More of a Challenge

 

A Golf Eclipse

 

Van Go

 

If only...

 

Sorry

but my brain’s too small,

I simply

cannot learn it all,

Knowledge is

so vast and wide,

My brain is small

and kept inside,

If I could somehow

grow my think –

I’d learn as fast

as I can blink,

Every language

I would speak,

Every cure

I’d surely seek,

There’d be no sneezing

where the cough is,

I’d be too smart

to run for office.

Yes, I know that last part stinks.
I'll come back to it.

 

 

 

Resuscitate me

 

Never do I care to see

a toe tag hanging off of me,

lying prone

upon some slab,

wishing not to be cadaved.

Should you find me

laying still -

take my pulse

don’t read my will.

I never wish
to be, The Late,
don't take your time
resuscitate.  

 

The air is no longer thin

 

I was confused by the telephone and how a voice could travel through a wire.

Now, they’ve taken away the wire and our voices somehow travel through thin air.  How can this be?

We push radio signals into the sky, and television pictures across the land.  We beam satellite images and laser beams here and there.

And every minute of every hour we fly airplanes around the world, and from here to there, along with our luggage.

We send up hot-air balloons and children’s kites.  We shoot rockets and missiles into the atmosphere, without a second thought.

I expect that when our air reaches the saturation point, clouds will no longer stay afloat, and we’ll all be crushed when they fall.

That will be the end as we know it.

I'm just saying’

LOOK! Up in the sky.

I don’t understand

I doubt that I’ll get it,

how that cloud stays above

and who thought to let it?

Made out of white

fluffy to feel,

Don’t see it at night

just how is it real?

Some shoot out lightening

some filled with rain,

A few thin and wispy

it’s all quite insane.

  

It's Gone.

 "Tell me again, what kind of knot you tied."

"I don't know. What do you think it is?"

 

Nora Jennifer

 

Nora sat on the comfy chair by the window, looking out over the courtyard.  The light from her apartment was soft and the only sound was from the classical music she played in the background and her purring cat, who seemed content to sit on her lap, eyes closed.

Across the courtyard, the light from a flickering television shown on the backside of the shade covering the window.  Old Mr. Harlin rarely came out.  His groceries were delivered, along with the daily paper.  His mail filled his mailbox along the lobby wall, next to the other twenty-seven boxes. No one really knew him; they only knew of him.  Once a week, Nora would empty his mailbox and carry it up to his door, knocking and then leaving it on his mat.

She wanted to paint him.  She could envision his facial features on canvas.  Failing that, she hoped to one day at least take a black and white photograph.  There was just something about the old man that suggested he had experienced a life worth living.  She could see it in his eyes on the rare times she had seen him outside of his apartment.  She had yet gathered the courage to ask him if she could.

Other than a few scattered cat toys, Nora’s apartment is filled with her art, her paints and stacks of canvases.  Separate from that is her expensive camera equipment.  Long ago the cat had learned to navigate around the tripods and easels.  He tends to ignore the smell of her paints and knows better than to play with the various paint brushes laying here and there.  He understood some time ago how completely lucky he had been to be rescued and now living indoors.

Monday morning, everyone in the building was given a notice that the entire place was being converted into condominiums.  They were given a choice to buy their place or move out.  Nora suddenly saw a ticking clock on the time she had left to either snap the old man's picture or paint his portrait.  She knew she would have no problem finding a new place to live, but knew nothing of Mr. Harlin's finances.  This would not be a smooth transition for him.  This week, when she delivered his mail, she would knock but then stay there until he opened the door.

Mr. Harlin surprised Nora by inviting her in. He poured them both a cup of tea and thanked her for always bringing his mail up from the lobby.  Not wanting to lose her nerve, she jumped right in and asked if he would mind if she painted his portrait. 

"That's not possible, dear.  I don't even allow my picture to be taken.  I'm sure if you check the internet you'll not find my picture anywhere."

"Why all the secrecy?"

"You know our building is changing, right?"

"Yes, I received a notice that it is being turned into condos."

"That's just one reason I don't want to be out there.  I'm the owner of the building, and I imagine there will be many folks not too happy about having to relocate.  But it can't be helped.  There are big plans for this entire area, and some investors are chomping at the bit to buy this place, only to bulldoze it for yet another shopping mall.  Going condo was the only way I could let many of these tenants keep their homes, by spreading the ownership across the entire place.  That also keeps the banks away."

"But I mail my rent checks to RGH, Corp.  Is that you?"

"It is.  If you'll notice the address is the Imperial Bank, on Winston Blvd.  They handle all my transactions, them and the maintenance team.  They're the ones who respond whenever a call comes in that something is broken or not working."

"This place has always been in good shape, I don't know anyone who is unhappy here.  You don't need to hide from anyone."

"That's not it.  Back when my wife was alive, she was the social butterfly.  She was always comfortable around people, she could talk to anyone.  That was before you moved here.  I'm not that way. I never know what to say to anyone, so I just keep to myself."

"Mr. Harlin, you have nothing to worry about.  Everyone in the building is very nice.  I don't think there is a clunker in the bunch, and you're doing fine talking with me."

Nora, do you believe that things happen for a reason?"

"I guess, maybe."

"Not long ago I was diagnosed with cancer.  It is not ever going to do anything but get worse.  It is with that in mind that I've started putting my affairs in order.  Whenever anyone fills out a rental agreement, I have a background check done on them.  Like you said, I don't want any clunkers in the building.  Okay, I'm getting off track here.  As I have zero family left, I have been looking for someone to leave everything to.  With your permission, I'd like to leave it all to you.  Out of everyone here, you have always been the kindest, most thoughtful person around.  That's the other reason for turning these into condos.  You would only be responsible for your own place, and that will be yours, free-of-charge.  I know you don't make much with your art, so this should help you along."

"Mr. Harlin, have you been to a specialists?  Maybe the Mayo clinic?"

"That's what I'm talking about, Nora.  I offer to set you up for life and your first thought is about my health.  No, like I said, I've been to all the doctors and I really want you to have it.  Of course, my lawyers will draw it all up and make everything legal.  You should have nothing to worry about, even the taxes will be taken care of.  And it's completely up to you if you want to let anyone know that you will be the new owner, but I'd be careful with that one.  You can let me know later if you want to stay in your current apartment or if you'd prefer this one.  You can have either."

"What are you going to do?"

"As soon as everything's been completed, I'm heading up to Canada.  I'd just like to be in the snow once more before I'm gone.  Not really sure why, I just miss it."

to be continued

 

 

 

 

The Most Important Meal

 

Rice Crispies

 

Snap and Crackle
I hear it well,

But there’s no pop
that I can tell,

Pop should be fizzy
tickle my nose,

Quench my thirst
as down it goes,

Pops in a bottle
not in a bowl,

Milk would surely
take its toll,

Snap and Crackle
as rice floats by,

if out of milk
just have it dry.

 

Corn Flakes

 

Corn flakes, Corn flakes
I would guess,

If left too long
a soggy mess,

 

Cheerios, just circles be
Sorry, but they’re not for me,

 

Captain Crunch
so military –

Coming off
a little scary,

 

Pop Tarts in a toaster be
push em’ down
then wait and see,

A little steep
on what they’re costing,

Burn your lips
on molten frosting.

 

 

Eggs and Bacon
toast and jam,
Waffles & a little ham

 

On second thought
I have a hunch –

I think that I’ll
just wait for lunch.

 

 To start my day
I'd be the wiser,

a doughnut and a cold
Budweiser. 

 

 

 

No Wake Zone

They would eventually dust this for prints.

Okay, here's the thing -
I liked this picture for its artistic quality
but had no story to go with it.
By no wake zone, I simply mean
for the moment, my waters are calm.

 

Notes in the Margin

 

I must drive around to the other side of the lake in order to reach the library.   There are always familiar faces behind the counter and at the reference desk; they all know me and although I would be hard-pressed to recite their names, there is, at a glance, a knowing of sorts that we are all passing through this time together.  Picture it as if you yourself were a book; when you are born it is like you are being checked out for the first time.  You are not aware of it yet but you have a due date.  We all do.  Some, through chance and sometimes through dumb luck get renewed for a bit, but eventually we all check back in. 

 

          While we are here, we are constantly being read by other people.  Some become damaged, worn, or dog-eared in the process.  Very few remain good as new, walking around clean and pressed, well bound and unmarked, smelling of importance.   Perhaps they hold a time tested philosophy or a formula that has opened a knowledge base for others to build upon.  The majority, however, are filled with fluff, random moments, insignificant to others but note worthy to our own history.  We carry scribbled comments along our margins and are not ashamed to show our age.  It is our life experience that has torn our dust jacket and nicked our cover.  And it is that same experience that has given us a sound understanding of the shelf we reside upon.  That layer of dust appearing as gray hair is disturbed only by those willing to travel to the other side of the lake and search us out.

 

          After having read and reread some of my favorites, I’ve learned that the notes along the margins are often more significant than the body of work itself.  They are our own personal markers, adding little splashes of color and background music to events that otherwise appear as simply lifeless, rambling text.

 

          You can’t see it from there, but I have just written a small note in my margin. 

 

 

          Learn their names.

 

 

The Allegation

 

            Dark whispers skulk through rooms like silent shadows moving along baseboards, avoiding the light of day.   Dangerous allegations that - properly illuminated would never raise an eyebrow, in darkness tend to find the fertile soil of shallow minds.

 

Well Seasoned

 

I see the fall of my life as my working years; time spent scurrying about, dashing off in odd directions, always towards someone else’s destiny.  I was helping employers with advanced degrees in thinking build empires for themselves.  I was simply a temporary necessity, running a machine, folding a shirt or assembling some widget.  I was an employee with a timecard and a lunch bag.  I was just one more face perched upon a shop stool watching the clock; unaware that it was my life ticking away.

 

          It was a time I should have used to billow my own sails and set a direction.  But it is now my winter and I am out of wind.  The waters are icy and perilous.  No longer an employee, I stand on shore with memories of gusts that had blown me off course and fast talking rainbows that promised better tomorrows.

 

          As the seasons come around again I see the landscape filled with new sailors; Captains of industry, bosuns’ mates and some ships quite unworthy to set sail.  I take no comfort in knowing the journey that lies before them but only in my own horizon’s stability.  Even the slightest rocking motion has stopped. 

 

          It remains somewhat unsettling knowing there will be no treasure.  All of my possible maps are gone or written in a new technology.   Being on the sidelines is a mental adjustment I’ve yet to make.  Barnacles have affixed themselves to my outlook, skewing this new beginning into some dismal creature that snaps and bites at my every step.  

 

          This log is without the ocean spray or eerie, quiet nights but stands as my lighthouse, illuminating the martini that has washed upon the rocks; the olive floating like a channel marker, signaling me to a safe, albeit fabricated calm.

 

          “Everything will be alright in the end.  If it isn’t alright, then it is not yet the end.”

 

         

Dreams, etc.

 

A chloroformed intellect must rule my dreams.  Upon waking I can neither explain nor justify nocturnal occurrences.  It seems that an exaggerated form of word association threads unrelated events like a raft and allows them to drift out beyond safety markers. Although morning’s reflection shows no abnormalities suffered, a lingering irrationality permeates like stale gin.   

 

Void of contracts or rebuttals, today shall be spent in analytical review of things and events leading up to the evening’s slumber.  What could have possibly spurred such realistic and volatile dreams as to plunge me deep into the depths of my own familiarity?  Seeing myself as I truly am, stripped of the varnish of civilization, all the while presenting false arguments in a setting designed for nothing short of failure.

 

 Stifled and found in contempt I am tethered to a harsh reality and consigned to life.  There is nothing but life in all directions.  Each and every avenue filled with the choices that life offers; while just there, in the shadows, the unknown consequence of choice.    

 

 

The writer and the Crow

 

It started simply enough; I had tossed some stale hotdog buns out onto the driveway for the birds, then came back in here to the computer and thought nothing more about it.   The crows in our neighborhood have never been shy and become quite vocal whenever they are happy or sad, or any other emotion one might attach to a bird.   It never occurred to me that feeding them would lead to a murder.

 

          When I look back on my life, I see a pair of dusty sneakers, meandering through a variety of experiences, with a staggering insignificance.  I have always found life to be like nice wallpaper, with one small tear, just over there.  I have somehow evolved into a writer who makes a conscious effort to avoid writing about the tear.  I much prefer creating the illusion of a life void of stupidity, politics and until today, stale bread.

 

          There are, of course, other types of neighborhood birds helping themselves to the occasional driveway snacks, but for the most part, its crows.

 

         

 

         

 

         

 

          

They think I can't hear them

 

How is it they besmirch my name

With innuendos they have brought

Where I have planted Baby’s Breath

and typed each sacred random thought -

 

Why now do they assemble here -

in mourner’s clothes so void of glee

and wag their tongues in muffled tones,

speaking so past tense of me.

 

Surely these are not my friends

it must be family gathered here –

to visit me when time’s run out

expressing how they loved me dear.

 

 

 

...and there at the pearly gates

 

My torment stems from rejecting my own nature while pursuing an elusive knowledge of self.  No matter the path I take there seems a familiar sameness which only highlights my limitations.  I am often elated to discover a new beach, only to recognize the existing footprints as my own. 

 

            It is that sameness that drives my frustrations.  I am not growing or advancing but treading in a reflecting pool; adding even more lines to the face looking back, wearing this tiresome journey like an unacceptable grade issued by some predisposed professor. 

 

            I do not anticipate any sudden awakening at trail’s end, where a flood of knowledge and understanding overtakes me, but instead the simple passing of time will have lessened my stature, perhaps curving my spine with age and there, at the gates will be some plywood hand indicating:

 

You must be THIS high to proceed.

 

            This, for some strange reason, I see as the Zobostic Corwin finale'

An Iron Worker

 

Not that kind.

Christmas

 

He saw himself as a gift.

He was shocked to learn the tree was fake.

I'll hear you

 

It will happen they say
that one of these days
the thoughts in my head
will run dry,

I’ll be in a fog
there’ll be no more blog
although I’ll sit here
and try,

Here’s what you can do
pretend that it’s new
go back to the front
and begin,

You’ll still get a smile
and enjoy for a while
as if there’s still ink
in my pen.

It’s not that it’s wrong
like the hummingbird’s song
although you may think that's it's dumb,

Pretend I’m still here
sitting ever so near
as you’re reading
just quietly hum.

ZC

 

 

The Tree in search of his roots

 

Once upon a time, a little tree popped up from the ground.  As he looked around, he noticed that all the other trees were very big and quite tall.  In fact, it was a little intimidating, being so tiny, in the shade of all the trees around him.  Even though he was a little scared and just a bit nervous, he wondered if he was going to grow up to be like them.

After several months went by, when he started to feel a little more comfortable in his surroundings, he started asking questions of those around him.

“What are we?” he asked.

What looked to be the age of a teenager, who was just a few feet away said, “We’re trees, you little Twerp.”

“So, I’m a Twerp Tree?”

“No, silly.  You’re just a tree.”

“But what kind of tree am I?”

“How should I know?”

The teenage tree was no help at all, so the new little tree waited a while and then asked one of the taller trees that was just off to his left.

“Excuse me, but what kind of trees are we?”

“Well, little fella, to answer that we must look at what we have.  If we have oranges, then we’re an orange tree.  If, however, we have apples, that means we’re an apple tree.”

“I don’t have either of those.”

“It takes time, Kid.  You must wait and also look at your leaves.  Pay attention to the shape of your leaves, whenever you get leaves, that is.  You also need to pay attention to what’s around you.  If you are a banana tree, you’ll have monkeys all around.  If you’re a Palm tree, you’ll be surrounded by tourists.”

“What’s the best kind of tree to be?”

“That depends…  If you are a Teak, you’ll have people wanting to make boats out of you, but if you’re a Cedar, you’ll most likely end up in a closet.

“What’s a closet?  Will I like it?”

“I don’t think so, Kid.  Your best bet is to be a Banyan tree.  People seem to leave those alone.  What you don’t want is to be a Eucalyptus.  They really stink.”

“Do I smell now?”

“I don’t smell anything.  I think you’re OK.”

Many years later, the little tree found that he had grown much taller than that wise-guy teenager, and even taller than his friend that had answered all of his questions.

No longer did he have to compete for sunshine.  He was taller than the shade of the other trees.  His real excitement came when he popped out his very first acorn.  He suddenly knew that he was an Oak tree.  He loved it.  He had heard stories of the Oak trees of the past, some holding out their mighty limbs, so horse rustlers could be hanged, others, holding ropes for little children and backyard swings.  And he knew now he’d be surrounded by squirrels and not by tourists.

He was happy.

The End

 

 

 

 

 

The day the Zoo got Silly

 

One bright morning at Wobblepop Zoo, the animals woke up with an odd plan or two. They stretched and they yawned, then shouted with glee: “Let’s be the opposite of what we should be!”

Finn the Fish built a castle of sand, “No swimming today—I’ll play on dry land!” He wore tiny boots and a sunhat so wide and waved at the ducks as they splashed by his side.

Beaky the Bird sat low on a tree, “I’m afraid of heights—it’s the ground that’s for me!” She waddled around with a nervous squawk, refusing to fly, preferring to walk.

Ellie the Elephant frowned at her size, “I wish I were slim,” she said with great sighs. She wore a tutu and danced with grace, while mice clapped their paws with joy on their face.

Percy the Penguin marched with a sign: “Rights for all animals! The world will be fine!” He led a parade with flamingos and frogs, while turtles rolled by on colorful logs.

Leo the Lion gave up his roar, He played smooth jazz by the zookeeper’s door.  Olive the Owl wore shades in the sun, “Nighttime is scary—daylight is fun!”

Zelda the Zebra said, “Stripes are passé!” She painted herself in polka-dot gray. The giraffes gave a snicker, “Oh my! What a sight!” But Zelda just giggled, “I feel I’m just right!”

The zookeepers blinked and both scratched their heads, “Is it Opposite Day?” one of them said. But the children all cheered, “This zoo is a blast!” “We love when the animals step out of their past!”

At Wobblepop Zoo life’s perfectly good— Even if lions don’t roar as they should.  

 

 

 

 

 

Spectator Sport

 

I'm just watching.

A Different Reality

 

Just as there are things in deep space we do not understand, and possibly activity within the spirit world we’ll never comprehend, there are intelligent life forms here on this planet we’ve overlooked for years.

We’ve always assumed that unless things were just like us, they couldn’t possibly think or feel or have an awareness.

Breakthrough technology has now shed a different light on what we once thought were simple house plants.  Doctor Elizabeth Newcomb, of Eastern Labs, Inc. has been successful in establishing communication with several varieties of plant-life. 

With the assistance of artificial intelligence, an elaborate and somewhat complex form of dialog was established, using electronic impulses, not unlike Morse Code.  Doctor Newcomb has been charting personality types, based on these conversations.

As one might expect, the Pansies are very shy and skittish, while some cactus came off as bullies and somewhat aggressive.   The Swedish Ivy was hard to understand, and the Philodendron were quite untrusting and very concerned with conspiracies.

"I liked the bottled water better."

Rule #1

 When the Boss calls a meeting...

You better show up on time.

Sue, Larry & Ted - you're fired.

In the Beginning

 

They gave the animals the ability to see in the dark.  That particular attribute was tied directly to survival.  The problem being, they gave everything reoccurring hunger.  Had they not done that, things today would be very different.

Designing an entire eco system couldn’t have been easy.  Lots of planning, and I assume, many do-overs.   I personally know of three animals that no longer exist today, simply due to simple design mistakes. 

The Calliope, for example.  People today think it is just a musical instrument, but it didn’t use to be.  It was once a great beast, found primarily in the rain forest.  It wasn’t Man or predators that caused its extinction, the darn thing wasn’t waterproof.  The first big rain wiped out the entire species.  Lesson learned.

Then there was the Snivelwhinner.  A beautiful creature, built to silently glide at high speed across any terrain, in any weather.  Its diet consisted of artichokes and vanilla ice cream.  Unfortunately, at that time, vanilla ice cream was nowhere to be found in nature, and a diet consisting of only artichokes caused incurable intestinal issues, resulting in its eventual demise.  Not to mention, artichoke farmers declaring open season on all Snivelwhinners.

The last and perhaps saddest species was the fish known briefly as the Bobberfish.  It simply lacked the ability to swim.  It mostly floated on the ocean’s surface, making it easy picking for seagulls.

Tune in again tomorrow when we'll talk about the mysterious floating rock formations of Terra Haute, IN.

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's cute, but what is it for?

 

“It has lots of uses.”

Like what?

“It can keep you from walking into the wall.”

I don’t understand.

“It can stop you right before you bump into that chair.”

Why would I bump into a chair?

“It can let your neighbor know that you’re home.”

I don’t get it.

“It’s been known to prevent a burglary.”

That little thing?

“You can sit next to it and read a book.”

I’m not buying any of this.

“It can help you celebrate a birthday.”

Can you show me how it does any of these things?

“I can, but I’d have to destroy it,”

Well, that’s just crazy.  How do you make something work by destroying it?

 

Utility Bill

 

The Story of Thistle

 

In the quiet corner of an old parlor, where dust danced in sunbeams and the wallpaper curled like sleeping leaves stood a grandfather clock. Its mahogany frame loomed tall, its pendulum swaying with the dignity of time itself. And inside, nestled behind the brass gears and beneath the chime chamber, lived a mouse named Thistle.

Thistle had not meant to move in. He’d been chasing the scent of dried cherries when he slipped through the clock’s lower panel. But once inside, he found warmth, shelter, and a rhythm that never ceased.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

At first, the sound unnerved him. It was too regular, too insistent. Like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. He twitched at every tick, flinched at every tock. Sleep came in fragments, and dreams were filled with swinging pendulums and echoing chimes.

But days passed. Then weeks.

Thistle began to anticipate the ticks. He’d wake just before the hour struck, scurry to his nook, and brace for the bell. He learned the difference between the soft tick of seconds and the grand toll of midnight. The clock became his world, a cathedral of time, where every sound had meaning.

He built a nest from the stuffing of an abandoned armchair and lined it with thread stolen from the sewing basket. He stored crumbs in the hollow behind the weights. And he listened.

Tick. Tock.

The rhythm became his companion. It soothed him when storms rattled the windows. It kept him company when the house was empty. It was the voice of the clock, and Thistle, in his own way, had learned to speak its language.

One day, the clock stopped.

No tick. No tock.

Thistle sat in silence, ears perked, heart thudding in the void. He waited. And waited. But time, it seemed, had paused.

So, he climbed. Past the gears, past the weights, past the winding drum. He reached the top where the chime hammers slept. And there, he found the key—forgotten, dusty, waiting.

With all his might, Thistle pushed. The gears groaned. The pendulum twitched. And then—

Tick.

He smiled.

Tock.

Thistle, the mouse who lived inside time, had restarted the world.

 

                            The End