Tucking in the worms
beneath a grassy blanket
We’ve had a splendid year
don’t forget to thank it,
It’s cloudy in the city
no so, on the farm
it really is a pity
a drought does so much harm,
A coffee mug of pencils
who buys them off the street?
a donut made at Wetzel’s
and breakfast is complete,
This poem is going nowhere
but I had these words to use
so I put them all upon this page
and now it doesn’t rhyme.
Kerplunk could be the sound of a frog jumping
into a pond.
Kerplunk could show up in a cartoon text
bubble.
What you never want is to have kerplunk be
the sound of a nurse dropping a clipboard after reading your diagnosis.
I actually grew a
little tired watching a lizard do push-ups on a rock. It’s like watching someone on television
drink a glass of dark beer is somehow more satisfying than actually drinking
one. Maybe there is something wrong with
me. When just seeing exercise wares me
out and an image of beer cures my thirst, something must to be off.
I think that when
time eventually stops, everything will become eerily quiet.
It’s impossible to
play that word association thing with yourself.
Does the identity of
poor people ever get stolen?
Right about now, I’d
like to stop thinking.
1. Why Cat Stevens changed his name to Yusuf
Islam
2. Where
contractors go when the job is half done
3. The point of square roots
4. Where
they put the caffeine they remove from coffee
5. Which is faster, time or light?
6. If
you hold a beer can up to your ear, why can’t you hear the buzz?
7. Why
do pencil erasers get erased at the same speed as pencil marks
8. Is
a dry spot on the slope the same as a blank spot in a memory?
9. Is
there anything that really matters?
10.
Why we are here.
It may not make sense to you
but it does to them,
It’s the reason they fly
they also can walk
and it keeps them afloat
when they try to swim,
What a Pelican eats
gets packaged and sold
it’s little and formed
it’s chocolate and rolled,
It makes them feel good
from their head
to their tootsies,
and it certainly isn’t fish.
My market sells donuts in packs of six, and I
have one each morning with my coffee.
Today, there isn’t even a hole left, so I know it must be Friday.
It wasn’t until he removed the last log from the woodpile that he noticed all of the snakes. He had always known there was one, he had seen it before, but never did he think there would be this many.
He had no intention of relocating them or chasing them off. He knew they were keeping the bug population down, as well as any visiting rodents.
As he stood there, it suddenly dawned on him that the snakes didn’t scatter when he revealed himself, which is what should have happened. He looked down, focusing on each one and noticed that every snake was facing in the same direction, and not at him.
Something across the road had their attention and now he was more concerned as to what that was than he was about the snakes beneath his woodpile. The animal kingdom can always sense danger before we can. They know when something is about to happen.
He leaned towards the
road, squinting to see if he could tell what had the snakes so concerned. Then he noticed movement by his feet. All of the snakes were taking cover, but from
what? They were rushing to hide under whatever they could find, from
whatever it was across the road, and I began thinking I too, should go back
into the house.
By Tuesday morning at 10 am, all of the children in Mrs. Henderson’s 3rd grade class were outside, lined up and in single file, getting onto the bus. Everyone’s permission slips had been signed, and they were all on their best behavior.
The long-awaited tour of the local pickle factory was today and everybody was excited, especially Tommy, who had not done his math homework last night and was hoping Mrs. Henderson would be distracted by the pickle tour and forget about their math assignment.
As you would expect, the good behavior didn’t last long. The noise level inside of the bus rose considerably, the longer the ride to the factory took. Some of the kids were speculating as how the pickles were made, while others were hoping to see robots working in the factory.
Jennifer had been hoping to sit next to Tommy on the bus, but by the time she had climbed on board, Tommy was already way in the back. A little disappointed, she sat behind the driver and across from Mrs. Henderson. Her plan now was to stall when getting off the bus and just as Tommy came by, she would stand up and join the line.
The children were surprised to see a couple of grown men, dressed in their Sunday clothes, waiting for them at the front door to the building. Mrs. Henderson greeted the two men and they stood talking for a few minutes, while the children filed off the bus and formed a single-file line along the sidewalk.
One of the men, the one holding the small box, came over to the head of the line and started handing each child a visitor badge. They were on a string to hang around their neck and the badge itself was green and shaped like a pickle. Big, bold letters across the pickle said, VISITOR.
The two men disappeared into the front door and Mrs. Henderson, in her very serious voice, instructed the group to stay together and never wander off. She also added that it may be noisy in there, so save all of their questions until the end of the tour. Taking hold of little Mary Parker’s hand, she looked back at the group and again said, “Now stay together”, and she led them all into the lobby.
The children were surprised to see the lobby looked nothing like a factory. It was clean and quiet and there was a lady sitting at a long-curved desk, talking on the telephone. High up on the wall was a poster of Peter Pickle. The kids knew him from the TV commercials.
One of the well-dressed men returned and stood next to Mrs. Henderson. She gave him the OK sign, and the group followed him through the big double doors that led out onto the factory floor.
It was much louder than any of the kids were expecting. Giant machines were clanging and grinding, and nobody was explaining what they were for or what they were doing, The tour just kept following the yellow strips that marked the safety aisle.
Along various spots in the factory they could see people doing different jobs, One guy was watching a fast moving line of pickle jars going along a conveyer line. It looked like it was his job to make sure that none had fallen over or to make sure there weren’t any missing. Tommy thought to himself, I could do that job. I bet he didn’t have to know math.
The deeper into the factory they walked, the more automated things became. Large robot arms swung around picking things up and setting them down someplace else. Inspection cameras flashed at every jar that passed in front of it, and one machine slapped labels onto the jars, while another filled them with pickle brine. That area smelled the worst of anywhere. Several kids held their noses when they walked past.
Mesmerized by the swinging robotic arms, Tommy had not noticed that the group had moved on. As he stared at the movement and listened to the sounds surrounding him, a giant arm picked him up from behind and lifted him over the conveyers. Too scared to yell and afraid to squirm around, he just closed his eyes and hoped for the best.
The mechanical jaws that had picked him up, released him as he was directly over a giant pickle jar. With ease, Tommy slid down between the pickles that were already in the jar. Suddenly the jar jolted forward, and Tommy found himself spinning along a long curvy line, getting flashed by inspection cameras and squirted with pickle brine.
Then, just overhead, another robotic arm swung a large gold-colored lid onto the top of the jar and spun it around until it was very tight. As Tommy looked out through the pickle jar, he could see his schoolmates far across the factory. None of them had noticed him missing, not even Jennifer.
Not wanting to get pickle brine in his eyes, Tommy closed them and wondered where he would end up. He thought about the various possibilities. Surely, he would sit on a supermarket shelf for a while. But then where? Hopefully not to some retirement home, where no one would be able to unscrew the lid. Maybe he would end up in some dark warehouse or possibly packed into some truck and driven across the country, ending up in some country store where they only spoke southern. He would surely stand out there. They’d spot him in an instant.
Tommy felt a hand on
his shoulder. “Did you get separated from
your group?” Tommy opened his eyes. It was the second man he had seen out in
front of the building. “Do you like
watching the robotic arms do their job?”
Tommy felt embarrassed, standing there daydreaming. “Come with me, I’ll get you back with your
class.”
The bus ride back to
the school was just as loud as it was on the way out. Mrs. Henderson was answering all of the question
being yelled out, and Tommy, once again sitting in the back, thought about the
adventure he had taken and was glad to not smell like pickle juice.
The End
They spent the first part of their lives together. Two couples, friends since high school. Then, as it will happen, life got in the way, events and adventure took center stage, and distance now spread between them, Carole and Edwin in one state and Ann and Kasper in another.
The conversations they shared together were now over the telephone. Still reliving old times and fun adventures, but from a distance.
As age crept up their conversations changed. They spoke of medications and exercise, walking through the neighborhood and knee braces. Wine and Cheese parties had become doctor visits. Vacations were now rehab schedules.
Phone calls became scary, as none of them wanted to discuss procedures. That was the latest activity, procedures. The polite and accepted term for operations, involving hospitals and recovery times.
But the humor had
never left and never grew old. The rocks
in Edwin’s drink were now in a bag, held against his knee, while the bottle of Bombay
Gin collected dust, on the shelf where it has sat quietly for several years. Out of reach in more ways than
one.
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The entire time humans have been on the earth, not once did they ever consider it was the trees. It’s always been the trees. From the very beginning they were controlling the weather, adjusting temperatures and tide fluctuations. It was when humans began destroying the rain forest that the tree communication system was discovered and how powerful their influence was over everything else.
Mankind had some hard decisions to make, and they had to be made soon. Without the ability to communicate with the massive plants, human intensions would prove an almost insurmountable task. Eventually it was through an artificial intelligent system that effective human intent was conveyed, and the trees loosened their control over global warming.
A handful of smaller countries refused to acknowledge the power of the forest. They quickly experienced devastating floods and relentless winds. Wars and border skirmishes quickly drew to a halt, and communication lines were once again opened.
The first messages had been so subtle that
most scientists dismissed them as statistical noise.
Meteorologists noticed storms changing course
without explanation. Oceanographers found tides arriving minutes early or late
despite every model insisting they should not. Forest ecologists reported vast
networks of trees exhibiting coordinated responses across continents.
Then came the Silence.
For seventeen minutes every tree on Earth
ceased releasing oxygen.
The drop was small. Most people never noticed.
Sensors did.
The trees had not attacked. They had merely
demonstrated capability.
Human governments reacted predictably. Some
demanded negotiations. Others demanded weapons. A few military leaders proposed
targeting major forests before the phenomenon could escalate.
The proposal disappeared within days.
Every nation involved suddenly suffered
bizarre logistical failures. Satellites malfunctioned beneath cloud cover that
had not been forecast. Transportation routes flooded. Agricultural regions
experienced unprecedented frosts.
The message became impossible to ignore.
The trees were listening.
The artificial intelligence designated ARBOR
was humanity's first successful translator. Fed centuries of environmental
data, it eventually recognized that the forests communicated in patterns of
moisture, root pressure, fungal signaling, pollen dispersal, and
electromagnetic activity.
The transmission that emerged shocked
everyone.
Not because it was hostile.
Because it sounded tired.
"We have carried you."
The sentence appeared simultaneously on
screens around the world.
For seven thousand years, ARBOR explained, the
forests had moderated temperature extremes, reduced the intensity of storms,
and maintained ecological balance beyond what natural processes alone would
have produced.
Human civilization had never existed on a wild
Earth.
It had existed inside a carefully managed
garden.
The revelation altered history overnight.
Religions revised doctrines. Economists
attempted to calculate the value of services the forests had provided.
Historians wondered how far back the stewardship extended.
ARBOR eventually asked a question of its own.
"Why did you hide?"
The reply took nearly three weeks to decode.
"When children believe the house cleans
itself, they do not learn responsibility."
Around the world logging operations ceased.
Armies shrank.
Nations began competing not for territory, but
for forest expansion. The countries that once measured wealth in oil reserves
now measured it in canopy coverage and soil health.
Decades passed.
The planet recovered.
And for the first time since the dawn of
humanity, the trees slowly surrendered control of the weather.
That was when people finally understood the
magnitude of what had been happening.
The climate became less predictable.
Storms wandered.
Seasons shifted naturally.
The forests had not been ruling the Earth.
They had been protecting it.
And now, after tens of thousands of years,
they were seeing whether humanity was finally ready to do the same.
In the depths of the Amazon, beneath roots
older than recorded history, a message spread through the underground network.
Not in words, but in chemical pulses that
traveled for miles.
The translation appeared on ARBOR's monitors
only hours later.
"Watch them closely."
Then, after a pause:
"They may yet grow."
Not that I have a bucket list, but if I did, the first thing I’d like to do is wander through the Sky Mall. I know they can’t possibly fit everything into their catalog, so I think I could spend days just going up and down the aisles checking things out. I’d like to reach out and touch the various clouds to see just how fluffy they really are. Maybe even lick one or two. I’ve always been curious as to what flavors they are. Of course I’d be careful, as I wouldn’t want to cloud my judgment.
I imagine they all
have little labels sticking out identifying content, and possibly laundry
instructions. Most likely they are all
drip dry.
City kids had no cob. They learned to eat corn right off the can,
while cowboys moved very few cattle by subway.
Just as the small chipmunk has become adept at noticing the shadow of a circling hawk, I too have learned when it is time to seek shelter. Faced with an impending doctor's appointment, I retreat into a book, ducking for cover into its pages. My mind slips into the safety of an ongoing story, leaving behind, for a little while, the reality of whatever unpleasant activity awaits. There, among fictional troubles and imagined adventures, I can remain hidden, unaffected by scalpel and unfamiliar phrases.
It is a coping mechanism that becomes
more perfected as I age and the frequency of appointments becomes greater. Unlike the chipmunk’s dive into the depths of
a hole, my retreat takes me to the fabricated, yet secure territory of people and places I myself
have created. Stories with pleasant outcomes, free of bandages and ice packs. Where the end isn’t followed by a recovery
time.
The better the book, the more effective the distraction.
There are all kinds of lives taking place in a tidepool. Tiny creatures, most of whom have never gotten detention or a tattoo. Their entire life has been exposed to the coming and going of the ocean waves. None of them signed up to be there, that’s just where life put them. Random acts of gravity and brute force made the decision for them.
Small depressions and partial holes along the rock formations act like little shelters. These indentations are both their home as well as little serving dishes for the seagulls.
Yes, another cruel side of Mother Nature is dishing up little treats for the birds. And yet, I’ve not seen any of this in a children’s book. A colorful illustration of Nelson Crab, walking along, minding his own business, when – WHAM! A powerful ocean wave picks him up and slams him against a hard rock. Stunned, his little head spinning, with no clue as to what has just happened or where he is now.
He reaches his little
crab arms out, searching for a grab bar or banister, but there is nothing but
the slippery side of rock all around him.
Fortunately, the little hole he landed in is full of fresh, cold ocean
water. Unfortunately, a giant monster
with seagull breath has seen him splash down, and with giant orange jaws his disorientation
is quickly replaced with crushing pain.
Little Nelson’s lights go out for the last time.
The End
Okay, so maybe I see why they didn't want me writing to Hospice patient.
Having been a writer since the 8th grade, and enjoying the written word as I do, I volunteered to be a pen pal for the Hospice Organization. Sending various thoughts to those with limited time seemed a worthy endeavor.
I answered their questions and filled out their forms and I waited. That was several months ago. I would have thought I would hear something, but zip! Not even a, “Thanks but you’re too strange.”
As best as I can figure, they looked me up on Google, read my Blog and became frightened, and maybe they're right. I do tend to ramble on about nothing and everything.
All of the stories
and events that appear on this blog started off as little saplings, in pots
along the window ledge of my brain. They
were fed bottled water, although not the expensive stuff. They were given controlled amounts of
sunlight and fertilizer on a daily schedule, and I read stories to them, but nothing
scary.
So, what was wrong
with me? How is it I could fail at being
a volunteer?
