The Girl and the Pearl
Once upon a time there was a girl who sat in front of a dead frog that lay before her in a dissection tray. Her lab partner had just left to go to the bathroom to relieve herself after witnessing the formaldehyde covered carnage that they had performed on the little amphibian that lay before them.
The teacher then began showing them on an overhead projection the stomach and what to expect inside of it. With scalpel in hand, the girl slit the tough preserved lining of the stomach. Inside of the small sac was something that was not in the projected image at the front of the class. It was the size of a pea, white, and smooth. The color was of pearl and it was a perfect little little sphere.
She lay it under her tray and at the end of class she washed her hands and the small pearl. Yes, she knew that pearls came from oysters, but this one came from a frog and she was taken by how something so pure and beautiful could come from something so grotesque.
That night the girl dreamed. She dreamed of a young man who appeared to be not much older than she. He walked with her through the empty hallways of the school, through fields covered with flowers of colors and scents that she had never experienced with her own eyes. He walked with her along beaches in faraway lands, and he held her in his hands under an old oak tree that smelled of life itself. At the end of the dream, she knew it was the end and that her time with him was over. He took her in his arms and kissed her. He asked her for the pearl. She said no because it was dear to her and then she woke up.
The next night and for many nights to come, she dreamed about this man. In her heart she knew that he was real. He loved her and somewhere he lay sleeping in his bed and someday they would fall in love and be together. Every night he asked her for the pearl that lay in the palm of her hand. Every night she said no.
One day she woke up and it was a new and different day. This day she turned sixteen. This was a magical day for many girls. Today she became a young lady. She would gather with her friends that night. They would talk and giggle about boys. The would wear makeup, and they would eat the magical ambrosia that is pizza.
School seemed to take forever, but she finally made it home. Her friends were due to arrive at any moment. The doorbell rang and when she opened it. It was him. His hair was a bit longer than she remembered from her dreams. In his hands were two boxes of heavenly smelling food. He eyes lit up when he saw her and his mouth dropped open. “I know you” he said and walked in.
Her own mouth agape, she stared at him. Her wish for the past weeks was finally coming true. “I know you too” she replied. He put down the boxes and she wrapped her hands around his neck. He was really here and just like in her dreams, he knew her also.
They danced in those few minutes alone. Her head on his chest and his cheek lay on her head. “I have friends on the way” she said. He looked down and kissed her. “I need to go, but I’ll be back. Give me something to remember you.” In her hand lay the pearl. He reached for is and she pulled back her hand. She said no because the pearl was dear to her.
She turned around to find something else to give to him and when she turned back to the door he was gone. The only thing that remained were the pizzas.
The celebration was a melancholy event. Her heart ached for him. She didn’t even learn his name and he was gone.
The next day she sat in biology class running the pearl between her fingers and it compressed in her finger. She knew that pearls do not bend. A tiny bit of blood fell out of it. As this happened, the teacher walked by. “What is that?” he asked. “It’s a pearl” she answered. She explained to him how she found the little miracle though she didn’t dare tell him about the man whose appearance in her dreams accompanied the arrival of the pearl into her life. “No, Anne.” he said. “That’s not a pearl. That is a calcified tumor from the stomach of the frog. He had probably been sick before he was caught.” He picked the pearl/tumor out of her hand and threw it into the trash. She never saw it or dreamed of the man ever again.
The End.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Tree of Life
Tree of Life
Looking up, I can see,
A splendor known only to me,
Green leaves and branches of old,
Crawling beetles, and a little mold.
Branches bend, and leaves fall down,
The ground is red and green and brown.
The color livens the darkening sky,
And a lingering sparrow catches my eye.
The branches have now become bare,
A loitering sparrow has now become rare.
The towering arms of the gigantic tree,
Cry sorrowfully because they are so lonely.
Spring comes again, and the sky is gray,
Little buds form, full of leaves, await May.
The tree is reborn and full of cheer,
And gleefully thanks God for another year.
The End.
Walking
Walking, walking, walking,
Through the city, so grey.
Walking, walking, walking,
Nobody’s Looking my way.
Walking, walking, walking,
Through the town at night.
Walking, walking, walking,
Hoping nobody wants a fight.
Walking, walking, walking,
Through the woods, so brown.
Walking, stopping, praying,
Nobody’s around.
Walking, walking, walking,
So peacefully in the rain.
Walking, splashing, living,
No heat, no worry, no pain.
Through the city, so grey.
Walking, walking, walking,
Nobody’s Looking my way.
Walking, walking, walking,
Through the town at night.
Walking, walking, walking,
Hoping nobody wants a fight.
Walking, walking, walking,
Through the woods, so brown.
Walking, stopping, praying,
Nobody’s around.
Walking, walking, walking,
So peacefully in the rain.
Walking, splashing, living,
No heat, no worry, no pain.
The Moon
Enter the night!
Said the Lady of the Moon,
Her silky light shone down on me.
I looked up and she hid her sorrow,
But a tear fell to my feet.
Why do you cry, oh lady of the night?
I asked with my heart now heavy.
For my true love, I cannot see.”
And so I sung a song of her love.
She now sings the song I wrote,
But this makes me sad.
For she is the one I love.
And that fact, she will never know.
Said the Lady of the Moon,
Her silky light shone down on me.
I looked up and she hid her sorrow,
But a tear fell to my feet.
Why do you cry, oh lady of the night?
I asked with my heart now heavy.
For my true love, I cannot see.”
And so I sung a song of her love.
She now sings the song I wrote,
But this makes me sad.
For she is the one I love.
And that fact, she will never know.
The Firefighter
Thirty-two years,
On the line,
Fighting Fires,
Yours and mine.
Braving death,
And killing smoke,
Through nooks and cranies,
I will poke.
I am proud,
Of my strife,
Waiting nervously,
To save a life.
On the line,
Fighting Fires,
Yours and mine.
Braving death,
And killing smoke,
Through nooks and cranies,
I will poke.
I am proud,
Of my strife,
Waiting nervously,
To save a life.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Old House
What was once a perfect rectangle was now a soggy rhombic shape. The white paint over th lintel had faded and brown splinters stuch out of the wood. The floor creaked under my weight as we walkthrough the crooked doorframe. The smell of the room eaked into my nostrils. Rotten wood, mildew, and the rich smell of earth lay upon the air in layers that had been deposited year after year. The house had been abandoned by someone from an older generation. It sat surrounded in a grove of trees so long ago even the spirits that may have once haunted it had long been laid to rest.
Around my feet lay bits of wood and carpet. A recliner sat in the corner that had been reapolstered by moss. In my mind's eye I could see the man who once sat there with a cigarette or a pipe. A grin raised the corner of his mouth as he read the paper. The news was that the boys were kicking Nazi tail in Europe. In my mind, he even looked a little like a cross between Roosevelt and Churchill except for his denim overalls.
To my left was another sagging doorway. The ancient gas stove sat against the wall, The cast iron burners were well used and now rusted to the top. "Now you're cookin' with gas" Bugs Bunny said in my mind. The counters had been taken out at some point in time and a heavy ice box sat in the corner. I could see a women with a glass of milk straight from the creamery via the milk man that morning in her hand. Most signs of the times that have changed.
I dare not ascend the stairs but looking up I see rectagular sillouettes where pictures once hung. My heart sank. I would never know those people, nor their life. I would never know what it was like to work with my hands to build a life of good times and bad. I would never know what it was like to fight through anger and melancholy like people once did without the aid of medication. I would not know what it was like to walk by faith without the nagging pressure to be tolerant and to throw away old values. This too is a vain chasing after the wind though. I will never know what it was like to lose a child to smallpox or to find out that he will spend his life with a body that was twisted by polio.
Life is hard for is all. The old house beneath my feet is good. As good as anything on Earth can be, but it is still rotten to the core. My own house with it's modern conveniences and also it's sterility is not more or less evil. It is simply difference. The pain that I live through, the joys that I enjoy, they are truly not any different that what the people in this house lived through. I play with the hand that I am dealt, and there is no way to cheat the dealer.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 1:9
Around my feet lay bits of wood and carpet. A recliner sat in the corner that had been reapolstered by moss. In my mind's eye I could see the man who once sat there with a cigarette or a pipe. A grin raised the corner of his mouth as he read the paper. The news was that the boys were kicking Nazi tail in Europe. In my mind, he even looked a little like a cross between Roosevelt and Churchill except for his denim overalls.
To my left was another sagging doorway. The ancient gas stove sat against the wall, The cast iron burners were well used and now rusted to the top. "Now you're cookin' with gas" Bugs Bunny said in my mind. The counters had been taken out at some point in time and a heavy ice box sat in the corner. I could see a women with a glass of milk straight from the creamery via the milk man that morning in her hand. Most signs of the times that have changed.
I dare not ascend the stairs but looking up I see rectagular sillouettes where pictures once hung. My heart sank. I would never know those people, nor their life. I would never know what it was like to work with my hands to build a life of good times and bad. I would never know what it was like to fight through anger and melancholy like people once did without the aid of medication. I would not know what it was like to walk by faith without the nagging pressure to be tolerant and to throw away old values. This too is a vain chasing after the wind though. I will never know what it was like to lose a child to smallpox or to find out that he will spend his life with a body that was twisted by polio.
Life is hard for is all. The old house beneath my feet is good. As good as anything on Earth can be, but it is still rotten to the core. My own house with it's modern conveniences and also it's sterility is not more or less evil. It is simply difference. The pain that I live through, the joys that I enjoy, they are truly not any different that what the people in this house lived through. I play with the hand that I am dealt, and there is no way to cheat the dealer.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 1:9
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Old Rope
The rope is heavy and old. The strands are stiff and a little painful to grasp. This is rope that was made for leather gloves and calloused hands. It's as big around as two of my fingers and strong enough to be used for lifting a small car.
I think about the men who use rope like this on ships at sea, on farms, and at war. Rope like this is used to be close to blood.
I look down at my smooth chubby hands that have spent the years of my youth touching the smooth keyboards of computers and the controls of video games, and my stomach quivers. Manhood slipped past me, and now I wonder if there is any use in me at all. In the event that electronics and toys ever become useless, where will I be?
When I look at the empty space in the bed next to me, I don't have to wonder for long if it's because I traded manhood for a life of juvenile curiosity without the sacrifice callouses of hard work.
I won't blame anyone else for this. It's just what I have to live with now. It isn't pretty and it isn't something that can be fixed overnight, but I pray to God that one day I will find my real worth.
I think about the men who use rope like this on ships at sea, on farms, and at war. Rope like this is used to be close to blood.
I look down at my smooth chubby hands that have spent the years of my youth touching the smooth keyboards of computers and the controls of video games, and my stomach quivers. Manhood slipped past me, and now I wonder if there is any use in me at all. In the event that electronics and toys ever become useless, where will I be?
When I look at the empty space in the bed next to me, I don't have to wonder for long if it's because I traded manhood for a life of juvenile curiosity without the sacrifice callouses of hard work.
I won't blame anyone else for this. It's just what I have to live with now. It isn't pretty and it isn't something that can be fixed overnight, but I pray to God that one day I will find my real worth.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
From a writing exercise
It's been two months since I moved here and as I look out from my upstairs windows, I can't help but notice the little dust building up in the corner of the pane. It shouldn't be there. I should walk downstairs and grab a paper towel and glass cleaner, but I don't. I don't have the energy anymore.
Outside the neighborhood is desolate. The multi-hundred dollar swing sets lay dormant, but the grass is cut. The BBQ grills all look new. It's the suburban wonderland and it is only missing people. Are all of the kids off to after school programs? I see the occasional jogger in the mornings, but where are they the rest of the time? Are they like me? Do they lock themselves around the TV when they are away from work?
Is there a chance for a man like me to change things for the better? Is there anything more than avoiding the next layoff? I turn back towards my computer. The dust is still in the corner of the window and I think about how I still don't have the energy to clean it. My sadness deepens. If only.
Outside the neighborhood is desolate. The multi-hundred dollar swing sets lay dormant, but the grass is cut. The BBQ grills all look new. It's the suburban wonderland and it is only missing people. Are all of the kids off to after school programs? I see the occasional jogger in the mornings, but where are they the rest of the time? Are they like me? Do they lock themselves around the TV when they are away from work?
Is there a chance for a man like me to change things for the better? Is there anything more than avoiding the next layoff? I turn back towards my computer. The dust is still in the corner of the window and I think about how I still don't have the energy to clean it. My sadness deepens. If only.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Winter morning
It isn't really the color of the old red sweater that I like. It's faded after all. It feels a little scratchy to me, and it never smells right even after loads of fabric softener. It's the fact that she looks like she's at home in it.
When we go outside in our jackets on cold winter mornings, her bright cheeks match the red of the yarn. That smile under her toboggan hat is wide and covers her entire face. She picks up a snow ball and hurls it at my arms and laughs. I act gruff after being pelted with snow. I run back at her and give her a bear hug. She melts in my hands and the steam from our breaths mingle. This is our time of year. Advent is in full sway, Christmas is quickly approaching and I have the greatest gift ever here in my arms.
I hug a little to deeply and lift her a little to highly. I lose my balance and tumble backwards. My butt hits the ice and she is on top of me laughing hysterically. I laugh too. Not because of our slapstick fall, but because I'm happy.
When we go outside in our jackets on cold winter mornings, her bright cheeks match the red of the yarn. That smile under her toboggan hat is wide and covers her entire face. She picks up a snow ball and hurls it at my arms and laughs. I act gruff after being pelted with snow. I run back at her and give her a bear hug. She melts in my hands and the steam from our breaths mingle. This is our time of year. Advent is in full sway, Christmas is quickly approaching and I have the greatest gift ever here in my arms.
I hug a little to deeply and lift her a little to highly. I lose my balance and tumble backwards. My butt hits the ice and she is on top of me laughing hysterically. I laugh too. Not because of our slapstick fall, but because I'm happy.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
We are all from the island of misfit toys
I picked up my coffee this morning at the Starbucks down the street. The girl taking my money had a perky smile, a little too perky for 6:30AM in my personal opinon, but that's okay. A few strands of hair hung over her left eye with the remainder of blue coloring still visible. It must be nice to be 18 again, I thought to myself. The smell of coffee was warm and soothing I stood there waiting and watching the girl take my plastic and slide it through the machine.
"Bob" she called.
The young man with a faux-hawk mixing chi next to her told her the combination to push on the little credit card machine. As she turned, I saw the bruise. It went from the top of her short to the back of her right knee. I winced. That was one nasty place to get a bruise. Skateboarding, I assumed. It must be hell to sit down. As she turned to hand back the card, I noticed that the socket around her right eye had a considerably fainter but still noticable bruise also. "Oh shit" I said to myself.
I'm not one to stick my head in others people's business, yet I couldn't help but feel for the girl. People have accidents. Sometimes people really do fall down stairs in moments of clumbiness, and the cynical side of me said, "yeah and sometimes women really do run into door knobs". My gut felt queasy and part of my knew, hell part of my hoped that it was just something that could be explained easily. I walked out of the door and to my car. I felt impotent to help. Who was I though? Who was I to ask her about her most intimant secrets. I'm a computer programmer who like mocha lattes. I'm not a shrink or a priest, or even the girl's family.
A week later, she slipped out of my mind and I avoided that Starbucks for reasons that I could no longer remember.
-----
The smell of the place was thick. It smelled of old taverns and the chalk of pool cues. In a way, it was home. These men, theirs names, bodies, and professions changed, but they were the same. They came in, drank, farted, watched football and left a little more stoned than they came in. This wasn't the kind of place that had ladies night on Tuesdays. This is the kind of place where men came to die a little more every week after their paychecks and unemployment checks were cashed. Most had wives at home who would keep them alive for a few years longer. The ones that didn't died quicker. You didn't need a degree in statistics to see that. Their suicide was usually in the form of cheap whiskey while the married men took their time with Old Milwaukee and Budweiser.
They say that they way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I say that the way to the mortuary is through the shot glass.
-----
Smokey turned 50 today.
His hair had been salt and pepper since his early 20's and from then on, he was known by his friends as Smokey. He worked alone in the shed beside the house. The house that he bought with HER. Always HER that's all he thought about most days. It was ramshackled now. Falling apart in places where he should have spent money keeping it up. He wasn't a lazy man and when he was hired to do odds and ends, they would always compliment his work.
"Smokey worked hard and he did things right the first time." they said.
Here he was was standing over his work bench. A piece that he had lovingly crafted for HER. This shed was to be her art studio. The pottery wheel was still there in the corner under old magazines. The shelves now held glass jars with screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous parts. He bent over the bench squashing his considerable gut to get to the 1/2" nut that fell into a little crack. A little crack that should not be there because he should have replaced the top of the work bench years ago. He reached. The bench gave way under his weight and he fell. So did the glass jars. One Miracle Whips Jar in particular jar weighed 15 pounds from the weight of old nuts alone. When it hit him and he never woke up again.
The funeral was small. Only his cousin from Texas and a few people that he did odd jobs for were there. The new young pastor from the church that he attended with HER performed the funeral service. They lowered the casket into the ground next to HER. His savings barely paid for the casket and everything else was paid for with the sale of his land.
We are all from the island of misfit toys.
"Bob" she called.
The young man with a faux-hawk mixing chi next to her told her the combination to push on the little credit card machine. As she turned, I saw the bruise. It went from the top of her short to the back of her right knee. I winced. That was one nasty place to get a bruise. Skateboarding, I assumed. It must be hell to sit down. As she turned to hand back the card, I noticed that the socket around her right eye had a considerably fainter but still noticable bruise also. "Oh shit" I said to myself.
I'm not one to stick my head in others people's business, yet I couldn't help but feel for the girl. People have accidents. Sometimes people really do fall down stairs in moments of clumbiness, and the cynical side of me said, "yeah and sometimes women really do run into door knobs". My gut felt queasy and part of my knew, hell part of my hoped that it was just something that could be explained easily. I walked out of the door and to my car. I felt impotent to help. Who was I though? Who was I to ask her about her most intimant secrets. I'm a computer programmer who like mocha lattes. I'm not a shrink or a priest, or even the girl's family.
A week later, she slipped out of my mind and I avoided that Starbucks for reasons that I could no longer remember.
-----
The smell of the place was thick. It smelled of old taverns and the chalk of pool cues. In a way, it was home. These men, theirs names, bodies, and professions changed, but they were the same. They came in, drank, farted, watched football and left a little more stoned than they came in. This wasn't the kind of place that had ladies night on Tuesdays. This is the kind of place where men came to die a little more every week after their paychecks and unemployment checks were cashed. Most had wives at home who would keep them alive for a few years longer. The ones that didn't died quicker. You didn't need a degree in statistics to see that. Their suicide was usually in the form of cheap whiskey while the married men took their time with Old Milwaukee and Budweiser.
They say that they way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I say that the way to the mortuary is through the shot glass.
-----
Smokey turned 50 today.
His hair had been salt and pepper since his early 20's and from then on, he was known by his friends as Smokey. He worked alone in the shed beside the house. The house that he bought with HER. Always HER that's all he thought about most days. It was ramshackled now. Falling apart in places where he should have spent money keeping it up. He wasn't a lazy man and when he was hired to do odds and ends, they would always compliment his work.
"Smokey worked hard and he did things right the first time." they said.
Here he was was standing over his work bench. A piece that he had lovingly crafted for HER. This shed was to be her art studio. The pottery wheel was still there in the corner under old magazines. The shelves now held glass jars with screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous parts. He bent over the bench squashing his considerable gut to get to the 1/2" nut that fell into a little crack. A little crack that should not be there because he should have replaced the top of the work bench years ago. He reached. The bench gave way under his weight and he fell. So did the glass jars. One Miracle Whips Jar in particular jar weighed 15 pounds from the weight of old nuts alone. When it hit him and he never woke up again.
The funeral was small. Only his cousin from Texas and a few people that he did odd jobs for were there. The new young pastor from the church that he attended with HER performed the funeral service. They lowered the casket into the ground next to HER. His savings barely paid for the casket and everything else was paid for with the sale of his land.
We are all from the island of misfit toys.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Till Death do they part
They were in love
Holding hands
Sharing glances
Smiling brightly
Laughing lightly
They were enemies
Knives in hand
Plotting threats
Counting costs
Hating the loss
They forgave
Falling tears
Abounding hugs
Finding grace
Kissing her face
They grew old
Raising kids
Working jobs
Growing wise
saying goodbyes
And then they were gone
Holding hands
Sharing glances
Smiling brightly
Laughing lightly
They were enemies
Knives in hand
Plotting threats
Counting costs
Hating the loss
They forgave
Falling tears
Abounding hugs
Finding grace
Kissing her face
They grew old
Raising kids
Working jobs
Growing wise
saying goodbyes
And then they were gone
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Her
Her smile is sort of a half grin. She glances at me as we walk side by side down the street. The glimpse of that grin jerks my heart. The sun is hot but it's setting before us. A bead of sweat falls down from her brow down to her ear. I love that ear. I love her. We walk side by side down a road that neither of us knows where it will end. As the sun goes down, a cold gust from parts unknown chills us to the bone. She shivers but she is strong.
We stop for the night and build a small file beside the road. Old branches from trees long dead keep us warm. We talk of Jesus and Satan, Calvin and Luther, Plato and Socrates, Mises and Marx, and Abbott and Costello. Her mind is large and her imagination brimming. Our love is more than physical. It's spiritual and intellectual. It's respect, it's admiration without condescension, and it's passion. The night passes. She points up at Orion, the big dipper, and a dozen constellations that I couldn't quite make out and then she's out. I zip up her sleeping bag, kiss her forehead, and then curl up in mine. Our day tomorrow will be hard. It always is. She makes it worth it.
We stop for the night and build a small file beside the road. Old branches from trees long dead keep us warm. We talk of Jesus and Satan, Calvin and Luther, Plato and Socrates, Mises and Marx, and Abbott and Costello. Her mind is large and her imagination brimming. Our love is more than physical. It's spiritual and intellectual. It's respect, it's admiration without condescension, and it's passion. The night passes. She points up at Orion, the big dipper, and a dozen constellations that I couldn't quite make out and then she's out. I zip up her sleeping bag, kiss her forehead, and then curl up in mine. Our day tomorrow will be hard. It always is. She makes it worth it.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Judge
From the corner of my eye stands a man. He's watching me without expression. I dare not turn my head, yet in that second my heart grows cold. He's watching. If I acknowledge him, will he vanish? Will he turn out to be a figment of my imagination? Or will the phantasm greet me with a scowl?
I've seen him before. From the edges of my periphery. He's a judge. Brooding, waiting for me. Waiting for me to fail. I can not plead innocence because I have none. I can not plead ignorance because I am not. My fate I await out of the corner of my eye.
Why does he not move? Why does he not stand, this man who sits in his chair and judges me. Is he a righteous angel come to strike me down for my sins or an agent from the netherworld who wants to see me in all my wickedness? I have done things of vile repute in my life. I have cursed those who deserve not and hurts those that I loved. Is this the long wait before my execution?
And yet I stand watching him from the corner of my eye like a frightened rabbit. I could plead forgiveness to God almighty. I could grovel for my life. Is there forgiveness for one such as I? A murderer, an adulterer, a fornicator, a liar, a deceiver, the son of perdition that I am? I drop to my knees and close my eyes to pray. I could feel death’s scythe closing over my neck.
I mumble a prayer of forgiveness. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy. Amen. I open my eyes and look.
Only my coat is draped over the chair in the form of a man.
I have an appointment in an hour.
Repentance can wait a little while longer.
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