Eat plenty of oatmeal.

Sauna every season,
Roll in the snow,
Naked.

Laugh, until you cry,
Cry, until you laugh.

Leave a love note,
For no reason.

Take long, lazy, walks,
Behold Mother Earth.

Hug tightly,
Tease lightly,
Kiss tenderly,
yet mightily.

Listen always,
Heart open.

Forgive quickly.

Love lavishly.

And…

Every day,

Every single day,

Pray,
Pray,
Pray.


~ PE Kaplan

As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.”  With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked."  And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"

Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen.  After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’

Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother.  Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within,  While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.

And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways.  Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.

And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended.  While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.

…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.

Your life sounds hard,
difficult, sad,
and
I wonder,
can you, do you,
set limits with your family?

Not sure,
it’s okay to set limits
when you must always
do the "right thing"
even when,
even when,
it feels dishonest.

Be assured, your unnecessary shame
is safe here because it’s inaccurate
because you deserve a place,
to tell your side of the things,
you need someone with whom
you can be honest,
to share aloud
how you were trained
to do the "right thing"
when not once,
not once,
did doing the
"right thing"
ever feel right.

They meet once again,
One teary, one leery, both weary,
Daughter, mother, cut from the same cloth.

They meet once again,
Sense one another's desire to be,
Forgiven, understood, loved.

They meet once again,
To talk, to listen, to avoid,
Mistaken, misunderstood, miscommunication.

They meet once again,
Shuttered down, boarded up, fear within resides,
Mother, daughter, cut from the same cloth.

First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."

Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."

Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."

The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."

When she was young,
her mother asked,
"Why rush ahead,
without thinking,
about the consequences?"

She ignored the question,
thought, "Like you care, Ma."
and to spite her mother,
she spited herself,
went on her not-so-merry way.

Now,
a lifetime later
broken,
anxious,
addicted
medicated,
she peers out,
from behind
the shade drawn window,
with half closed eyelids
a mouse peeking out its' hole,
afraid of the consequences.

Not sure why yard sales didn’t make the Stress Scale ‘cause the uptick in adrenaline, the ramped-up apprehension of letting stuff go, especially stuff that's been around for a while, the feeling of loss, picturing someone with your old stuffed pony, it’s painful.

This saying goodbye to things brings an emotional dilemma, a mixed-up sense of knowing it's high time for the thing-a-ma-bob with no actual relevance, to be dumped while some queasy feeling of unexpected meaning to the thing erupts.  

And an inner kid sputters, "No, please not my wacha-ma-call-it, no, I’m not ready yet.” or your favorite uncle's favorite chipped ashtray along with the obnoxious bric-a-brac, knick-knack, from; who was it again, suddenly becomes the Hope Diamond.

Yep, yard sales are tough, your private junk out for all the world, to ******, to turn upside down and sour-faced putting it down, as you breathe a sigh of relief the bozo didn’t take home your treasured, dusty paper weight with the faded shamrock inside.

Seriously, yard sales are like putting your whole life on the front page, exposed to strangers, because friends with your best interest in mind, tell you to simplify, clean out, move on, start anew after they’ve witnessed your life fly apart…

Like a paper napkin flies up into a gust of wind, swirls upwards  catches forever on a branch and these self-same, well-meaning pals are incapable of your need to keep the rusty tea kettle, the one you boiled water in to make tea for your sweetheart every day.

Then, when finally you’ve sorted through it all and it’s laid out defenseless in the grass, beside the “House for Sale” sign, you spot some **** fool, your dead mother's "Old Faithful" trivet held high, the one she got on the only vacation she ever had, yelling,  "Hey sis, will ya take a dime for this?"

And the raindrops begin to fall.

He called to straighten her out,
To announce his disappointment.

In no uncertain terms, he rammed it home,
Her failure to notify him was inexcusable.

He blasted her, recounted his disappointment,
“You were supposed to visit, you said you’d stop by.”
He shrieked, “Our friendship is a ruse, a joke to you,
You fooled me, I thought you cared.”

Overwhelmed, wordless, she, lost in his pain,
Was defenseless, knew no proof would suffice,
Understood the meaning, guilty as charged.

She listened silently, finally, felt a shift,
His rage discharged, breathless, indignant,
He awaited her pathetic excuse.

With a shallow breath she illuminated him.

A single, empty, cabin,
On a distant island,
Barren, cold, alone,
Marooned.

“***** you!” down he slammed the phone.

My Dad built a whoopee room in the basement of our house, that's what we called it back in the fifties, basically it was a free barroom; he worked tirelessly, tiled the floor, knotty-pined the walls, built a Formica-topped bar, with foot rail, and a pool table center stage.

At one end, he pasted and framed with the utmost care, a life-like mural, a bucolic scene of mountains, pines trees, some guy canoeing across a deep blue lake, right underneath an eight foot, padded bench to sit, toss a beer, gab Red Sox, Pats, Bruins, Celts.

The guy could make anything, fix anything in his neat as a pin workshop, totally in control, competent, a rack of tools, his innate ability to figure out, you name it, he’d fix it, in hands-on kingdom this man did it right, measured twice, cut once.

In the Mr. Fix-it realm my father welcomed me, drew me in, shared his man in the know ways, I fetched his tools a quick study daughter, I observed knew ahead of time, like an operating room nurse ready to assist the famous surgeon at his work.

But then without prior notice he’d grow silent, retreat, drink copious whiskey shots, get mean, angry, tried to outrun the never good enough farm boy he once was, this love starved kid would engulf my honest, hardworking, overly sensitive, insecure father, then we all suffered his childhood trauma all over again.

No known solution for a cast down, complex, generational formula, each one adding a bitter part of this, or that, practiced, rehearsed the diatribe, what she said, he said, I said, around again over and over once again, our legacy of unhealed conflict, a contagion, like a blunt needle stuck in a worn-out groove, Billie Holiday sings the blues, ad infinitum.

In our family, we give in many ways but with some stuff, we’re really stingy, like with trust, forgiveness, openness, and eventually, we stick our anger, our disappointments, our pain, especially our pain, on an old, dusty shelf; we learn early on to keep hidden our feelings, never will we discuss, process, pardon, our pain, we know only the back burner on a long, slow, simmer.

And at times the old shelf, grows weary, tires of our resentment, our fear, our grief, our unyielding self-righteousness, still it manages until death beckons; and with a silent shiver and our final breath, we push off into eternal darkness, our painfilled DNA, our infectious, internal, indignation intact, leaving yet another broken heart held fast, in the dust, on the shelf.

They knew him well, knew he cared,
Attention and sweets, he would share.

"Thunder and Lightning" a girl, a boy,
One brought worry, the other joy.

He's gone now, went down to rest,
He did his job, passed the test.

Treat all the same, no matter what,
Love all the same, no matter what.

The jig is up us, for us who know each dawn delivers
A renewed sense of dread, despair, disillusionment; another day in,
Day out slog, the persistent, insistent fear of, fill in the blank,
An absolute knowing in the end, nothing really matters.

A tranced-out going through the motions at a meaningless job,
The mechanical everything's fine exchange, the pasted on smiles,
The inevitable, "How ya doing, how's it going?",
Muttered absent mindedly on the work-a-day-rat-wheel.

One thought that saves the day; the ride home, the solace of
The burn of the *****, the quick numb out effect straight into the 
Blood brain barrier without a hitch, the fear lifting, down into the dark Chamber of no real care and slowly, surely, relief arrives.

And deep inside this numb town, a desperado appears, calls the shots, Schmoozes slyly, "Hey compadre, give me your fear, and
I give you my self-righteous willfulness in return, and best of all,
I’ll deliver you your very own smothering mother of oblivion."

Awakened, head pound, brain fog, dry as a desert, need water now, And Like clockwork, a barely audible patient inner voice asks,
“Is this the really the life you want?” and without hesitation,
The regular repetitive retort, “Yup, one more day at a time.”

Life *****, then you die; we all know, right?
Back in the day, that's what I’d tell myself,
Before a night of drinking and carousing.

Yup, women carouse just like men,
Only they're better at it, less obvious,
In their pursuit of understanding and/or love.

Back then, Something gnawed inside of me,
Told me to **** it up, get real for once,
Find yourself, within yourself, what the heck?

Ever watch a spider weave lace on a drainpipe,
And wonder why a daddy long legs knows,
Better than you do, what this life is all about?

And the humdrum becomes you and you it.
Tells you what you need but will never have,
Something missing, like smarts, or grace or wisdom.

Until your fragile faith awaits your next footfall,
On a worn-out rope bridge nearly rotted through,
Sending you straight into the arms of God.

And God mutters, it takes what it takes.

just might indicate
the need for less words,
and deeper silence,
reverence born of the pain
we carry in our psychic nap sacks
overflowing the innocent blood
of the people’s land we stole.

And now we live on the backs of the brave,
misguided, buried dead who gave, still give,
their lives in the name of freedom,
who were taught to believe by a mighty few
that war is a necessary evil.

And now we are all overcome,
by a fierce and thorny pain,
born of the Light spilling
out from the crack of a broken hallelujah.

And the tears, our tears,
flow without ceasing
an endless, watery, Our Father
because we,
we, are the tears,

falling,
falling,
falling,

from the eyes of God.

~ pe kaplan

If I had my druthers, I’d live on an honest to goodness dude ranch in Missoula, Montana, with my very own horse named Shiloh, which if you didn’t know means peace in Hebrew and Shiloh would be pure black, a shiny polished granite coat, a silky mane, a tail swishing forth then back and with a slight and definite nod of her majestic head this magnificent animal would manifest unconditional love throughout the land.

And my life would be lived alongside Shiloh, caring wholly for her, offering juicy apples, grooming her with love and in every single nurturing moment I would learn to care more, later, atop Shiloh, on sunlit path, as she gives a vigorous shiver to shoo a fly off her ****, straight away all of humanity would feel, appreciate the sanctity within the seen and unseen, never again to doubt the sacredness of this amazing life.

Then, on the widening path, as passion arises inside Shiloh, her head high, she yanks the reins, eager to gallop, to be wild, to be free, her smooth gait quickening, scattering birds from treetops,
her snort a glorious trumpet, my legs upon her rigid withers, her hooves pounding the earth, hurling forth holy reverberations beyond the sun, the moon, into the eternal darkness sending compassion throughout the universe again, and again, and again.

is delivered daily by my closest, irreplaceable friend,
a ready, reliable, responsive, confidante
who wants only me, its codependent lover-girl.

Oh, and how satisfying my Romeo is, perpetually,
blowing his cool kisses over my tear-streaked cheeks,
on steamy hot days in the middle of a heatwave.

Such kindness,

from my faithful one, always hovering nearby,
like a top-notch Jungian analyst on-the-ready,  
knows way before I do how my misery loves its own company,
as we swig from bottomless cups of sour grapes.

Such kindness,

like a toothless old hound dog chewing a rubber bone,
not only about the hopelessness of life but the pointlessness,
and when my lover and I arrive uninvited at a posh garden party
of champagne and truffles set upon pink lace tablecloths,
we immediately head over yonder,

to roll around in the knotweed and steamy ripe manure
hum together our familiar “woe is me” tunes,
until the cows come home with udders empty
to plop out a fresh load of undigested, belly aching despair,
heavy with the stink of my unloved pain.

Such kindness,
it’s addictive.

Didn’t know the stakes were so high until I was all in, really in,
hell, I’d not played much polka, never mind with a maverick,
a wheeler dealer, a guy who knew how and when to show his cards, could spot a patsy a mile away and I’d bet he spied one over my way.

Now don’t get me wrong, he did feel something, he liked my kind face, my willingness to please, however, swiftly it was game on, no turning back, he had to win, it’s all he knew; besides he took a gamble too, you see, played an out-of-towner, but luck be ******, he’d win no matter what.

And before long I was all in, ready to risk my heart for a true love,
so, I played long after the odds were clearly in his favor, his angle obvious, he had to win at all costs; naïve, I stayed in too long, played it straight, knew I couldn’t bluff my way out of a paper bag even if I wanted to.

Then he called it, game over, the love I played now in his pocket,
not his fault I chose to bet my heart, believed he’d play fair and care, but the deal breaker came with my plea to be recognized, respected, but, no surprise, he wished me well, no hard feelings, even said, let’s be pals.

And with the game done, the very last kitty won, a text arrived,
“you’re welcome to drop by anytime you’re in the hood.” and I’d bet my last chip, if I had one, his proposal came from his need to be considered one of the good guys even when he’d broken a heart.

~pe kaplan

Yesterday, again,
the pigeons gathered
on the tip of the barn roof,
kissing and cooing,
that’s right,
you heard it,
pigeons kiss,
quite well actually,
and without shame.

Perhaps this time
it was their annual
Christmas kiss,
a pigeon’s way
to show comfort,
to heal,
to forgive,
to remember
the meaning of Love.

Yes, pigeons,
on rooftops,
coo, whisper
“let’s kiss”
right now
in broad daylight,
and maybe,
just maybe,
someone will notice
and someone did.

~ PE Kaplan

Being alone with myself is tricky because my mind constantly looks for trouble, a something waiting around the next corner, a shameful memory goblin ready to pounce and at times my scrutiny is so intense I'm practically blinded, set out on a wobbly tightrope, with no safety net while below a granite slab awaits.

And I wonder is anyone else out there familiar with this cold, damp, mind tunnel or is it only a certain few of us who sense some stuff is best keep hidden away, an ancient wrong, an awfulness never to be faced and freed from the darkness, a nowhere place where very few actually survive.

This remote black hole of my unholy secrets live, thrive, out of sight, out of mind, certainly God knows my cloak and dagger self yet God never interferes or removes the sticky fear I've created to block all forward progress, at least not until I'm willing to turn my willfulness over, release my need to be in control, my strong addiction to keep myself safe from life.

So here I sit, tired as hell, afraid of life, no sense of direction, just an ingrained habit to get busy, distracted, while inside a burning desire awaits, longs to live life, to face and be rid of fear, to trust an unknowable Source continues to wait patiently, to make all things new, the very moment I trust the Light at the end of the tunnel.

She endured the violence, even when I begged, to please, please,
leave the intolerable mess, the brawls with my dad every weekend,
but my mom was afraid and unprepared to be her own person,
I’m guessing few women were ready to take leave in 1967.

Back then, fifty-five years ago on this day of the winter solstice
my mom did leave, as her spirit departed the hospital bed,
while her body yielded from a burst blood vessel forty-eight hours,
after a collapse to her battered and blood-pressured brain.

She lived only fifty years on this earth, worked hard every day,
stayed on with my alcoholic, war-torn dad, my brother, and me,
when clearly, she lived life dangerously whenever dad took a drink, she gambled, lost the bet with herself that he would change one day.

On this, the anniversary of the longest darkest night, my mother arises again within my heart, gives me strength to begin anew, and like her I’m the proverbial apple falling too close to the tree, yet my mom left behind an important lesson, leave while you still can.

And I did.

This morning, the moon, almost snow-white peeks in from the top of the window,  And with a slight scowl on its almost round face it mutters, “Get up.”

And I wonder why the moon cares whether or not I get up on this frigid Sunday morning with snow blowing like hell,

as the cat slurps from her water bowl,
as the heat crackles in the cold radiator,
and as if on cue,
the ringing in my ears begins,
my heart thumps its thumpity-thump-thump
and I get a clue it’s time to follow suit,
time to rise and shine,
to fall in line,
to be one with life
and . . .
with a full body stretch,
a slog to the toilet,
a glance in the mirror, oy vey, it’s a new day.

Mr. and Mrs. Divine Wonder,

Thanks for never lying down on the job, I swear today’s the day I put both of you in for a long overdue raise.

Amen

Yep, I’m an old woman and it’s okay. I’ve accepted my fate, it’s not a choice made by me, there’s no explanation why I live into my seventies, while many others do not, as I did nothing to deserve these extra miles.

And so, with time on my hands, I’d like to get to know you and I’d like for you to know me. Maybe I can share some stuff you’ll learn sooner or later, because living long, even if one does it with one eye closed, like I did most of my life, you pick-up a few things and if you’re open to it, I'm happy to pass on some hard learned lessons to save you some time, energy, and possibly struggle.

For instance, “Is it okay to say no?”, the answer is yes, why, because it’s okay not to want to do something, especially something you hadn’t planned on and honestly, this includes saying no to family, friends, and even yourself, it is absolutely, irrefutably, **** straight okay to say, “No can do “ and if you find it hard to say no, you can say, “Let me think about it”, then, if you decide to give it a go, you can, and if not, there's always texting, email or a phone call, “Sorry, not up for it, but thanks.”

So, back to getting to know you and you, me, what I’ve found astonishing is how much in common we all have, no matter what our age difference, remember, I was young once and what's really awesome is that when we let our guard down, curiosity rushes in, it actually flows between us humans, there’s a lot to play with really, it’s astonishing how in our culture we’ve be taught to stay away from one another, like you might catch my “old germs”, or I could catch rebellious young germs from you. If only.

So, can we try, can we start a new group, a “we’reinthistogether” club, to share our stories, our concerns, our triumphs, plus, we could see how much in common we have, like our hunger for connection, our longing to belong, our desire to know our personal value and guess what, we could finally admit we care, that we are concerned for one another and if we didn’t feel like talking, we could simply sit in silence, I could skip feeling old, if you could leave your cell phone out of sight.

Of course, remember, you can always say, “Let me think about it,” however if we do get together, perhaps you'd be willing to tell me what’s important to you and I'd be happy to share some of my hard-earned life lessons, like it's okay to say, "I'm sorry."

~ pe kaplan

Your life sounds intense, so many fires to put out,
fences to mend, people to please and I wonder,
if you might need and deserve some rest.

Do you, can you, set limits with family, friends, co-workers?
Not sure it’s okay to decline just one more thing to do,
since you could be seen as selfish, even wrong to say no.

Rest assured, your unfair, undeserved shame is safe with me,
in this time and place, space is held for you, your pain, your truth,
why,

maybe it’s time to reword the story you made up about a debt
you never owed, the servitude, the obligation to "get 'er done"
are you a hard-wired, mass-produced human being, and you ask
why,

maybe it's time to acknowledge your existence was/is free of
charge, realize there’s no fixed set of dos and don’ts to be
successfully completed day in and day out until you die,
why,

maybe it’s way past time to finally oust the ancestral imprint
of shame you don’t deserve, a creation of foolish self-pride to
always do the next right thing, to amend old tribal wrongs,
even when you’re tapped way beyond empty.

Can you honor yourself, your life, finally, once and for all, can you
come clean, be real, do what only you can do, and set yourself free
from your own judgement, speak truth from your heart, then,
and only then, will you set everyone else free as well.

One more social media message recorded at 5:25 am,
her familiar monotone chant, a mumbled abusive taunt,
another claim for something to change, a demand to be met;
an irrational strategy out of old deep pain for the upper hand,
to shame a different outcome for her life,
to put me in my place, as a failure, a non-entity.

My daughter’s 2020 dispatch to her 1970’s mother,
to gain control in an uncontrollable world,
she’s quite unaware her old Ma is gone,
flew the coop, vamoose, worn out, toast;
she’s unaware my reckless life lived only for others is ended,
my worthiness through frantic sought for approval over.

Back in the day this kind-a, sort-a, mother,
tried **** hard to figure out how’s it done,
how to parent while trapped inside an empty,
broken, clueless, twenty-year-old,
wondered everyday how to raise up, nurture, guide,
care for my children while still a kid myself.

Watched my mother suffer, die in an abusive marriage at fifty-one,
for years I’d prayed at the top of the stairs for their fighting to stop,
they never stopped… so I learned to survive my life,
made a “me” up, no internal identity, no actual obvious self,
never took the chance to become someone, instead played the role,
figured out what others wanted, did it, did it well, did it ‘til it hurt.

Now, seventy-two, over ripe, deeply bruised by a life gambled away
bewildered no one left to blame, victim of my own doing,
living but not alive, days and nights of untethered sadness, regret,
still Something beckons, shows itself in the kindness of strangers,
who appear, care, love without agenda, a new family sent
by angels whispering you are loved, you are loved, you are loved.

~ PE Kaplan

This grief, it won’t leave, it chases me, grabs my ankles,
pulls me to my knees, stalks me during the day,
crawls into bed with me at night,
nudges me if I dare to doze off
quickly reminds me,
I’m alone.

And I reflect on the bazillions of dead humans since the beginning of time, the ancient dead, the war dead, the innocent dead, the dead killed for land, executed on gallows, exterminated in gas chambers, extinguished in death camps, do they await my grief, hide in my bones, live in my heart expectant my dormant grief will find its way to the surface, to respect the lives they once lived?

But I’m a twenty-first century dweller with my postmodern nonchalance intact, moving, using up, basking in the labors of the dead, a sleepwalker on stolen time, gravely in need of self-compassion, dodging the inborn sorrow cut into my heart, while the dead are forgone, they are not forgotten, they form a double square knot no one can help to untie, as their own knots tighten in witness of mine.

Now widowed, my despair dodger foundation shaken, a real life reality lands, no longer a *****, pills popping, *** smoking, TJ Maxx consumer, game plan to avoid sorrow like a plague, the cultural norm, “let the dead bury the dead,”  no, it’s not happening, why, because my grief never died, sure, it was buried, but it was buried alive, and now the chickens have come home to roost.

Be it craftsman or musical conductor,
each carries a melody in their heart,

while one gazes ‘round the forest
with artisan eyes to spy just the right limb,

the other stands upon a grandiose stage,
swishes his baton up and over,

and the flautist begins the symphony,
while back and forth the carving blade,

slits then cuts the branch to size,
as precise movements of the baton,
bring the melodic masterpiece alive,

now the cello,
now the ax,
now the violins,
now the saw blade,

the conductor leads the musical score,
the furniture maker knows the tool to use,

the conductor,
the craftsman,

composing, creating,
as an invisible source,

unheard, unseen by the rest of us,
guides them to create and conduct

is good thing,
or else we’d all sit around,

in awesome birch branch chairs,
swooning to Mozart ‘til the end of time.

The Swiss watch is the world’s finest time piece.  
A magnificently delicate device of considerable strength,
Held together perfectly in a handsome gold casing.

Its silky-smooth gears swish forever a perfect beat.
While the gentle power of the capable inner mechanism,
Produces without question, a flawless dependability.

This timekeeper never misses a beat, not a millisecond.
A classic instrument designed by expert human hands;
Hands once crafted and forever formed in the Cosmos.

A most faithful tempo holder, honest as the day is long.
Steadfast thus trustworthy throughout its lifetime;
No shirk of mission, no need of reward, no what’s in it for me.

Truly a dependable presence inside a solid durable structure.
A calm humility, on an open face, never an expectation of reward,
Merely genuine recognition by a gentle spirit on a simple mission.

To offer help, to care deeply, to live humbly, to turn to God.
With only a modest wish for kindly remembrance, the Swiss watch;
Ticks on eternally, into eternity, within the hearts of all who loved him.

What climate change you talkin' bout,
it's not a problem, we'll be all be fine,
in our lifetime, in our lifetime
but in your lifetime kiddo not so much,
for the times they are a-changin'.

It's not an issue, excuse me have ya got a tissue
my eyes they’re a-burning, my belly it’s a-churning
just drank some well water cost only a quarter
yep, still some to sell at the bottom of the well,
it's a little bit gritty as I write this ditty,
while coins they rock it in my back pocket
so here's to sockin' it to ya kiddo,
for the times they are a-changin'.

The permits they’re a-passin', no more a-sassin’
now excuse me please I’ve gots to sneeze,
or pass some gas or do a puke always happens
when I float in da Luke aka Penobscot Bay
but don't you worry ' bout us oldies we'll be just fine,
sorry for some water you’ll need to stand in line,
for the times they are a-changin'.

Now I'm a-thinkin,' maybe at Woodstock
we shoulda done less drinkin’ but hey,
we were busy havin’ our fun,
not like you young ‘n serious ones,
we set out to use it up, so keep on a fillin’ our cup,
remember dear children like we always said
they’ll be no more worries when we’re all dead,
for the times they are a’changin’.

In dozens upon dozens of donut experiments igniting my joints on fire, a previously substantiated fact is known; sugar makes my body ache, but it matters not, because all evidence is easily cast aside when life happens.

Like when the guy cuts the long line at the grocery store then, slowly glances around innocent, wide-eyed as if to say, “Who me?” You know ‘em, the thirty something, collar turned up on one side of his ca-ca brown LL Bean jacket, hands dug down into his jean pockets, a real big shot or how about the infuriating beep-beep, a millisecond after the traffic light turns green and in your rearview, you see what looks like the same guy from the store but it’s not, it’s a woman in a Mercedes, with her leather-gloved, you know which finger, placed on the dashboard.

And believe me, I can go on about the stash of resentments available to me if there’s any down time in my immediate vicinity, I can count on these oldies but goodies to awaken my sugar monster, to rattle her cage and I wonder is anyone out there even remotely like me, anyone believe life could be, should be less trying and a bit kinder.  I mean how about a few break-evens, try if you will, to imagine making a RMV phone call answered by a pleasant RMV staffer who fixes your problem in five minutes flat.

Okay, you got the picture, which brings this question, why do I make my life such a hassle, it is me after all doing the **** complaining, comparing, judging, and believe me when I tell you, the buck starts here, I’m my own worst enemy, because all I send out into the universe, I test run on myself first, then after much self-punishment, tired, depleted, I finally stop, worn out, done in.

Then, as if by magic, a friend calls, asks if I’d like to take a walk, be together, enjoy the sun, and just out of my sight, a tender, bright green seed pushes itself slowly, painfully, through its skin-tight shell, while a squished up, sticky, butterfly flails, casts off its chrysalis, neither asking why life has to be so hard. . .

And slowly I remember what I forget time and time again, the substantiated fact that life is miraculous and we are its miracles.

Weird, huh?

When trauma lays bare a soul and its body,
Is it immoral to contemplate the offender?
Is it sinful to wonder about the pain maker’s pain,
To imagine they too may be or have been victimized?

Is this current cruelty an echo of inner torment,
Suffered years before this current victim was born?
Does this most terrible and pain-filled assault,
Signal heartbreak still lives, breathes, waits…

Even with tremendous resolve and determination,
To overlook the damage, the fear, the shame; pain festers.
Until at once the past is awakened, a dormant rage freed,
To claim another innocent into the trail of trauma.

Does a victim in anguish or transgressor in dishonor,
Receive nurture or forgiveness in the human milieu?
Could humankind be akin with trees, oceans, moths, birds,
Be merciful, forgive, love the sinner but not the sin?

At times I imagine knowing what’s going on but no, I never do,
not really, not from the inside where I endlessly sulk and feel rejected, no, I only pretend to get it to appear normal, and sadly, desperately to gain approval of others no matter what I may be feeling inside.

Let me say here, this life-long, well-practiced character charade
to “fake it ‘til I make it” might, and I do mean might, look fine to others, as I smile trying my best to look okay in some small way, but I confess deep in my gut, I feel pretty awful, I’d say I’m running beyond empty.

My “I'm fine, how about you”, daily pantomime performance is totally worn-out but it not only survives, it thrives, within a culture of external reward, while something deeper, something silent, waits patiently for my surrender, to rescue me from myself, to lift me out of my life of fear and my fear of life,

to crack open my shell and breathe Spirit into the dried old nut inside.

When three beloved family members die suddenly in less than a year, and the waves of grief keep crashing on emotionally barren hearts, while the ravenous Covid reigns supreme across an upended planet, the wounds are deep and my scab over but actual healing it never happens.

Am I the only one who longs to be with kin, to gather and share sadness?  Did I miss a memo to forgo solace, to avoid interest in how everyone is holed up?  Maybe I’m captive in a dark fortress of self-disdain built by my ancestors’, a psychic prison, because once again, the familiar nonentity arises within, sporting a rusty shackle, a bygone, worthless old ma locked inside obscurity, her punishment deserved, a lifetime of solitary confinement, out of sight, out of mind, and dare I say, out of heart.

Or is my suffering a byproduct of centuries of unchecked
ancestral self-recrimination, manifested as genetic despair,
a second nature born again into each generation, a blame/shame gene, a gross cellular overload of fear-filled unforgiveness stamped onto the DNA (don’t never answer) when the olive branch is passed, as another hoped for connection, a longing for forgiveness is ****** to hell.

Certainly, clues are found in the Lahti-Riley clan of silent Finns and Irish drunks, who daily suffered remorse, regret, and never-ending regurgitation something essential is lacking like positive self-regard but ****, those Riley’s sure could put in a day’s work, men and women alike, slogged, hell, they worked their ***** off dirt poor farmers, woodsmen, maids, fixers of things broken, never lost a day, paid their way.  

It’s clear my sorely needed amends of wrongdoing never promised a happily ever after, no, my amends were and still are a fragile beginning, a hold out for hope, an appeal to begin anew, an attempt to clean up my side of the street, to own my wrongdoing while knowing I did what I knew how to do, however hear my painful confession, to be cast out, a nonentity, estranged, alone and forsaken, it seems like overkill.

Ever consider the possibility Einstein’s E=MC squared was/is more than mere formulation and might we agree old tongue thrusting, crazy eyed Albert exposed the relevance of relativity utilizing science as an ingenious way to name the nameless.

Is anybody here into science dabbling, a postmodern obsession to inspect, question, dig beneath the newest discovery to examine expose the corporate driven scientist paid big bucks to get to the bottom to find out what makes the world tick?

I mean do we really need Hubble telescopes, atom smashers, vaccines, microwaves, Teflon, Velcro, Super Glue, Sweet and Low, plastic toothpicks, super drugs, superbugs, anything Monsanto and the resultant clever *** viruses steadily moving in on us?

May we step outdoors, observe a refuge of green, sniff, gaze, behold what science cannot do, could not create in all the freaking laboratories on earth and in one perfect amazing moment admire, praise, respect the Love factor within the whole shebang,

and let it go at that.

Not sure when it happened but happen it did.
Something changed, crept into human life, some kind
of manipulative, self-seeking, anxious germ made its way in.

Just now, a recorded mechanical voice on my mobile.
my oldest daughter vacant, detached, explained how,
she’s free of regret, of worry, of sadness, she’s done.

She specified, she’s had it, accepts her losses, her sorrows.
further, she warns a non-acceptance of my sadness, my grief,
“You need to get over it Ma,” she directs, “Life moves on.”

And I wonder when was grief, regret despair and loss,
removed from some to-do list, like chores no one wants?
When did human suffering become unnecessary or irrelevant?

Did I miss something, what warranted this "fly right" lecture?
Is this a test of my inner spiritual growth; is Love hidden within
this computerized, distant, "Happy Mother’s Day" message?

But the recording made it clear, I must move on or you too,
will become irrelevant, a strain, an inconvenience, to others,
your children need, deserve a better mother than you.

And, I wonder when did the experience of human anguish
become unacceptable, unnecessary, unhelpful, meaningless?
Like some old school thing people used to do back in the day.

Sorry dear daughter, I will honor my grief, my lonely pain,
it’s my life mission to be with my/your humanity in our felt pain,
to hold tenderness for you, for me in our righteous humanity.

It is after all, our Amazing Grace.