I took a shovel to life A sip

I took a shovel to life, seeking to
Clear away the false, weak, and untrue
I tossed television, plastic toys, and the Easter Bunny
Like a farmer bails summer hay
Then I hit more solid rock
Governments, Educational Institutions, Ideologies, Religion
But in each I found a crack
A flaw, ever so slight
Which my shovel would bite into
And cast it aside
As I dug closer to the heart
I found friendships, family, lovers
Finally finding the seemingly impenetrable
Was this the truth I was searching for?
By my shovel found burdens, obligations, and self-interested corruption
Any flaw, no matter how small still exists
And must be dismissed
I seek the truth, and refuse to relent
When the last rock removed
I stood in soul-dropping wonder

At nothing



Complete emptiness I dropped my shovel
Nearby and sat in my hole, lost
If everything has flaws, then what can be believed in?
I searched and now found nothing to hold solid in my hands
After a long silence I looked up
Noticing what I had been shoveling not through
Solid rock and dirt, but rather
Cloth
The criss-cross of threads that is riddled with holes
Imperfections, but their unity
Is stronger than their solitude
Making a net, a rug, a blanket
To hold you from the void

And each life adds its thread to the tapestry
Right alongside the holes, the weakness
The imperfection
For in life, it is vital
to believe in something, however flawed
for to believe in nothing is to fall
into that nothing

I know now, but if you ever wish to seek for yourself
I have a shovel you can borrow
You see I need it no more.

10 things about beards... A Sip

10 Things about beards I wonder about

Does it keep your neck warm? You never see a man with a beard wear a scarf in the winter.

Can it freeze in the cold just like a girl's hair?

What if beards grew up?

Do you ever wonder if something tragic has happened to the face under the hair, like a case of friendly purple spots, or a tiny flea circus set up residence?

Can they grow straight, wavy, or curly?

Can you flat iron them?

Does it ever tickle the wearer?

What exactly can you hide under there?

Is there a secret rivalry between bearded and non-bearded men?

Do you blow-dry it once you get out of the shower?

Bitter Wine...A Sip

We yield such a bitter wine
From two grapes purple
With life and round with juice.
Old friend of mine

When we were together
The sun shone bright
And the rain fell soft
Fertile days when anything happened

We laughed the wind
And called the sea
Our plaything rushing and abating
Bare feet over rock and sand

Our paths touched so long ago
Yet my heart feels only a moment
When the sea’s caress reminds me
And the wind whispers giggles

Many a mile I’ve walked
Without your calming voice
Despite the seconds and steps between,
Incompletion lives without you

It is a house built without one wall
Or breath devoid of air
The itches of a phantom limb
Or a day without a sunset

Feet Living...A Sip

An intellectual lives a life of mind
Stretching and twisting synapses and neurons until
Fast as lightning, it is able to answer any hypothesis
Mathematical, scientific, cultural, or theoretical

A laborer lives a life of muscle
Bending and pushing repeatedly until
Sinews thicken and grow tensile strong and
The bolt loosed, the house built, the car runs

The child lives a life of eyes
Absorbing and witnessing swirling action
From the screen, from the kitchen table, from the desk
Taking in all with equal parts

Yet there is sometimes a calling, so seductively deep
That pushes to live another life
A life deeper, savage, and noble
Not of minds, nor eyes, but of feet

It is a beast stirring in the confines of the chest.
It is an urgent thumping drive to run.
Go harder, faster, mad, and free
until you feel the heart boom
Within, a lighthouse beacon.

Surrender into the wide primordial knowledge
called instinct. Fear twitching waiting for
danger to pass its panther dark shadow before you.
Death elusive, omnipresent
Eat or be eaten

Run and run and climb, and hide.
Crawl through mud, eat with the sharp of your teeth,
feel the strain of your arms, the tremble of your legs,
and the bloody footprints of your mud caked feet.
Screams that know not language, only meaning.
Snarl, sweat, tear, rip, grasp, throw.
Hunt, run, survive, live, die.

Live as deep as your feet

Grace of an Exhale... A Taste

He heard the harp sweet music wafting through the air to temptingly caress his check. It was delicate, light, refreshing, and he knew with the purity of his being, that it came from her. He leaned into it, forcing the heavy rusting chains that shackled him to the dank wall to whine and moan out of their stillness. For a moment the plucking of the music, her music, was lost. He held his breath and prayed desperately that it did not leave him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he tried to will the music to come back to him. The looming threat of complete isolation slunked toward him from the dark corners like a giant ogre, ready to sit on him, until the weight on his chest was so unbearable that his lungs implode from loneliness. From being separated from her.
In his dreams they were together. Walking through a field on the edge of a village, he was free to look at her, stroke her hair, and touch the softness of her hand with the calloused one of his own. Sometimes in his dream, they would sit by the water, eating apples she gathered along the way and watching the water flow by. Each wondering where the stream of their own life would take them, and when it would feel like it would really begin.
He always hated waking from those dreams. It was as if the Gods themselves were trying to break him, but bringing him so close to all that he desired in his sleep, but when awake, stealing it viciously away. It felt unbearable.
Awake the guards tried ways of breaking him too. They brought her in, and stood her just beyond the reach of his chains. At first he tried with all his strength to reach her. They laughed and mocked him when he couldn’t. They held her as a prize over him to entice him to give in. But they didn’t know, she was not someone to give or take as a possession, as a thing. She was more. She knew it, as did he. He stopped his struggle and just looked straight into her eyes. Beautiful clear green eyes. Motionless she stared back at him, speaking all the words that they couldn’t aloud.
Next they attempted a different tactic, one to fill him with rage and jealousy. One of the guards, the large brutish one reached over and fondled her breast. Then the brute drew her roughly to him, forcing her to be pressed against him as he ran his thick hands over her. Not one shackle did he move while watching this. He did not move, or react in any way. The guards did not understand the power of their love, how could they? They knew nothing but slimy physical pleasures. She closed her eyes, and he felt a soft breath on his ear. She was not in her body which was being roughly handled by this brute, that was just a shell, an image of the real. She caressed his face with her spirit, and his spirit reached out to touch her. They embraced, drawing from each other strength, commitment, and hope.
They were held as one until another guard shoved her roughly to the ground. The force of the fall pulled her back into her body, her shell. He felt her departure like the grace of an exhale.
They didn’t show her to him after that. They knew it wouldn’t work. They kept her close though. They thought that him hearing her tears and whimpers would break him. But she made no such sound for the world to hear. All her cries were internal, and he would have heard them as clear as glass breaking if she were two feet from him, or two hundred miles.
That is why he strained so hard to hear the music, her music. He knew, with the surety of his soul, that she sat close by eyes closed. Imagining the field where they walked, or the barn where he first ventured a kiss, the ancient oak where they promised to meet, or any other golden memory that they created together. He knew she held out her hands before her, plucking gently at the harp of air creating sweet music. The chains silenced, and the gentle plucking caressed him once more as his tears formed a soft cadence.

Unfinished Tribal Tale...A Taste

She awoke in the dirt beside her bed. Dust clung to her face, as she opened her eyes, staring in to the side of the straw filled mattress. Her pillow sat upon the bed, a high bright mountain of mango red unperturbed by its owners dirt-ridden sleep. Her blanket at least, had the decency to follow its master to the floor, keeping her body heat close during the chill of the early morning. She looked again at her mattress, before a noise reached her ears. Wishing she could pretend it away, she held on a few minutes more. But the noise persisted it sounded like a forced throar clearing and a humm. She softly turned over and looked toward the door. There were three standing in the doorway. One young man, an old woman, and a girl child. The man had his head in the farthest, but would not cross the boundary of the room with his body. He was the one making the noise, urging her to rise. Pushing weariness aside for duty, she rose in one fluid motion, and treading on bare feet, walked beween them, out the doorway of her hut. The man and two women followed. The whole village was gathered near the water’s edge, in the pre-dawn stillness when birds are still tuning their voices, and animals are still cozy in their dens. The village gathered at the waters edge, waiting for her. The woods surrounding the people the huts, and the tribes territory was bathed in a thin veil of mist, but the river, the water itself was covered by a thick, voluminous fog that was shielding the water from sight. If one didn’t know of the river, they might just see a wall of fog. It looked like a cloud path winding through the forest, thick and eerily threatening.. The kind that would lure small children to follow in play, only to be lost forever. The elders could smell the menace in it, while others just felt unease.
The village watched her in a sort of reverent anxiousness. She walked to her place in front of the river of fog. The man melted back into the village, his task was done. The child picked up a large bowl, and carefully stepping toward the dense fog, scooped up some of the hidden water. She then held it up, while the older woman stood behind her, and the village watched, breathless.
Anna took the bowl from the girl’s small hands, and just as the sun shone its first rays through the trees, she took a deep draught of the water.
Instantly the thick, vile fog that bound the river dissipated. The village let out a cheer, and rushed to the water’s side, scooping up handfuls of water into their mouths, onto their hair, their skin and each other, rejoicing. Further down the river, deer timidly stepped near the banks, and lowered their head to the water. Raccoons bent their heads, along with rabbits, foxes, and other animals of the forest.
But Anna did not see any of this. The poisoned water was currently seeping from her stomach into her bloodstream, dousing every part of her body in its wrathful pain. She collapsed to the ground, and the bowl went rolling away. With ever weakening limbs, she crawled back to her hut. With the help of the old woman, she crawled into bed, crushing the high, serene mountain that was her pillow. The old woman tenderly wiped the sweat from her forehead, then quietly slipped from the hut, to share in the revelry of the village.
A thick haze of pain kept her confined to her bed until the sultry heat of late morning, forced her to leave her hut in search of a breeze. She stumbled out, and sat for a while with her back leaning against the mud wall of her hut. A cool breeze crossed her face, lifting the sweat as it passed. The poison was weakening, and needed to be purged. So she walked a pace into the woods, squatted and made water. After she felt better. She returned to her hut, put on a new robe and went to see her people. She walked away from her hut and into the village. She walked to the elder women who sat weaving clothes, making food, and sharing their wisdom with the pregnant women and injured men who were confined to the village. Between stories, and stitches, each person acknowledged Anna in their own way. The elder women bobbed their heads, the injured men and pregnant women called out a greetings like songbirds, reaching out their arms to be touched. She touched them all with a tender greeting, then continued down the path to the fields. She walked through the trees, remembering days that she would follow her mother. Walking though the forest, her mother would sing songs. Songs about the village’s life, its stories and its past. She would teach the stories to Anna, telling her that a tribe’s past is what gives it life in the present. Anna still felt the poison cycling in her, but not as intensely as this morning. She could function, and hopefully help her tribe will continue to survive. She arrived at the fields just before the hot meal. The time when her people stopped, ate, exchanging news, then slept beneath the cool of the trees, while the heat of the sun gave life to the plants, and dried the fruits to be used during famine. She cam upon them when the food was being distributed. The men and women voiced their greeting, as the children ran to touch the “Water Woman” For a few minutes, the bottom half of her was completely hidden by the bright colored clothes of the children, along with brown little arms, stretching as far around Anna as they could. After the children calmed down, she sat among the adults, listening and sharing news of the morning. After the meal was done, one child, pushed by the others shyly asked Anna to sing them a song before the rest. She put on a theatrical face of deep thought. Then excusing herself from the adults, lead the children away to a cool place to lie down. They spread their blankets and sat on them leaning forward in anticipation. Anna dramatically raised her hand in protest that no song could be sung while any child sat up. Instantly every child laid down. Some on their back, some on their side, but with every pair of bubbling brown eyes looked eagerly at Anna. She noticed that some of the adults were settling down near her. Close enough to be within earshot, but not close enough to seem too eager to hear children’s stories.
A mischievous look came into Anna’s eyes as she started humming one song, then softly started singing the refrain, and then promptly stopped, bringing an abrupt end to the story that had just started to breathe. The children sent up a cry of protest, and the adults laughed quietly, this was a game that Anna enjoyed.
“What?” she asked. “you are dissatisfied with my story”
“Yes” cried out the children in unison.
Well what do you want?”
“More!” They replied, enjoying this bantering back and forth as much as Anna was.
“More? How much more?” She asked, scratching her head in mock concern.
“All of it!” They cried in glee, for they new it was a long story.
“Hmm, I know what I will do, I will sing until you sleep.”
“After little thought, the children agreed, one vowing loudly to stay awake until the story met its end.”
After the agreement was made, Anna had the children get comfortable, as she introduced the story as a hum, then a wordless melody. Finally, when the tale was ready to present itself, the words spilled from her mouth into the ears and imaginations of her people. As she sang, she walked silently among the children, her bare feet striking the ground rhythmically. As the story progressed, she made a swift stooping motion and made a tossing action onto the lying children. Much like a farmer would scoop wheat and toss the seeds evenly into the ready earth before him. Although she was throwing nothing, the children each felt their muscles relaxing, their eyes getting heavier, and the voice of the story drifting away. Not long after the story was begun, Anna slowly brought it to a halt, with the silent inner promise that it would be released in it entirety, if only it could wait for the evening meal. After the story was eased of its fear of becoming a half completed blanket, forgotten and discarded, Anna looked upon her people. The children curled up like little round brightly colored gifts. And the adults, laying separate or in pairs. The concerns of the fears which they hold, gently set aside, like the tools that they use to prepare the soil with.
Sleep brings peace and oblivion, and that is all Anna ever wanted for her people. Peace, and oblivion. Not having to know the pain that must be endured to ensure their survival. Oblivion from the poison that contaminates her body. She slowly withdrew from her sleeping people, holding them in a protected ring of peace. She walked though the trees, under the great green arching limbs, beside deer tracks, and on fox paths until she reached the bank of the river. The river, mother to all in the village, source of life and source of death. Anna greets the goddess with the respect she demands. Then softly lowers herself to its banks, and watches as the water passes smoothly by. There she contemplates. The river in its harsh death, and yielding life. Her people, and her village. Still weakened by the poison that contaminated her blood and what lingers, Anna sits.
Today she is preoccupied by something. The pairs that were resting. It fascinated her to watch the pairs, because no matter what was done, the pairs, when given the chance would return to each other. Much like a robin returns to her chicks, or a turtle returns to the water. It is natural for the pair to be together. Some were single at one time, then a change happened and they became a pair. Some have been pairs for long times, but no matter how long they have been pairs, it is entirely natural for them to be together.
Anna thought more and more about the pairs. They were intriguing, because she never had a pair. She had her mother at one time, but that was not a pair, that was more like a teacher and a pupil, not an equal pair that Anna sees sharing sun mat sleep by each other. Anna wondered what it would be like to have a pair. To be with someone instead of with solitude. What kind of interactions do pairs have? What do they say, what do they do? Anna wondered into the swirling voyaging waters.

Mercy Kill...a taste

Pain.
Sinking deeper like a corkscrew, through flesh, muscle, bone. Screaming a language beyond that of words, beyond ideas. A language so loud it explodes into a world of its own. Eclipsing any other world of people, cities, sun, or war. Eyes shut, I wander through my agony, as I lay in the dirt, my head pushed against a rock. Some while ago my hand touched my left leg. I felt wetness. The solid assurance of my leg was gone. But I could barely attend to it, the pain screaming ripped my mind away.
Time was a distant idea. Had it been moments, days, or weeks since I opened the door to walk into my home after temple? Then, a bright red, unbelievable heat, I was thrown backwards. I heard screams, cries of help, and people running. Such chaos, but my pain was already consuming me, pushing everything else away. Some time later I felt water fall on me. What could that be? Rain. For a while I heard a lone child whimpering. He sounded close, but so far away.
He is silent now.
Now here I lay, in the dark world beneath my eyelids, a sole habitant of my own uncontrolable pain. Distantly I feel another hand upon me. With great effort I return to this other world and open my eyes. There is a thick creature in green leaning over me. I squint and look into its face. Even that is painted green, or brown, it’s hard to tell. He speaks to me like a human, but I understand not his words. I gather my strength and say “Hello Jack” His name is probably not Jack, but it is the only English I know. Besides any other words would have been halted, blood is now pooling in my mouth. I look up at him with my last bit of energy. He puts his hand over my eyes. My dark world rushes back. I hear a distant loud bang and then the screaming world of pain within myself starts to quiet, in a slow rush, like a dam crumbling into the river. My head drops limply to the side, as I stare blankly at the charred remains of the foundation of my house, the last thing I hear are the words.
“Mercy kill.”