Things are not what they appear, thank God.
And the apparent enemy is my friend When seen through the lens Of what is wrought through tribulation.
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It’s a wonder to me that people do anything.
But you have to do something, I suppose. And what I mean is business, economy. There is so much work involved. And anytime there is a need, someone fills it. Isn’t that a miracle?! And I suppose that the reason I am surprised Is because my writing doesn’t feel like all the things I do to make a living. And I wonder if all artists feel that way. Probably not. There are those who art In the same way I wash dishes or windows, Or package seeds, or run a booth, Or carry the deceased From here to there. I’ve done lots of things for work. But these words here on this page are not like that. All the same, my deepest whisper tells me That one day these two worlds will collide And merge into the same. And that feels right. To fly upon the back of steel
To ride into the risk of death, always, Always, upon the edge of stormy days, And to forget my mother’s worried glances. One passenger, no luggage, A life in the balance, But free from the safety that would close me in And keep me from the baking son And the chapping wind. I am alone in the world. The past crumbles into dust behind me, And no future promises anything But the endless road, And roaches In cheap hotels That line the highway of my dreams. There is an old machine,
A massive conveyer belt I think, or at least it was. It’s rusted and dingy, and it’s parked across the street. It looks like a dinosaur, with it’s the long neck rising, It’s massive head protruding from the top. And nobody notices it there. They drive past on their way to newer, shinier things. But I like the dinosaur, heavy, immovable, and left behind. I am a dinosaur, heavy, immovable, and left behind. And yet alive. That’s what makes us different. We, the broken, dingy, people left behind, will rise. We’ll rise when shiny things are left behind. Let’s say you have a child,
And the child goes away to college, And then begins to sow his wild oats. He skips all his classes and refuses to get a job. He sleeps around with everyone and everything. He starts using drugs and stealing. And when confronted with his wrongs, He becomes angry and belligerent. And then, let’s suppose That he gets away with it. Let’s assume that he prospers in his wickedness And that he continues for a decade, maybe two. What would be your hope for that child? Wouldn’t you long for his rock bottom? Wouldn’t you hope that one day He would reap what he has sown? And wouldn’t his demise Be the possible beginning of a new life? Now, of course, he could curse God and die. But he doesn’t really have much to lose, does he? Well, now consider the world. We are about to reap what we have sown. And though it may burn our souls like fire And shake us to our bones, Isn’t it worth it To be offered a new life more worth living. Today's offering is a little story. If you'd rather listen to me read it, you can do so on YouTube. Here's the link: https://youtu.be/c2GYV844DZM
I found an arrowhead, And I tied it around my neck As a symbol of power and strength, A memory of the endless wars And a message to myself and others That I still remember the ancient art. Not really. It was a trinket tied with leather That I found in a gift shop. And I thought that it looked cool. I wore it to school the next day And my friends thought that it was cool, So I kept on wearing it through my youth. I wore it on graduation day, And I wore it when I went away a soldiering. And that did not go so well for me. But we won the war and I came home With the arrowhead still hanging around my neck. And when I did, I found another war waiting, The war to make a life and living As a broken combat vet. And that didn’t go so well for me. I married once. I married twice. I married once again. And all the while, I wore the arrowhead. The leather wore out several times And I replaced it. But I never threw it away. I don’t know why. I lived alone in my late forties and thereafter. I slept in abandoned cars. I slept in tents in the woods. People would have said that I was homeless But I was not. Just unable, unwilling, I’m not sure which, To try at a losing game. And I drank a lot. That started with the war And continued throughout the losing battle of my life. And I was never able to connect with people very well, Wives and children, coworkers. Even my siblings, we were close when I was young, But things were different after the war. And by the time I was fifty, they didn’t recognize me. To be honest I didn’t recognize myself. But I’m not so sure I cared. I lived a long time that way before I got help. And I have never really gotten better. But with the help of a higher power, I sobered up. And when I did, I let myself remember, Not everything, that’d be too much, But the good things, Particularly the people that I loved. And even now, they stand out in my memory With amber light around. And I think that I am at peace with what I’ve lost And hopeful for the thing that I have found. And today, the winter light is bright out on the desert. I untie the arrowhead from my neck And hike as far as I can manage. I dig a hole and drop the old arrowhead in, Cover it up and tamp it down. And then I make my way back home. And I am not sure why I did that. It was a trinket, bought in a gift shop. And I’m not sure why I wore it for so long. But now that it’s gone, I feel strangely lighter, And the future is bright before me. And that is a strange thing For an old man like me to feel. |
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