all this junk?
Gathering all the nonsense
of everything I thunk,

 

A better time could sure be spent
by closing all the windows
and locking all the doors
sweeping out the corners
and mopping all the floors,

 

My thoughts are not that worthy
for your time to so be spent,
Unless you make a GPS
of where my thoughts have went,

 

Tracking brains could be a thing
perhaps a new profession,
I’ll write it up and drop it in
that box that says, Suggestions.

 

 

 

 

 

Imagination at High Speed

 I saw it from a distance

lying still by highway 5,

a wave of sadness hit me

for the thing was not alive, 

Some driver must have struck it

an awful thud, I’m sure,

with darkness and the speed at night

A flash or just a blur,

Closer now I clearly see

the thing that has been struck,

was not at all alive before

but a tire from a truck,

A good-sized piece of rubber

still boasting lots of tread,

but now without a breath of air

it simply lay there dead.

 

Too Many Moons - Too Many Winters

 

There is an old Indian chief who remembers the day he could run through the forest and not make a sound.  That was back when he had the strength to pull back his bow and let his arrows fly.  These days arthritis has made camp in his joints.  His vision can no longer see the fish in the stream.  For him, spear fishing is just one more thing he is not able to do. 

He does not sit cross-legged on the ground, for he’d fight a losing battle to get up again.  His bones make the noise of snapping twigs, and his mind struggles to recall the past.  He takes white-man Tylenol and aspirin once a day.  Behind his back they call him Stumbling Bayer.  He has become allergic to war paint and accidentally cut himself on his tomahawk, so that is now kept just out of reach. 

Soon smoke signals will be sent to the Hospice Tribe. Ceremonial blankets are already being woven.  Stumbling Bayer will travel to the happy hunting ground, where there is abundant game, warm summer breezes and star-filled nights.  Of course the arrows will have those little rubber suction cups and not sharp points.  After all, it's heaven for the animals too.

 

 

The Dusty Reality

 

Horses at the hitching post
cowboys in the bar
Robbers holding up the bank
but they won’t get too far,

Schoolmarm writing what to do
children out at play
Western Union wrote to say
The railroad’s coming through,

Good guys wearing hats of white
bad guys wearing black
Immigration in stories told
was the only thing they lacked,

A healthy dose of Giddyap
might wake the snoring crowd
but it’s all about the popcorn
and crank it up real loud.

 

 

The hand that feeds you

 

Several times a day I see little Gabby passing by my house.  Today she had a green sweater on.  It was a little chilly out.  On holidays she usually wears a costume appropriate for the day, like on Christmas she wore a Santa Clause suit.  It was very cute.  Some days she is Tinker Bell, while other days she might show up as Jack Sparrow, pirate of the high seas.

 

The way I see it, Gabby never sees how she is dressed, she only looks straight ahead as she walks through the neighborhood.  Should she someday pay attention to how she is dressed and how the other dogs see her, things could take an ugly turn.

I wouldn't get her glasses.

 

 

 

 

 

A Common Thread

 

There is an ancient philosophy that says, all things are connected.  Everything is either directly or indirectly attached to everything else. For example, the tribal people of Indiana suggest there is a special knowing within a skein of yarn that automatically creates a mental connection to kittens.

 

A well-known mystic, living in an apartment in Corleone, suddenly knew that his mailbox, which was several floors down in the entryway, now held news from a forgotten relative.  Upon opening the mysterious envelope, he was pleased to find $9.00 Canadian and a bus transfer.  There was no explanation enclosed.

 

Meanwhile, Nora Stileson, a college student living in the same apartment, knocked on the mystic’s door and asked if she could borrow a bus transfer.  Never before in his life had he had one, until just that day.

 

Clayton Bostic, of Newfoundland, complained to his doctor about a sharp pain he was experiencing in his left foot.  His doctor was surprised, saying that he also had a sharp pain, also in his left foot.  Neither had any explanation as to why.  Both agreed to meet for a pint at the local pub that afternoon.  While sitting on the barstool and resting their foot on the brass rail that ran the length of the bar, both forgot about their foot pain.

FYI,
        The bar tab at the pub came to exactly $9.00 Canadian.

    Some would call these events coincidences, others synchronicities, and still others a sort of cosmic bookkeeping—small balances maintained by the universe to remind us that the ledger is always open.

    Across the Atlantic, in a quiet bookshop in Leeds, a woman named Heloise Weaver felt an inexplicable urge to straighten the display of travel guides. Her hand paused over the section on Canada, though she had never been. As she nudged a slightly crooked spine into alignment, the lights flickered, and a chill breeze rustled the pages. She shivered. Somewhere, she imagined, someone had just come into a small, unexpected amount of Canadian money.

    At that exact moment in Corleone, the mystic was contemplating whether $9.00 Canadian was enough to purchase enlightenment. He decided probably not, but it might be just enough to buy lunch. He tucked the coins into a ceramic dish shaped like a lotus flower, where they clinked in a way that seemed to approve of the decision.

    Nora Stileson returned to her room with the borrowed bus transfer and paused, sensing she had just completed a task assigned to her by forces she didn’t fully understand. She shrugged and pinned the transfer to her bulletin board, next to a photograph of her cat unraveling a sweater. The cat, somewhere in another room, sneezed violently as if to protest being remembered.

    Back in Newfoundland, Clayton and his doctor clinked pint glasses and declared the mysterious foot pain cured, chalking it up to weather, age, or the Newfoundland air having a sense of humor. They moved on to discussing hockey, fishing, and the sudden rise in gulls stealing sandwiches. Behind them, unnoticed, a man at a booth winced as he felt a sharp pain in his left foot. He looked down, saw nothing amiss, and went back to his crossword.

    Thus the universe continued its quiet connections—crossing wires, tugging threads, sending gentle nudges through yarn, mailboxes, bar rails, and travel guides—never announcing its presence, yet constantly making sure that everything brushed up against everything else, one improbable moment at a time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One for the Road

 

I’ve got old man groans
and mystery pains
I exercise
but without any gains,

My vision is blurry
my hearing – so, so
I walk with a cane
wherever I go,

When out and about
I'm under a hat
and I try not to step
wherever I spat,

It’s been me and this barstool
and don’t you just know
when Last Call does find me
I’ll get one to go.

 

Under the Blanket

 

Just under the blanket
sleeps my very cold lawn
with beetles and earthworms
and ants that do yawn,

 

The snow brings the quiet
puts tulips to bed -
changes water in sprinklers
to ice cubes instead,

 

The lawnmower sits quiet
in the back of the garage
with snow tires ready
to put on the Dodge,

 

Mittens and shovels
and salt for the walk
scrapers for windshields
big woolen socks,

 

Sorry but winter
it’s just not for me
so under the blanket
is where I will be.

ZC

 

 

 

A Different Tune

 

It was a nice-looking guitar leaning against the wooden rocker on the front porch.  No one had seen the old man in several days, yet each walker and jogger to pass, glanced over to look.  His singing was familiar to everyone who passed and he was well liked.

Most people lived in the new houses that had been built around his old farmhouse.  They had never bothered to walk up and talk to him.  I doubt they even knew his name, but now his absence was being felt. 

The questions grew throughout the new housing development, was he sick, in the hospital? Had he passed away? “Someone should go and check on him.” Yet no one did.

The wind eventually blew the guitar over and the days of rain pounded against it.  The sight of the abandoned porch began to bother people.  They no longer seemed concerned about the old man, now what they wanted was to have the place torn down, maybe build a park for their kids.  “It’s an eyesore.” they said.  “It doesn’t fit in with this neighborhood.”  “It’s bringing our house values down, someone should do something.”  

Some years later, little Bobbie Henson was playing on the swings in what was now called Farmer's Park, just next to Lakeview Estates.  There was never any lake and the view was nothing to write home about.  The houses had been built years ago and the farmhouse torn down to make room for the park.  The general complexion of the neighborhood had changed a few times, but there were still a couple of families who remembered the old farmhouse and the guy who used to sit on his porch and play his guitar.

Excited at his discovery, Bobbie ran into his kitchen to show his mom what he had found by the swings.  "What is it?  Look, what is it?  Bobbies mother took the small piece of plastic from her son and ran it under the faucet.  As she dried it off she smiled.  "It's a guitar pic, Bob.  A very old guitar pick.  Maybe after dinner I'll tell you the story about it."

 

 

 

 

 

Reflections of the Season

 

Happy Holidays

J. Peterman

 

The sound of a horse walking on pavement is unique.  It has neither pitch nor tonal qualities.  It cannot be associated with any musical scale, neither flat or sharp.

It is the combination of weight, impact and a hollow resonance.

       Several horses walking along the same street would be the sound of a crumpling tuba, discarded by the child weary of marching with the school band and thinking only of the Twix candy bar in his pocket.

 

 I would have enjoyed writing for the J. Peterman catalog. For me that would have been the perfect job.

Jumping the Tracks

 

We finally finished watching the television show Young Sheldon.  It was funny and we enjoyed it. The main character loved trains, real as well as toy trains.

The Big Bang Theory has the same main character, but now grown up.  This show was terrible, for the simple reason that instead of making it funny, they added a laugh track.  Sounds of a fake audience supposedly finding humor, even though there was none. 

Sorry, but we immediately hit the derail button on our remote.  Life is too short for such cheap shenanigans.

 

 

 

A Feeble Attempt

 

I noticed a circle of rocks around the campfire.  It was a familiar look, as I had learned to do that when I was a scout. After thinking about the actual containment aspect of the rocks, taking into consideration the low level of the rocks and the wind, I came to the realization that it was quite a feeble attempt at keeping the fire from spreading.

Perhaps the hidden message here was to simply be aware of the possibility of the fire spreading, even knowing the rocks did little against the wind blowing across the leaping flames.

I would guess there are many other situations where we do something, hoping to do or prevent something else, while in reality our efforts fall short.  We pay for years for life insurance and yet we still die.  We sneeze into our elbow to stop the spread of germs, then go to work and share the same copy machine, the same doorknobs and pass around the same reports from office to office and person to person.  At lunch time we gather at the same salad bar, sharing the same utensils to select food made by someone unknown in an unseen kitchen. 

Last night, during dinner at a local restaurant, they passed around a small bottle of hand sanitizer in an effort to control the spread of germs.  Then we all handled the large laminated menus to make our selection.  I expect the menus have never been cleaned.  They just travel from table to table, being passed from employee to customer over and over again.

Maybe we need bigger rocks.

  

 

 

 

Vocal Cord DNA

 

What my eyes see

What my mind sees

and only then.

 

Until I no longer feel like I need to count my fingers after shaking hands with you.

 

As soon as you learn right from wrong.

 

Whenever you stop lying.

 

If you’ve never committed a crime.

 

Assuming you didn’t cheat in school.

 

Once you can speak in complete sentences.

 

If you are drug free.

 

Whenever you can prove you have our best interest at heart.

 

As long as you are not greedy or corrupt.

 

If you are nice to animals and treat everyone with respect.

 

Then, you can have my vote.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So Much Older

 

I was so much older then
I didn’t have a clue,
what was so important
and what it meant to you, 

I’ve gotten younger in my age
I have my pot of gold,
before I turn another page
my story must be told,

The spark has long extinguished
my spirit feels the breeze
the heart remembers yesterday
and the chill of winter’s freeze,

Fallen friends still smile
the songs play in my head,
I’ll linger just a while
till everything’s been said,

Nothing more for me to do
once everything’s been read.

 

                      zc

 

 

 

 

 

 

Auto Correct

What if Google should start adjusting numbers and not just our grammar... 

When I write a letter,

it’s really absurd—

Google knows better,

and edits my words.

 

But if numbers were mangled,

oh heavens, beware!

The rockets would dangle

mid-countdown, mid-air.

 

NASA would stumble,

the countdown would stall,

Armstrong would fumble,

no leap there at all.

 

Instead of the textbooks,

instead of the lore,

his face on a carton,

in 64.

 

So beware the machine

that insists it knows best—

for a poem misaligned

is a moon misaddressed.

 

 

Just my opinion, but I can see someone taking AI to court.

Good-luck I say.

 

 

 

What I Remember

 

The college was up on a hill in California.  There was one spot on campus where you could sit on the ground, unseen by campus security, faculty or students.  The view from there was the entire valley.  It was peaceful and quite picturesque. 

I don’t really recall any professors, or specific subjects, nor do I remember much of what seemed so terribly important at the time.  What I do recall is sitting there with a friend and a bottle of whiskey.

We took turns taking a sip and talking about the future.  Our plans and our hopes and expectations of life.  Then we dug a small hole and buried what was left of the whiskey, saying if we ever returned, it would be there waiting for us.  We never did.

It was a fine time.  What I can’t remember is who the friend was.  At the time I thought it was a bond that would last forever.  We had created a moment, not likely to ever return.  So surely, we’d not forget. 

On my shelves today are a couple of old textbooks from back then, and I have a class ring that has survived the passing years, but what I remember from my education is that moment, two friends, knowing the time was quickly going by, sitting on the ground and in our own attempt at slowing it down, we looked out over the valley and made our plans for the future and sipped, what I’m sure was not at all a smooth or expensive whiskey.  It’s what we could afford, which wasn’t much. 

After having written this I now recall who the friend was.  He, like the whiskey, has been buried for some time now.  The passage of time for him has finally stopped.  Like a bookmark, he is forever between those pages.  His memory is now a part of that time.

There was no ceremony as we buried the bottle, no words spoken over it, just a quiet closing of that chapter and we walked out into the light of the parking area.  I don’t even remember if we said good-bye or see you tomorrow.  I think we simply left for our respective homes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Select One

 

This person is…

 

A.  Trying to guess what number I’m thinking of.

B.  Regretting biting the lemon.

C. Sitting behind a column at the stadium.

D. Wishing there were an escalator for his 12-step program.

E.  A fake image constructed by AI

F.  Not that skilled at peeling a cucumber

 

1.                 Wondering how he made it onto this Blog.

 

 

 

 

 

An actual conversation - no kidding.

 

“Alexa, where did I leave my car keys?”

 

I don’t know how to answer that.

 

“Alexa, what should I have for dinner tonight?”

 

Based on your inability to locate your car keys, maybe something at home.

 

“Alexa, are you being a smart aleck?”

 

 No response

 

 

It's there - within the "Hold it."

 

There is a quiet and peacefulness in nature that goes unnoticed by hikers, campers and hunters.  It is the gap between poets and city dwellers. It is a page half turned within a story. “Take a deep breath – hold it…  Okay breath.”

 

 

 

 

It's Duct Tape - not Duck Tape

 

There is an odd gap between knowing and doing.  We know, for example, that the earth is unstable.  It shifts and moves, and yet we stack up bricks in the shape of buildings, and we live and work inside of them, all the while knowing gravity and the shifting ground works against us.

 

We discovered fire and its dangers, yet we construct houses out of things that burn.  

 

We invent harmful chemicals and then spray crops and food with them.  

 

We establish insurance to protect us from sudden expenses, then allow the same insurance companies to raise the cost higher than the potential expense.

 

Some might suggest there are flaws within our common sense. Our abilities have exceeded the level at which they provide good and safety.

 

Our educational system generates intelligent people, and yet we allow the rich, rather than the smart to lead us.

Please consider these as observations
rather than complaints.
With respect to being at the top
of the food chain,
I wouldn't put it to a vote.

Paid for by: Z. Corwin