The One (a haiku) - POEM of the MONTH!

The One (a haiku)

A boy and his bike

Abandoned on the front porch

Till Love came to play

~

Then Jesus told them [a] parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

-       Luke 15:3-7

Attitude - a short story

Attitude

 

After the verbal torture and drama at the Thanksgiving table and surviving yet another afternoon of gorging like a pack of wolves unsure when the next prey will cross our path, the alpha relatives made their way to the local mall on Black Friday. Growling at the disharmony of my belligerent Aunt and ignoring my brother-in-law after unpleasant discord at lunch in the courtyard, we dragged our newly discovered carcasses of treasure to the trunks of our respective cars. Yes, we mostly drove separately. And alone was the state of strategy of which I craved.

 

On Shop Small Saturday I walked into a new store downtown called Attitude. The       young lady behind the counter offered to assist, but I insisted I was just looking around. After aimlessly wandering and wondering about the events of the preceding days, I motioned for help. A second woman appeared from behind a store fixture. At least she and her co-worker maintained epidermal integrity of their ear lobes, and both kept their natural hair color.

 

"My name is Sandra, welcome to my shop. How may I help you?" She was certainly young. My expression betrayed me. I scanned the many levels of shelves with the intent to hunt on my own, but instantly her confident demeanour dispelled my previous misconceptions. She asked what I had in mind and provided a few options. "Based on what you describe, I'm inclined to point out this popular item," she started as I examined it. "But I need to add, it seems to have a negative effect on people," she cautioned, as I tried it on with ease. Too easy, in fact. She emphasized the store had a return policy, and from her kind tone I could tell it was important to avoid any initial dissonance.

 

With it still on, I detected aversion on the faces of the other customers, as if they were at the ready to dart and scatter like elk on the prairie. Careful not to frighten, I made a second attempt -- this time with significant effort. It felt uncomfortable.

 

Alert to my hesitation, Sandra assured me it would feel more natural over time. I pondered my decision for a moment. As I gazed into the mirror, the results seemed contagious as the same herd of shoppers gravitated toward this new selection. Unlike yesterday, I was gifted with smiles. I stood wondering audibly how it would look outside or at home or at the office. While she reminded me the name of this small shop – Attitude – my groans of indecision prompted the joyful owner to respond, "Well, it is your choice; may I suggest you pick out a good one."

Social Mediation - POEM of the MONTH!

Social Mediation

Social media, or mediation

Directed at polite deviation

And political variation

Middle-school humiliation

To limelight dissociation

Work-place nauseation

Choking family association

Without officiation

To habitual inebriation

Closet asphyxiation

Or dramatic retaliation 

Staging humiliation

Of self-worth depreciation

Can't find alleviation 

Internal appreciation 

Or planet evacuation 

A cry for reconciliation

Courageous initiation

And humble arbitration

Without abbreviation --

In need of social mediation

Since the day after creation

The Tavern - a short story

The Tavern

The piano played softly. Or the soft piano played a melody to smooth out the edges of another rough week. It had an empathetic touch. She never raised her drink to her lips due to the intoxication of song. Cradled by the booth in the back corner she exhaled a deep sigh, as she tried to avoid Monday. A single glass of a local red was a Friday night ritual. But for now, contentment was beyond the grape as a crescendo built up by masterful fingers on keys of black and white.

The beast crouched outside in the dank and dark alley. Its claws grasped fear of tomorrow.

The candles brightened smiles. Or bright smiles reflected off the twenty-one candles. But the wax dripped into the cake like the tears of the birthday girl soaked into her heart. A private party of only two in the reserved back room was spotted with a mix of joy and sorrow as was painted on the face of her eldest sister. The pendulum on the clock down the hall stirred the present moment, and at the same time the grief of yesterday. They forced smiles and fought to celebrate the momentous occasion.

The beast ogled through the frosted window with eyes of red. Raised above its scarred head was anger against loss.

The bent ear heard all. Or the ear of his long-time friend was bent around the corner of the bar -- and listened. Buddies since high school. They were parked on adjacent stools for hours over a couple of pints. One soaked it all in, while the other's blood boiled. One glass was half full, while the other was half empty as he voiced his displeasure of being a useless tool. The spirit of the latter was filled by the dedication of the former. Yet, something lurked in the recesses of his mind.

The beast cracked the heavy wood door open as one foot hovered over the threshold. Hidden behind its back was hatred toward another.

While others danced their troubles into the hardwood floor, the beast charged in as it splintered the door frame. Shards of indifference pierced the ceiling and walls as a dark veil cast shadows of doubt into the minds of the patrons. Under attack, their route of escape was blocked. It smacked fear at anyone who would succumb to it. It hammered down a steady rage of anger. And from its hidden place, it swung hatred in a berserk frenzy. It preyed on their happiness.

The patrons gazed at one another, stunned by the evasion. Or it was an invasion into their refuge. A few begun to shiver and shrink into the shadow. But courage thrived in certain pockets of the tavern. Their strength came not from the spirits displayed behind the bar. Something greater than a strong proof proved a finer flavour. Out from the walls of social exclusion, there arose quality in character. Enough suffered! The fearful woman came to the aide of the birthday girl challenged with anger, while the man tempted by hate turned toward love. In turn, he offered to lighten the burden of anyone who faltered. And they all faced the beast together. For three are stronger than one, or two.

~

“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.

A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:12

Fresh Bones - POEM of the MONTH!

Fresh Bones

Born to lose
To the crafty hands of Time
As fresh bones ...
Fresh bones
Recount the futile attempt 
To win the battle against flesh
And blood ...
Now the energy 
Of what once mattered
Is absorbed by worms
Picked to the bone

Nothing matters
In the dust of stars
Only the warning 
Of fresh bones:
Heroic deeds
Of flesh and bone
Ultimately result in loss
But not if you lose your life
For the One who breathed
Life into your bones –
Instead of trying to win it!

~

"'Meaningless! Meaningless!'
says the Teacher.
'Utterly meaningless!
Everything is meaningless.'" 
What do people gain from all their labors 
at which they toil under the sun?"
- Ecclesiastes 1:1-3

"For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, 
but whoever loses their life for [Jesus] will find it. 
What good will it be for someone to gain the whole 
world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give 
in exchange for their soul."
- Matthew 16: 25-26

(If using a phone to read this poem, turn your phone sideways for the best view of this post.)

Surfing on an Atomic Bomb - POEM of the MONTH!

Surfing on an Atomic Bomb

While surfing on an atomic bomb

"Dr. Strangelove or:
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)"
by twm1340 is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Dad sipped gasoline in a honking line,
With waves of heat several blocks long,
Tempers soared, but we kids were fine;
Hell! We were promised flying cars
Despite Martians eating our guitars.

Prom queens with feathers took flight
As we soared to the highest volume,
In a world decreasingly black and white
And a color TV in every living room,
But we totally knew who our enemy was
As we fought the political Santa Claus.

While Mother Russia ate her own
And answered to our Olympic boycott
We fought to avoid a bogus chaperone
To drive Route 66 for the best snapshot;
For we had dreams of skipping midterms,
Then felt like a truck stop meal for worms.

We dropped F-bombs in detention,
A fragile club for the misfit elite;
We danced to beat out any tension,
For our music would never be obsolete;
These waves pounded the golden beach
Like we always had something to teach.

For the holes in our jeans were natural
And the mousse a permanent fixture;
Like the endless Cold War was surreal,
Games played on the almighty computer;
But at least M*A*S*H was on syndication
As history became a comedic distraction.

We need a convertible Bug on half-throttle
And not another colorful flag unfurled!
Drop these singular words in a bottle
Because one second can change the world;
But hell! We still inhale repeat sitcoms
While surfing on our atomic bombs!

~

(If using a phone to read this piece, turn your phone horizontal for the best view of this post.)

The Parallel World - POEM of the MONTH!

The Parallel World

I wish I could find the parallel world;
Not just by any portal at random 
But to the world of the perfect dream
Unblemished by the pride of man.

There is no need for weapons
Because no one ever goes hungry;
And there is no need for towers
Of cities with polluted industry.

Injustice is not in their dictionary,
Nor greed, envy and indifference;
People walk in villages without fear
And abide in the path of providence.

Neighbors are valued more than gold
And no one has the need for tears;
Nothing breaks, not even hearts --
It is the first and final frontier.

I wish I could find this parallel world,
Not with the need for an adversary
But the one in which no one sinned --
And I'd trade places with the perfect me!

(If using a phone to read this poem, turn your phone sideways for the best view of this post.)

Silver Creek - POEM of the MONTH!

Silver Creek

Running wild, Silver Creek is more valuable than gold

It flows into the heart of the river as it flows through mine

A late summer mountain rain is the canvas for a rainbow

Reflecting off the catch at the end of my line

Carry me away to these waters, a new story

Show me the love created as wildflowers intertwine

Reveal to me once again the secret of blissful therapy

Guide my spirit through the evergreens above the treeline

Let me remain beside your musical, calming water

Until the day I abide forever with creation's Author!

(If using a phone to read this poem, turn your phone sideways for the best view of this post.)

No Man's Land - POEM of the MONTH!

No Man's Land

 

Less strength is required in a peloton,

Tucked in the draft of a pack of riders;

The protection from the wind,

Managing effort for all the kilometers.

Two large packs form by error,

Or by strategy, or by the elements,

And one rider is caught in the middle;

A position requiring greater resilience.

Stranded in no man's land,

Although sometimes by design

To bridge up to the leaders --

Or just struggling in the Alpine ...

Alone with a bicycle in the playground

Or perched on the highest floor;

Fashioned or fooled by society,

Hearts flatline behind a locked door.

Anxiety is the companion of solitude,

Whether calculated escape or unplanned,

The risk of failure is over the horizon

When stranded in no man's land.

Daisy Haze - POEM of the MONTH!

Daisy Haze

In a brief moment of time

Through my diffused sight

Time and space are still

Absorbing the flower light

Paint my garden yellow

Let rain sing on spring days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

An intruder steals dreams

Vulnerable to the monstrous

A phone call late at night

A shot from the darkness

Guide me on streets pure

Shine on summer days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

In a flash before my eyes

Life on the silver screen 

Thrown off two wheels

By a larger machine

Although a present mystery

You are eternally here

Even when you are there

The daisy haze is clear

With the weight of my world

Flowers smile in the dark

Even when I am lacking

You are my hallmark

On the other side of doubt

Through the hazy days

I call out toward Heaven

Give me the daisy haze

The Great Question - POEM of the MONTH!

The Great Question

"Where are we?" asked Location.

 "The question isn't 'where', 

but when are we?" replied Time.

Before Reason had a chance 

to ask "How?" Purpose interjected, 

"No my friends, the great question is: 

why are we?"

The Fool laughed "Say what?"

Then Wisdom patiently came along

and expanded, "The 'why' is not what we say, 

but looking out for who -- 

however, 

whenever 

and wherever we can."

And Love paused to smile.

~

"Love your neighbor as yourself." - Luke 10:27b

"By this everyone will know that you
are my disciples, if you love one another." - John 13:35

Painted Ladies - a short story

Painted Ladies 

While on vacation in the city by the bay, I turned the corner and there it was! A row of houses, each painted in different colors from hues of purple, red, yellow, blue and green -- as if they were different people with their own life experiences. Their own ancestry. Their own culture. Yet, they were the same. The same as the focused university student just a few blocks away at The Mill who enjoyed her coffee and pastry the same as the retired gentleman who held his granddaughter with a similar passion. The same as the gruff opinionated homeless veteran alone in the crowded coffee house, and the well-dressed business woman intent on leaving if her beverage was not finished by her standard of two minutes as indicated by two fingers forming a "V" -- but not for peace.

A row of houses each filled with history -- like the rows of tables filled. Filled with dreams -- fulfilled and lost, planned and forgotten. Yet at the same time, unable to erase memories. Foundations of imagination. But I was stranded in a circular thought, like circling the block. I thought it should be renamed Writers Block. But last night, in the comfort of my own home, my wife Clarity lovingly urged me to consider it's not my surroundings necessarily in need of change.

After soaking in the last drops of coffee I scribbled down the street with a pen held by a hand living in the land of freedom. A liberty unprecedented, but blocked by a blank page. Blocked by various degrees of cowardice; or was it something else? Everyone held their own pen. Every home protecting their own.  We lived across the park for years, but I did not know the name of a single neighbor. I presumed they did not know mine.Across Alamo Square Park stood the row of Painted Ladies, with the city in the background -- like the strangers in a coffee shop, with their respective day on the forefront of their minds. I crossed the street, walked up the steps to the door. A door with a blank stare -- which should have developed into a nod or greeting. This was a repeated occurrence, door after door. Frustrated at the threshold of a lost original thought. A thought to be formed somewhere in the living rooms of tomorrow. My page yearned to expand.

But was kindness on vacation? Curious if my self-imposed dilemma added to the regretful repetition previously encountered, I stumbled back to the coffee house. One block at a time. One table at a time. Not in step like a drunkard, but absent in word. A repeated occurrence, table after table. Yes -- there I was! On Writers Block, a neighborhood of various colors filled with experiences, and experiences filled with various colors. If only I had the courage to knock.

~

Partly inspired by the poem entitled, Writers Block.

Faded Road Sign - POEM of the MONTH!

Faded Road Sign

She passed a road sign
Set above, black and white
Covered in rust, and faded
From the fog and sunlight

Each morning for years
Overlooking the message
Notwithstanding its intent
Uncertain by her mileage

Red lights of frustration
Detours which didn't last
Road trips to nowhere
And a curve taken too fast

One day filled with distress
A road crew replaced the sign
Curiosity slowed her pace
Slowed it to the limit line

Still black and white
And perfect to discern
To clearly be reminded
It's okay to make a U-turn