Like A Stream

Nymphs and naiads sang, but not out loud, and not to me,

They sang under the stream.

Into the nooks and crannies, eddies and vales of aspen trees.

They sang of leaves changing colors in the sun.

From green

To yellow, with a little bit of auburn red.

Then their song continued to pass through.

I passed through too, but not entirely through.

The echo of their song stopped me.

Plus my feet were stuck in the stream.

Smoothed by the black, rolling rocks, and rooted like a tree.

I wanted to follow the stream, floating like a piece of green

Grass. Half submerged, struggling to stay above the red.

Instead I was well below the red.

Half drowned by the water siphoning through

My stringy, clinging toes, I could hear their echoes calling to me.

I just couldn’t break free and sidle down the stream

Past the quakies and evergreen trees,

That dance a dance in hues of green.

Still the nymphs sang. They sang a sad song called ‘goodbye green”,

About the fish listing in the stream. They also sang about a red

Autumn and a brisk dawn. They sang through

The setting sun. They sang through me.

The naiads sang too. But they sang from the stream

To the forests of aspen trees.

As I listened I felt myself bend like a poplar tree.

And I felt the trees, in all of their green,

Bend like me. My fingers reached out and touched their red

Leaves. Igniting the forest of fallen leaves through-

Out the valley, and the bend in me.

Until the fire reached the cool, darkening stream.

Then rocks began to roll down stream,

Rollicking to the beat of the whispering trees.

And the forest, still green,

Blazed red

And yellow, in the evening’s fading light. Through

This change, the nymphs and naiads sang, but not to me.

The light faded to night and the singing stopped me

From listening to the steam still streaming,

And the creaking of a thousand trees.

Weaver Girl

With a caress of your hands, the spinning jenny whirled a vibrant tune. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see you weave us two.” You smiled a sincere, but concentrated smile. And your hands kept plying and your feet kept pumping, the threads kept flying, and I watched. A majestic pattern of yellows and blues grew. Amazed by the colors, and the hues, I watched. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see your weaving.” Again you smiled that brief and concentrated smile. Leaving wonder to tickle my sighing. Still you kept weaving. Until finally those different hues, filled with yellows and blues, came together to paint a picture so clear and so perfect I couldn’t move. Then I realized it was just you.

I'd LIke To Dedicate The Following Post To Tara Brock

I don't know you, and I probably never will.

I've never heard your sweat lolling, rhythmic voice.
I'm sure if I did it would remind me of a white sandy beach with whispering waves.
This doesn't mean you are quiet or serious. It just means your voice would make me quake.

When I look in your eyes, if I had ever seen you, I'd see lazuli blue.
Or, maybe they are the color of a muggy day; hard and gray.
I wouldn't know.

I don't know for sure, but you'd make me feel a sudden fear.
The kind of fear that crawls like a slug. Leaving your skin clammy and pale.
And when it gets to the top, all there is left to do is jump. So I jump.

That is, if I knew you. But I don't. And I probably never will.

Mohe 'Aho

Mohe ‘Aho


One, two, three, four, five, six, seven times around, then back through the hole. The fishing line and my lure sparkled in the late morning sun. Pull it tight, and done. As I lifted the knot to my mouth and bit off the extra line I looked out over the ocean. It was a beautiful day. I stood on the edge of one island, looking across a small channel to another island. The clear Pacific water reflected the raising sunlight from the right of the island. In the distance I could see the breakers, but couldn’t hear them. With a light breeze ruffling my hair, I waded, thigh deep into the ocean.
“Dear God,” I said, “I know I don’t always do what’s right. I know that I don’t pray as much as I should, and I know I doubt more than I should. But I’m trying to change, and you know that. Today while I’m fishing I just want to catch a fish. I know that with your help anything is possible. So let me catch a big fish. I promise if you do this for me I’ll be thankful and I won’t waste any of the fish.”
I’d been fishing six or seven times on this same beach. I knew there were fish. I’d seen them. I hadn’t caught any. My Tongan friends laughed at me every time I returned without a fish. When they went fishing they caught six to eight fish, easily.
I’d tried everything I knew. Live bait, lures, bare hooks, I altered my rate of reeling, I didn’t reel, I called the fish; I tried everything. That’s why on this day I prayed. It was the one thing I hadn’t done. I wasn’t sure that praying to catch a fish was right. I wasn’t starving. I didn’t need it. I wanted it. And my bruised pride wanted it. But I figured Christ was a fisherman, or at least he liked fisherman. So today I prayed.
I finished praying and cast my line. Nothing. I did it again. Nothing. Maybe my faith wasn’t strong enough. Even if it was strong enough I still wasn’t sure if this was the type of thing to have faith about? I cast again. Nothing.
By this time I started questioning how much faith I actually had. Did I really believe that God could catch me a fish? Who is God anyways? I knew my family believed, my friends too. Did I believe in God? Was I praying to God because I’d been taught to pray, or, because I believed in him? I cast again. Nothing.
I started to get angry. Not with God, but myself. It was silly to put so much meaning on catching a fish. And even if God did exist my faith wasn’t strong enough for his help. So why should I pray?
Suddenly, when my lure was at my feet, a sliver of a shadow darted from the sand. It struck my lure, and darted away. I laughed. “Okay” I said, “so you have a sense of humor.”
Rejuvenated by adrenaline and a shadow, I kept fishing. Nothing. My doubts returned. Maybe that wasn’t God’s joke; maybe it was a coincidence. Even if there were a God, why would he care about me catching a fish? I cast again, and again, and again. Nothing. My lack of faith was making me sick.
Wait, what was that? It looked like a fish had been following my lure. Was it a fish? Or, was it a shadow. Definitely a fish. I stopped thinking about faith and cast in the direction the shadow had gone. There it was again. That is if it wasn’t just my imagination playing off my hopes. I cast again. It came a third time, but it still didn’t bite. This shadow fish just followed my lure. I cast again. It didn’t’ come back.
I decided my faith was the problem. I once heard that a man, in a time of famine, called in hundreds of fish to the beach. And they came, hundreds of them. They came all the way up to the beach. Just his prayers, and his faith caught hundreds of fish. My shameful prayers couldn’t even catch one.
I changed my lure. Fishing wasn’t meant to be so stressful. I was supposed to relax and stop thinking. I was thinking too much. For a while I stopped thinking. I fell into a casting trance. One, two, three times. Patience. I just needed patience. One, two, three more times. Nothing. One, two, three times more. Nothing.
All right I’d had it. Clearly my faith wasn’t strong enough. Clearly I wasn’t going to catch a fish. One more cast and that was it. Nothing. Just one more and then I was done. Nothing. But I had a feeling that I just needed to cast one more time. So I did. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to catch anything. I’d had enough; I was just being silly now. I decided to quit right then and there. Even before I’d finished reeling in my line I started to walk back to the beach.
When my lure came within ten feet of my humiliated, trudging retreat, there was a bump on my line. I turned. Was that a fish? I kept reeling in the line. It was a fish. I’d caught a fish.
Maybe snagged a fish was the more appropriate term. My hook had caught it just behind the gills. It weighed three ounces, and was only four inches long. It fit in the box my Rapala came in. I took it home anyways. My laughing Tongan friends said they call the type of fish I caught Mohe ‘Aho. They also said it was too small for a Tongan to keep.
I’m pretty sure I heard God laughing.

White With Blue Stripes

Like most people, I wear my faith on my sleeve.
So I weep.
Not because of faith. Although at times, I believe.
I weep because my shirt isn't white enough.
When my brothers button on the starchy white of atoning sacrifice,
I wear a white shirt with blue stripes.
But at least I'm not that guy with the black necktie.

What is Tonga

Captain Cook called these the Friendly Islands,
He left before friendliness could kill him.

There isn't much to hope for, or much to do.
Nevertheless life goes on. And with a smile too.
Not because people are abnormally blessed with
gracious opportunity, rather because they use their
faith as a cornerstone to build their smiles. And their faith
is stronger here than back home.

The air sticks to the skin like crisp folded sheets,
But the nights are too hot for sheets, so you sleep
with your feet spread apart, and your heart mixed
with a desire to impart. But hearts are meant to remain whole.
When you do find sleep, or it finds you, dreams seem to rise and fall
As frequently as a squall.

The swaying palms and sparkling water aren't as free as they seem.
Mosquitoes swarm, and spiders creep everywhere that is green.
Everything is green, or hot yellow sand.

The sun doesn't shine, it fries.
And all my food seems to be deep fried.
But that's just because I'm American.
So I use sunscreen.

The dogs are mean and usually unclean.
The rats are nice and scratch in the night.
The pigs are many and most often seen.
All taste about the same.

A car falls apart before your eyes, while you ride on the inside.
And bathroom mats are black. If there are bathroom mats.
Mine has no mat.

And when you close your eyes, and feel the slight salty breeze,
Something unlocks. A sort of thaw. Because when you close
Your eyes you realize, how lucky you are.

You Are Lapis Lazuli

I was thinking mango colored bruises
are not as sweet as the fruit. Then
I saw you. And my thoughts changed
from fruit to you. And I couldn't resist

the tingle of my lips. So I smiled.

It was the first time I've smiled

on the inside, for quite a while. But when

you didn't notice, and passed me bye,

my chest was hit with a Lapis Lazuli.

And I realized why I haven't smiled.

It's because you

chose to walk the other way. So my

thoughts returned to mango colored bruises,

which are definitely not as sweet as the fruit.

But when I look at one it tickles my lips

and makes me smile, and just for a moment

I want another.

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Warning!

The failure to adhere to the precautions listed below may result in serious injury.

-Keep out of reach of children.

-Keep away from easily encouraged people.

-This is not for people with sensitive skin.

-Direct eye contact should be treated immediately and thoroughly with water.

-Remove oneself immediately, if the situation becomes too uncomfortable or too hot.

-Be aware of the possibility of varying sensations.

-Exposure can lead to tingling in the extremities.

-Too much exposure can lead to scarring, the swelling of the cardiac system, and anemic speech.

*Please do not respond to this message, as it will not be seen, nor read, by a human.

Mail

Dear Mail Room Girl,

I guess I should start with an introduction. My name is Pancake. For months I have seen you around. If I said I saw you a lot, it would be a lie. I only see you a few times a week for brief moments. Usually our interaction lasts less than a minute. A good morning perhaps. Maybe, have a nice day. Not much more than that. I'd like to ask your name, and take you to lunch. Just to get to know you a little bit better. You see, for those brief moments of my week, those few and far between moments, that I see you, they brighten my day.

When I'm preparing for my day just in case you see me, I comb my hair. Just in case we speak, I brush my teeth. But when we do meet, and finally have the chance to speak, I'm usually holding my breath. Not because you stink. Because I'm afraid to speak. You see, for those brief moments of my week, those few and far between moments, that we meet, I feel complete.

In a few months, you see, I'm going on my way. I only have a few more weeks. I probably should just ask you on a date. But every time I look at you, my mind goes blank. All I could say would be something like: you're awfully beautiful today. And I'm afraid you'll take it the wrong way.

I'm not following you around all day. Maybe I pray to see you on more than one day. But I'm not lurking in the shadows. So you see, all I really want is to introduce myself one day. Unfortunately, those moments, those few and fare between moments, are not here to stay.

So Mail Room Girl, to conclude what I've been trying to say. Have a nice day.

Beneath a Bench

Old ladies smell funny, and old men smell like couch. And church smells like old ladies sitting on a couch. Ian McGriff was only four, but he knew this for a fact. Because every Sunday his mom would feed him breakfast, make him take his weekly bath, and imprison him in his Sunday best. Then his mom, dad, brother Seth, and little sister Julia, would get in the car and drive the four blocks to the white cinder block building his dad called the Apple Chapel. His dad would hold open the glass doors for ambling old people, his mom and sister would find a seat on an empty, green cushioned, pew. Ian and Seth would walk in the glass doors and sneak off down the crowded hallway to the drinking fountain. Because Seth was older, Ian would kneel down on his hands and knees so Seth could reach the water. Then they switched, and Ian would get a drink. The water always tasted funny, but Ian didn't care. It was water from a fountain, and there was nothing better than fountain water. After quenching their thirst, the two brothers would sneak back down the hall, hoping to escape the searching eyes of their dad. Unfortunately their dad could see a fly from a mile away. Or at least that's what he told them. Before long Ian's family would be sitting "reverently" in a green cushioned pew.

The pews were better than the hard metal chairs in the back. Sometimes, if Ian was lucky, he could find old crackers hiding in the crevice between cushioning. But benches did have a tendency to smell like an old lady. And Ian didn't really like the smell of old ladies. Old ladies were the worst part of these Sunday excursions. They would always call him cute or a sweet little man. If they could get their hands on him, they would pinch his cheeks, and kiss him, leaving their sticky pink lipstick lips on his forehead. He didn't like the smelly old women and church was full of them. Naturally this led to a dislike of church.

It didn't matter which pew his family sat on, Ian's family always sat in the same order every Sunday. His dad on the aisle, with his sister on his lap, his mom next to his dad, and then Seth and Ian. Usually the meeting would start with the boys acting like little angels, but by fifteen minutes into the meeting Ian's mom would separate the little devils.

This particular Sunday, Ian didn't last five minutes. He couldn't sit on the bench any longer. Checking to make sure his parents weren't watching, Ian slide off the bench. He peered underneath all the benches at the all the feet. Feeling more mischievous and not very reverent, Ian slithered underneath the first bench. He crawled right up behind the feet of the smelly old couple sitting in front of his family. With the malice of a bored four year old boy, Ian reached out, pinched the nylon socks of the old lady, pulled the back, then let them go with a snap. The lady jumped in surprise. "Jus wike a ruba ban," Ian giggled in success.

His parents instantly became aware of their giggling son hiding beneath the pew. But before they could grab him and place him in reverent punishment, Ian slid past the old lady's feet, and underneath the next bench.

To Ian's gleeful surprise, another old lady was sporting nylons. Again he reached out and plucked the nylon with his tiny four year old fingers. Not only did this lady jump in place, but she squeeked as well. This was the best thing ever! He continued onto the next pair of nylons.

Meanwhile Ian's mom felt like she was going to die right there in church, from a severe case of embarrassment. "George", Ian's mom whispered to his dad. "George you've go to do something". Just then Sister Mitchell, four rows up from them, jumped in surprise as her nylons smacked her leg.

"I can't", he replied. "It would make a scene" he whispered.

"George get him now" his mom commanded.

"How? I can't see where he is," his dad replied.

Exasperated, Ian's mom said, "follow the jumping ladies". And true enough, looking through the chapel you could see a trail of ladies, jumping in surprise. So Ian's dad stood, and walked to towards the front of the chapel. In hopes of retrieving his mischievous boy.

Ian was pretty sure this was the best Sunday ever. Each row had at least one pair of old lady legs covered in that stretchy material. Each time he located a pair, he'd reach out, pinch the fabric, pull it back, then let it smack. And each time the lady jumped.

But just as he was reaching for the nylons of his next victim, strong hands grabbed his ankle and pulled. Ian found himself firmly trapped in his dad's arms. His dad quickly walked back down the isle, past his family, out the doors, and into the hall.

For Ian's mom, the meeting seemed to be in slow motion. As George walked by her, with Ian trapped in his arms, she felt all the old ladies eyes, and the muffled laughter questioning her motherhood. And for a brief moment. So brief that you would barely know it. Ian's mom wished she had been the one smacking nylons.

Robotics

Good evening, I will say.
Or maybe Hello, how was your day?
Her reply will compute. But
I respectfully remain mute.

I'll grasp the handle of the door,
and open it for her.
My driving is sincere.
My conversation required.
My interactions adequate.

I sure like being in this fancy situation.

A muttered thanks. We embrace.
I depart, and walk to where I parked.
I carry this too close
to my artificial heart.



PLEASE DO NOT RESPOND TO THIS MESSAGE, as it will not be seen nor read by a human.

Coastline

A salty breeze rides hard upon the memories

of painted gulls. Below these birds, on a beach

of driftwood dreams, children play, and their

exotic animals frolic in the waves. On this

beach a single plastic bag, tied by a single

piece of twine, begins to rise, and ride

the thermal currents of the breeze. Higher

and higher it goes, until the piece of twine

lets go. Then the plastic bag, that flew

with painted gulls and was abandoned

by the breeze, falls. Looking back

along the path, beyond the children, wading

in play, I can see a collage of kelp covered

dreams, trickling into the sea, like a ruffled

plastic bag, like a string, like a sun-bleached memory.

Bambi

Bambi, your mother is dead.

The hunter didn't kill her

But the Japanese did.

Crossing the street at Center and 9th,

That little Toyota Camry

Bent her legs up over her head.

She lay there in that man made bed,

Kicking, and twisting the cold sheets.

Until finally she was bled.

Stand Back

They all go, but I came home.

Their encouraging words accompanied by a smile

Turned to pointing fingers and hesitant hellos.

In this mess caused by my premature

Appearance and marred by what ifs,

Lies a crowd of unmet expectations

Here my heart resides but cannot rise.

So stand back a foot or two,

I wouldn't want to stain

Your crisp white shirts

With my tears of

Ineptitude.

A Flake

The January wind cracked
Spreading the crystallized air through
Bare
Deciduous trees and empty playgrounds

High above
Condensed vapors cling
Before they fall
Like a thousand angels
Fighting
An expired war

Far below
Shuddering branches whisper
To a tattooed
Playground tube
Here comes our blanket

Painted Seagulls for William Slater

A twinkle in my eye
passed from the past
when dreams were ideal and a meal was peeled.
This interwoven thread called my past is not yet past.
The twinkle remains and
so do I.

All The Right Signs

Movie night.
Approximately 2ft. 1inch of couch separate her from me. To compliment and add to the space, two distinct and unique blankets, made by her grandmother, individually cover her and me. Her legs are crossed; The right over the left, facing away from me. My legs are also crossed, mirroring her cross. Her hands fold nicely, one upon the other, resting in her lap. A fold so nice and comfortable looking it seems to say, no room for another. So I keep my hands in my own lap. She turns to say something. I turn to meet her gaze. As I turn I lean........back 8 inches, increasing the distance to 2ft. 9 inches. Back to the movie; Back to 2ft. 1 inch.
The movie ends.
She stands and walks to a book shelf. I stand as well. We talk about books. We sit down again. This time 4ft. and a coffee table separate us. Polite conversation resumes. That was a great movie. I love Indian food. I should take you home. Okay.
The car pulls into the driveway. Thank you. You're welcome. No hug tonight. Last time there was a hug. I open the door and step out. Good night. Good night. I close the door. She drives away.
I can't help but think I missed a sign.