Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)

Woody   Poems  

22s
Ergo wherever I go: HP Nazis
19m
You've got to be ******* me? This is now "Under Review".
2h
Ergo the thumb

I truly believe that Eliot
is working on his Ph.D
in Psychology, and we at HP
many fine poets and good peeps
along with a handful of miscreants
(Probably Trumpian Nazis if you ask me)
are simply a part of a hypothesis he
(That being Eliot, the aspiring Psychologist)
is testing to see how good and bad humans
interact in societal mediums (so sad)
though seems such an obvious outcome
does he (Eliot, I mean) really need
that silly down-turned ******* thumb
to become a man of lettered degree?
Seriously, seems kind of dumb, me thinks.


*This was in the notes:

Please, you fine scholars sitting on his dissertation committee, just give him his letters, or not, and tell him to move on with the silly thumb thingy. It's become such a bore, like those attention ****** who like to employee it.
Grow a sense of humor and get rid of the freakin' down-thumb, HP Police.
Woody
Written by
Woody  In the dark woods.
            
18        Jean Fisher and r

r Mission accomplished for now. Go ahead and put both of us in the woodshed.

r interesting how quickly you made those -7 to - 9 hearts disappear on Smell of lonesome.

r  While you’re at it, HP POLICE, take a look at all of the negative thumbs on my poem The smell of lonesome. When are you going to do something about this kind of harassment? It’s not me I give a **** about. Other poets can’t even comment without getting thumbed-down. That creates censorship out of fear of even commenting on someoneelse’s poem. Do something about that and I’ll take your “under review” ******* serious.

0


1m
r

r  You go, Woody. Time for HP Nazis to pay attention to the harassment and those doing the harassing rather than censorship of poets pointing out the flaw in the **** thumbs-down *******.

0


11m

She walks backwards faking a laugh, a slight smile framing her face, i can tell she is not fully comfortable. The way she is clutching on to her drink and the wandering eyes clue me in to her feelings of easiness. His level of drunk is complete opposite of her, she is sober, he is towering over and his hands just barely touching her, but i can see it in his eyes. His intentions are that of someone who is not fully innocent, and i know for a fact that what he wants is more than just to form a new friendship, he wants something else. He leans in a little bit more and she lets out a nervous laugh as she backs into a wall. Thats when my voice calls out for him to back off. I tell him that shes clearly not interested, that his advances are not wanted, his slurred words are not compliments and what hes doing has a name its called ****** harrassment. He moves back and puts his hands up as if to say im not guilty of anything. After he ends up on the other side of the room She looks to me, lets out a relieved sigh, a smile on her face, she mouths thank you. I nod because this isnt the first time ive seen a situation like this but is the first time ive truly recognized it, this is the first time ive ever spoke up. And i feel good about it, relieved.
Later in the night he approaches me. Still drunk and reeking of hard liquor he looks at me and says you totally killed my game. Now i have two options. I could either apologize and pretend like his actions were completely okay or do the opposite and say how i really feel. Before even making a concsious decision i look up and say it's not a game, if theres only one player. I turn around and walk away. Now i know people would say that if she really didnt want it that she would have gotten up and walked away herself but see i know this isnt true. Girls, including myself, have been taught something else when were in situations like this. Society teaches us to be polite and nice as if disrespect deserves anything but the opposite, girls were taught to smile and shrug it off as if unwanted ****** advances are something we can just shrug off. As if **** is a game and were just supposed to play along. Girls, why do we act polite? Why when were uncomfortable and ill at ease do we plaster on a smile and pretend like this is how things are supposes to be, this is not how its supposed to be. We have the right to stand up and say no. We have the right to stand up and say go away i dont want you. We have the right to look you in the eye and tell you to *******, we are not voiceless creatures, we are strong Fearless women who need to look out for eachother because I learned along time ago that if we dont, noone else will. So stand up when you see her being cornered by a stranger, speak out when you see him drape his arms around her, if she seems nervous, make her feel secure, because if you look out for someone when they cant find the words to get away then someday they might just do the same for you. **** being polite and sweet and nice, it is your ******* right to say how you feel, dont ever be afraid to voice your uncomfort, you are not alone. And I was alone the night that the same situation happened to me and at the time society had forced me to believe that all i could do was just smile and stand there powerless and weak. I wish that someone had seen the uncertainty in my eyes and body language, i wish that someone had stood up and told him to back off, i wish that i had had the voice to speak up. And even though i didnt then, im speaking up now. Im speaking up for all the girls like me, girls who consantly are in these situations, the polite victims who couldnt find it in them to tell him to leave them alone, for the girls who are shamed for saying no, for the girls who get called *****, it is not your fault you werent asking for it. For the girl whos smiling despite extreme uneasiness, i want you to know im looking out for you. And as for every girl out there, you should be too.

Another day has passed by
The moon illuminates up high
Shining through the window's blinds
The cold wind begun to crawl behind

The crickets I hear made me unknot
Such a stressful day for a youth
A day of harrassment became so blunt
A part of me was lost like a missing tooth

I was intimidated by the fact
The truth that I was bullied by the society
Daggers of words are still intact
Cornering me in a room full of despondency

I let people disgust me
I let them misjudge my sincerity
I let the day becomes my misery
I let the day becomes the night of melancholy

Tick-tock-tick-tock
Here it comes, it's three o'clock
It's time for happiness until five
It's the moment of being alive

Finally, I have found peace
Where my heart is feeling glee
In a jocund room that I please
A room that has Him and me

It was then three o'clock;
where my soul peacefully lays
Wandering like a soft cloud
And the chirping of birds play
I thank God for being loved.

Majestic eyes glow. Our hearts already know. Destiny will make it so.

Our beauty appears through the years. The direction our path steers. Our ambitions collide. Big hearts open wide. Generous & giving. Celestial happiness is alive & living. Strong minds with souls are kind. Your spirit love will seek & find. Unbreakable bonds bind.
Sacred connections unshatter.
A family to protect. & love, is all & everything that matters.
Envy is brutal & batters.
Aggravation disorder clutters & clatters.
Flirting harrassment unflatters.
A vision of hope develops.
Perfection is distorted & interrupted.
Childhood's get corrupted.

I used to be ignorant
Despising culture and language.
But now I see hurt
Fear
Anger
Frustration
Hunger
Instability.
Over thousands of miles away they cry and dream.
Like me.
They grew up faster than me.
Became more cautious of death.
For its mask is not as hard as its bite.
Whispers of muerte slither through the gusty winds at day and night.
Women and man disappear into this muerte mist.
It slips into their dreams as they sleep on trains.
Jolts them awake at times,
Falling to another ground of death.
For this muerte hangs on like a burden,
Waiting for the bandits to arrive,
To follow their shadows
Then leave the ***** work to them.

Violation
   Slaughter
     Harrassment
       Theft
         ****
           Barbarism
            Fresh Prey

This is only the beginning of these actions.
Running doesn't escape their fate.
Insomnia pumps their veins.
Exhaustion wears heavier than the thick skin.
Muerte masks cover the faces.
Women
  Men
    Children
      Babies

It laughs and taunts at their survival.
They can't see these masks or stop them.
It's a struggle in itself to keep that omen away.
They know them too well.
Smell too many scents of fear.
Hate to see these people strive for a new life that they were meant to live.
There is more power over the border of America than what we hear.
The innocent voices of the dead sing to everyone of all colour, but our ears won't wake up.
We are more dead than they are.
Los inmigrantes necesitan ayudar con su nueva vida.
Tenemos esperanza!
That's just a phrase that gets thrown now like a piece of paper tossed in the wind.
Like knowing the sun rises and sets.
No one here cares about the struggle or hears the sound of the muerte masks.
Working families are the ones dying,
and these muerte masks are thriving.