18 days left until the end of the world!

We’re down to the wire folks – so get your living in now because in 18 days, all this chaos, selfishness, hate, bigotry, joy, happiness, and beauty will come screeching to a halt.

I wonder if the WORLD – the PLANET knows its end is near? I wonder if it knows that a puny, insignificant species on its face has declared its end and death? I wonder how many times before it’s heard about its end and has kept on rollin’ merrily along?

To think that one species can – and has – imposed its superstitions and god-myths on such an immovable and ancient cosmic body. If you need a definition of arrogance my friend, look no further!

For billions of years this wonderful water-ball has spun its way through the cosmos and has nurtured, raised, and even destroyed countless forms of life upon its face, and yet only one species – amongst the millions that have come and gone, presume to declare its end.

While spiritual and metaphysical voodoo can make grand pronouncements about our doom, we are unique in one other aspect, and that is we are the most intelligent species on earth, and we use our accumulated brilliance to figure out better ways to **** each other, foul the very air we breathe, poison the water which sustains us, and contaminate the soil from which we spring.

So foolish.

So near-sighted.

So ignorant in practice.

So cruel to our mother.

I wonder what makes us – the most intelligent of them all – so incredibly stupid that we spend enough on war every day to eradicate world hunger ten times over, and yet, expect us to believe that in 18 days our world is going to end just because a culture composed of humans ran out a room on a circle of stone?

Pathetic.

Oh silly misguided human animal.

The only thing that’s going to destroy this world – this beautiful, self-protecting, self-correcting, self-balancing world – are the pitiful human animals who don’t even have the humanity to love each other – let alone the earth – enough to lift us higher than a stone-age culture looking at the stars and seeing only themselves.

18 days left before the world ends? I don’t think so. Maybe we’ll do the earth and all its wonderful life-forms a favor and stop the madness we’ve created, and in 18 days finally learn to love again.

  
© 2012 Michael Hunter

When I was three, I was a criminal.
I was a shoplifter and a thief.
I would crawl out of a window with broken glass in the pane, and run the streets.

At three.

I was a runaway and a rebel.
I loved car lots and the grease-covered back doors of local cafes and diners.
I would pocket a roll of Necco Wafers faster than you could blink,
Then hide inside used cars to sleep off the sugar coma.

At three.

When I was three, I was a mean little thief in stylish red cowboy boots.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.

The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.

Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.

Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.

Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?

A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.

A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

All I want for Christmas is to see the twenty-fifth.
If I’m being really honest, it’s my biggest Christmas wish!

The Mayans and the Hopis all predict our end is near,
They have made my season, so far, quite devoid of Christmas cheer!

If I could have my heart’s wish, and have it truly come to pass,
The world would keep on turning through its celestial, star-filled path!

Mankind would end its fighting and its cruelness to our earth,
And find some way in daily life to put each other first!

We’d set aside our differences, and all our cults and creeds,
And focus on the surest way to relieve the world’s needs!

We’d make sure every baby, every child, and every man
Was honored and respected in every culture ‘cross the land!

But if it’s true, and life will end as ancient people said,
And all of this won’t come to pass because we’ll all be dead,

Then there’s no harm in starting NOW and doing what we can,
To help improve the earth and skies and love our fellow man!

For just one day, and then the next, and so forth, on and on,
If we can love our earth and kin, a whole new world will dawn!

So Santa, maybe I misspoke on what my wish would be.
I’d rather have a peace-filled world and have it start with me!


Peace on earth, good will to men.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

Time makes no concession for me,
nor does it care that I am fighting its relentless forward march.

Try as I might to ‘be in the moment’,
it seems to me that as soon as I am aware of that moment,
it has passed me by and I am wondering what I may have missed!

Each day I awake and am stunned that I am already getting up for yet another week of work, when it seems like the much-longed-for-Friday had just arrived!

I share my experiences with friends and co-workers
and suddenly realize that I am speaking of events which are twenty years past –
though they feel as if they are of newer stuff.

I begin to see the march of time played out on the faces of the famous and the popular and,
either refuse to see it in my own face,
or I am looking at myself through rose-tinted glasses.

A graying beard and salt-n-pepper where dark brown was so prominent are the only signs I’m aging!
I don’t have wrinkles, and my chin is still that: SINGULAR,
And while I was never muscular, I can still see definition in my frame,
in spite of my growing paunch.

But I AM getting older.
My body – the unseen parts – my bones, joints, brain, vision, and yes, memory
are all beginning to make the change that tells me I am in the beginning of decline,
and can anticipate the autumn of my life.
I am getting older.

Time does not pity me – nor does it seem to even notice I am here.
I try to redeem the time, because I know that MY time is fleeting,
but I find that I am continually being passed by the sands flowing through this mortal hour glass!

But wait – aging isn’t dying!
Getting older doesn’t mean getting worse!
Would I rewind my days and relive the moments of my life? Never!
I am a much better man as I am!
I am a much wiser man at this time of life!
I am a much kinder man, and a more caring man than ever I was before!

Would I dare to trade who I have earned the right to be
for one more decade, one year, one month, or day? No!
I have paid the price for my gray hair and my mellowed heart and peaceful mind.
I would not cast these gifts upon the tide of time and ages
and force myself to pay the price already paid.

I will age.
Time will continue, and I will redeem my hours as I may
and not lament the moments which pass me by.
Instead, I will capture those moments with pen and paper,
and I’ll hold them captive on a page,
and thereby live forever!


© 2012 by Michael Hunter

Grant me peace today,
that I may convey calm compassion and understanding.

Grant me joy today,
that I may be one less troubled soul amidst a sea of fear and pain.

Grant me a generous heart today,
that I may be the source of sustenance and supply.

Grant me courage today,
that I can lend strength to those who may be failing.

Grant me serenity today,
that I might hold and anxious hand and speak words of comfort.

Grant me strength today,
that I might shoulder someone’s burden who is faint and failing.

Grant me clarity today,
that I might give wise and acceptable counsel.

Grant me patience today,
that I may endure the less-enlightened and those who harm.

Grant me endurance today,
to keep the bigger goal in mind and avoid the distractions of pettiness.

Grant me love today,
that I can see others without judgment, and with compassion – whoever they are.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

I am disappointed.

I'd seen a change and had felt
we'd turned a corner, leaving the
hurt and pain behind us. But now
I know.

Your smile, your joking, your
statements tell me we were on
the same wavelength - even finishing
each other’s sentences. All of it was
an act.

I'd felt hope and concern returning
to my heart, and even felt relief
that maybe things had changed
for the better. I'd even dared to
invest myself again. I got a
poor return.

But then, I'm not so surprised you know,
it all seems familiar and just as
uncomfortable. I'd held my breath
through it all, waiting for the other shoe
to fall.

And now it has. So why worry now?

I am disappointed.

I am not surprised.


© 2008 Michael Hunter

I will burn my ships when on my new-found shore I stand.
I will ne’er turn back and seek the comfort of my familiar or my safety.
No, I will burn my ships!

I will hold my head high and face my unknown challenges with heart,
and a mind of steel determination.
I cannot retreat to cooling embers and frigid coals.

New experiences, strangers to court to friends,
overwhelming newness and uncertain expectations –
all await the touch and expert hand of this self-stranded man.

Yes, I will burn my ships when on my new-found shore I stand!
My past success is smoke and ash! And where comfort and status quo once held sway,
a new bewitching future extends her sturdy hand.


© 2012 Michael Hunter
November 18, 2012

I have found a new companion to take my morning coffee with.
He’s sharp and very observant – and he’s honest.
So honest, in fact, that I’m often stunned into reflection and reverie.

Mr. Whitman’s words coax from me a surprising intensity of feeling and joy,
and at the same time, cause me to have to pause and write unknown words
in my notebook, to be discovered later.

Walt is a most engaging fellow.
I picture his halo of white unruly hair and beard,
and understand more what he means as he
‘… Sounds his barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world!’

My coffee grows cold as I am swept away by his snap-shot catalogues of life around him.
I sit breathless at the end of these lists – feeling as though I’ve only just arrived
after a long journey abroad!

And then his wisdom and gentle heart speak to my soul and takes away my protective wall.
He speaks of ‘god-like’ man,
‘… Whose human mind is but a gem in black decay enshrined.’

I weep to find such a companion of my heart.
A friend who keeps me company in the dark morning hours as my coffee slowly cools.

© 2012 Michael Hunter

Morning peace and self-reflection
– an apathetic joy –
not caring for gain or worldly wealth,
but feeling joyful in the single moment.
This peace is new,
and welcome.

Strange that I would find this peace
apart from God (as I have known him)
and apart from religion
(the staple fare of most of my life.)

Yet, set adrift from these restraints,
I have found a simple peace and an easy joy
in finding good and kindness in all men,
in all moments,
in this time,
here.
Now.

When I feel fear and anxiety and
find myself in unfruitful rumination,
I have scrambled for the fruitless
pabulum of prayer and self-justification,
when all the while the ease of simple acceptance
and acknowledgement were waiting patiently for my use.

“That they are what they are,”
will quickly ease my heart faster now
than any heartfelt cry for peace or justice
from a god who is removed from the world, and
who seems wholly disinterested and uncaring.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

The darkness is sung to stars
as the troubadour calmly brings
the night into existence.

Whispered mists fall from his
parted lips, leaving behind
a sullen coolness that chases warmth.

Nimble fingers fling far and wide
the crystal stars causing a
shower of shattered and fractured light.

The darkness slides across the sky
as the troubadour's eyes slowly close
showing gaudy color and heavy lashes.

Tone on tone, and line on line
the darkness is sung - deep and dark,
showing the heart of the lonely clown.

At last, the song is complete and the
stars abound - silence befalls the chilled
display as the troubadour sighs, then sleeps.


© 2008 Michael Hunter

Barren halls, devoid of children
echo with the ghostly staccato of gunfire
and the mockingly musical tinkling of spent brass.

Specters of children set free through violence
mutely stand vigil over stained tile and carpet,
shocked by their sudden transition.

Parents, siblings, grandparents and family reel
from the sudden void caused by the senseless
and cowardly actions of a 2nd Amendment zealot’s son.

Christmas presents without recipients sit untouched
in secret places – never to light up the eyes
and faces of eager and happy children.

Flags fly in solemn respect at half-staff
signifying a nation in mourning, yet a nation
so reluctant to address the core of these issues
which have made these crimes so common-place.

Bumbling and incompetent politicians – securely
in the NRA’s and gun-lobby’s pocket are quick to *****
the party lines: “Guns don’t **** people.” “My fork and knife made me fat.”

All the while the mentally tormented and dangerous
continue to take up arms and slaughter innocents –
as apparently their constitutional rights are more sacred
than the life of a first-grader.

How long America, will you dip your pens in the blood of children
and write the laws that take their lives?

How long America, will you wrap yourself in a blood-stained flag
and spew the toxic and hateful lie that guns don’t **** people?

How many more must bleed your ink and feed your mill
before we cry, “enough is enough!!”?

© 2012 Michael Hunter

When I found my Dad, he was sitting at the kitchen table,
hands palms up in his lap, with a look of peaceful release on his face.
I’d expected to find him in the living room, enthroned in his easy chair,
a crossword puzzle open in his lap, pencil in hand, his balding head encircled by his ever-present halo of dust.

I actually jumped when I turned the corner and saw him there.
I thought they said he was dead!
No, this can’t be, he’s only resting, he looks too alive!
But no, he’d gone. He’d left us all behind to deal with life without him. What was I to do?
He’s too important, and ****** Dad! We never got to really talk. O Dad!

I dropped to my knees and put my forehead on his knee – stiff with his leaving,
and felt my fear begin to rise from deep down inside.
Where have you gone, my father?  Where?
So many questions – we’re all talking over one another – each demanding my undivided attention, but all I could do
was look at his hands,
up to his face,
and back to his hands.

Suddenly I knew – better than anything worth knowing – that I was alone and had allowed time, apathy, selfishness, and guilt rob me of my chance to have not just a father, but a friend.

God ******! ****** ****** ******!

I was suddenly angry, then despairing, then angry once more.
Angry at him for leaving.
Angry at those who hurt him bad enough for him to hate faith an anything spiritual.
It wasn’t their right. How could they have done this to this wonderful man?
How could someone have the gall and the bile to point sanctimonious fingers at a man so gentle and kind, and rob me of that connection?

I was brought back to reality by the police officer asking me to call the mortuary.
Who calls the mortuary for their father?!
Well, apparently their children do,
so I stood to make the call.

The somber-suited undertakers arrived, and with practiced ease, began their preparations.
First the stretcher, then the thick, heavy plastic of a body bag – silver zipper glistening like an eager snake.

Then they began to divest my father of the things that made him him:
Sneakers
Glasses
Watch and rings,
and finally his pockets: he had two Swiss army knives, his ever-present Chapstick, three nickels, and finally, a penny.

Sixteen cents.
The most generous man I’d ever known, and the one to whom we could always turn,
was being taken away from us forever,
and I was left with some personal effects,
three silver nickels,
and one penny.
Sixteen cents.
Six-teen-cents.
Six-teen¬-cents!
Sixteen-*******-cents.

F­ive years later, and I have them still.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

Snow on frosted maples
melts in drops like tears;
tears which fall in silent
weeping for our fallen children.

The cold and dying season
has seen the passing of more
than russet leaves and
southward-winging birds.

The children too, have flown
and left behind this frozen home
where so much pain and grief
are all that mark their passing.

Silence greets their homes on Christmas morn’;
where families with hollow eyes and broken hearts
unwrap the un-given gifts
and rasp out the unanswerable, “Why?”

Through the long dark nights of winter
a mother will stand watch over
an empty bed, an empty room,
while praying that this cold would one day end.

Frost on new-turned earth,
where lies a fallen child,
cradled in the good earth’s *****
awaiting the thaw of snow on frosted maples.



©2012 Michael Hunter