Solstice

on this longest
winter night
cold is an old friend
bearing unguarded memories
feet circled around an open oven
hot sugar bread
thick, too sweet tea
yarn darned socks
too patchworked to be worn
anywhere
but home
wearing a coat to bed...
awakened by a too bright moon
every sigh visible silver
intertwining
with swirls, worlds and faces
in frost and lace
I remember smiling into the darkness

Free verse

Early on I remember talking to her
about hate
oblivious to her admonitions
that it was a bottomless pit
of wasted energy
I argued for its benefits and applications
insisting that it took
no effort
at all
an easy agenda item--
efficient
as hell....

coldness became my camouflage
helpful, enduring
more neutral than it seems
on its face
a logical consequence

Later on I remembered the first time I loved
joyfully
not realizing how rare that would be
the gifts it would bring
the toll it would take
the memories it would leave
how much they would matter

A lifetime later I'm yielding
to what it means to love without holding back
having felt it once before
I knew its sweetness
when it awakened
unpredictable overpowering tenderness
tougher than anger, sadness or hell
helpless as water
older than time
always more than words
always seeking words

Fear .... ( a not so short prose )

The line of traffic extends for almost a city block. There is a car, sitting, idling, its driver's door wide open, that seems to be the problem. Other cars are doing their best to get around the open door, still others are slowing down, rubbernecking, so see why things are slowing down.

A police vehicle appears out of nowhere, the cop strides toward the offending car, assessing the scene; he glances at his watch and squints up at the sun. What the hell. Flynn would rather do any other law enforcement responsibility than traffic patrol duty. It was so....pedestrian. He sighs to himself even as he continues to turn around, slowly doing the 360. He notices a woman crouching on a grassy patch across the street from the car. Her ankle length black skirt is wrapped around her legs and she is further swaddled by the tight hug her arms have around her knees. There is a briefcase nearby, with papers that appear to have been haphazardly thrust inside. It yaws open, like a mouth with large uneven teeth protruding. Paper fangs. Flynn is not sure why he finds this unnerving and while he is here feeling slightly off balance by the whole thing, traffic continues to back up.

Does anyone know anything about this car, Flynn hollers over the traffic. The woman has been resting her forehead against her knees and now she lifts her chin and looks right at the cop. He looks right back. She nods, and stands up carefully and dusts the grass off her skirt. She collects her briefcase, pausing long enough to arrange the papers so that none will fall out. She tests it, briefly, with a slight heft and swing, and something about her posture alerts Flynn to the possibility of a foot chase. Swiftly, he glances at her shoes, his instincts jangling now. The woman walks steadily, deliberately towards him. I own the car, she says, looking up into his face.

Jeez, ma'am-- it's always " ma'am" beyond a certain age--Jeez, ma'am, you've got quite a bottleneck going here. He cocks his head and gazes down at her, doing that fixed stare into the eyes cop thing.

Are you sick or something?

No, she says, not sick.

Not sick....stoned, maybe? high? Flynn runs through the mental checklist; a trick gone bad.... nah, couldn't be, the look and the briefcase don't match up... maybe a head case....

He's looking at her more closely now; he's noticing how she keeps him between her and the car.

Anything you want to tell me here, ma'am?

He's looking at the car more closely, now, too. He's sweating; she's not.

I can't go back in there until you get rid of it, she days. Her voice is a little shaky.

Just show me what the problem is, he says, taking her arm and guiding her towards the car.

Oh, no! she cries, and pulls back, shaking him off. Her movement is startling, forceful and agile; her eyes are darting back and forth.

It was on the window, she says quietly, just get it out and I can get back in there.

Flynn puts his hands on her shoulders; he wants her to stay put. He feels her stiffen in that way that women do when they're warning you not to keep doing that. He backs up and gives her the shitIsurrenderwaitrightthere gesture. He turns away and approaches her car, glancing back to make sure she 's not going to take off. Flynn never thought he'd see the day when he wished he had back up for a traffic diversion. He leans in and examines the windshield....
.... the wasp flies up into his face, he rears back, wrestling with the space; he falls onto the horn, it gives a loud blast; he hits his head on the door frame, hastily backing out, bum first, swinging his hands in front of his face..... holyshitmutherfu.... Flynn curses instinctively, bobbing and weaving, all thoughts of dignity abandoned, avoiding the thing buzzing wildly about his head and shoulders. He manages to swat it away, abruptly stopping his flailing dance in mid-gesture, glancing around a little sheepishly. He lifts his chin and rolls his head, smoothes the front of his shirt. Ok, Ma'am, he says, it's gone.
The woman walks past Flynn and cautiously approaches the car. Thank you, she says, and hugs the briefcase close as she climbs back in.

Journal entry: Resolution or folly ?

Here is a quote that grabbed me by the throat:
" You can't talk yourself out of problems you behave yourself into"

it's attributed to Stephen Covey; however, regardless of the source, I cannot get it out of my head. Perhaps it has something to do with my returning to full time duty at my workplace after a six month sabbatical. Perhaps it is too close to the bone, an inconvenient insight better left unearthed.... even though I am not one who's inclined to shirk self honesty.
The upshot is, it's got me thinking and reflecting about the problems I have behaved myself into, and how talking or thinking about doing things differently will not suffice if behaviour is what got me up to my neck in water in the first place. At least it's water and not some other substance that is equally applicable.....
Obviously, I have to behave myself out. Sounds simple enough..... but like so much that appears simple, it's not easy. Perhaps that's what will be the appeal...
you see, it's not the nasty stuff that calls out to my over-commitment gene ... it is the fulfilling stuff , the tendency to plan like I'm going to live forever and to live like I'm going to die tomorrow.... and now, more than ever, I have so much in my life that deserves my being present for moments that I only hoped would happen.

I've said it elswhere: if a thing does not gladden my heart, I am going to have to lay it down.
I've said it elsewhere: yielding is the hardest work of hope and craft.
These, then, will be the touchstones; I will trust them.

Spock on the Rock: fan fiction #2

Darlene Hickey has turned out to be one hell of an ambassador. She got them set up with warm clothes, she got them set up with transportation, and she found a buddy with a great basement where they could " crash". If there's a down side, Kirk mused, it's that Darlene is the transportation, so the crew have to be talking in code all the time. Darlene is a quick study, though, and it's only a matter of time before she figures out that Spock and company are even stranger than she already knows for sure.
Kirk still can't get over how Spock and Darlene hit it off. Spock's been quite the space cadet since he re-integrated.... at least McCoy is much more settled since he got Spock out of his head... still, Spock seems too damn comfortable here in Newfoundland, even with the awful wind and cold, the strange language and not one piece of flat land. Spock claims that it is so much like Vulcan it is uncanny, actually nurturing his re-integration, feeding his soul. That comment raised everyone's eyebrows and, according to Uhura, " just warmed their hearts". Right.
Kirk looks out the window of Darlene's van. She's taking them to the Marine Lab in Middle Cove, apparently the site for ocean research on the east coast. Darlene insists that it's the best place to talk to people about whales and any other marine life ya might have a hankerin' to investigate. Not bad for a girl from Torbay, Kirk smiles to himself, whatever the hell that means.
Whales....all the sound analyses point to whales as the solution to the horrible situation they left back in the future. With vibrations from an unknown alien species creating turmoil and disaster in all the oceans of earth, Kirk and his crew defied the odds and travelled back in time to find the earlier forms of the species in earth's late 20th century oceans. Newfoundland was as far from San Francisco as they could get ... how they could have overshot the mark by a whole continent remains a mystery.... and, Kirk thought ruefully, it looks like a moonscape.
Yes, my son, Darlene assures him. Kirk startles; he hadn't realized he had said it out loud. 'Round 'ere we dig our basements with dynamite... Darlene continues, we don't call it The Rock fer nothing!! She deftly pulls into the parking space outside the Lab, a round, squat structure with porthole windows and water all around, crashing madly. Darlene gazes out over the wildness with pride; she gives a little lift and turn gesture with her head and chin that Kirk has seen frequently among many of the natives since he and his crew set down a few days earlier. Quite the culture. He glances at his crew and they all pile out and follow Darlene into the steel bubble.
All hands seem to know her. Pardon me for sayin', lass, Scotty speaks softly, but you're not exactly a stranger here....
I should say not, roars a tall, shaggy man in jeans and a plaid shirt. Darlene's our youngest PhD in marine biology in two decades. He beams, clearly delighted at Darlene's embarrassment. Ah, jaysus, dad, she says, and does the introductions. Dr. Aloysius Hickey, Captain James T. Kirk, here on ... research, so he says.
Atcher service, says Dr. Al. I'm the chief cook and bottle washer around here. I've got the one associate, Noel, here, and Darlene, of course, and four graduate students...
Scotty, Sulu and McCoy share a moment. Not bad, says Sulu, for a girl from Torbay.
The group follows Drs. Al and Darlene to the viewing tank, gawking, then murmuring about the noise of the waves and the silvery motion of the swimming creatures that surround them. Then a cry of shock from Chekov: Kepten!!
Kirk follows the pointing finger. There on the other side of the tank, in the damn freezing waters of the north Atlantic ocean, is Spock, stripped down to his gitch, cavorting with the seals and the fish, seemingly oblivious to the cold. Everyone is pounding on the glass wall. Spock is impervoius, melding with his new found fishy friends. Finally, his reverie is broken, and Al sends his grad students to help him in. To his other colleague, a man as bald as Al is hairy, Al hollers, Noel... get the rum and put on the kettle. Noel tears himself away and heads for the back office. Darlene leans against the tank with arms crossed, shaking her head, and declares ..... much longer out there, Spock, and anything stiff and pointy woulda been falling off, and I don't only mean yer ears, if ye get my drift....
... the ears comment stops everyone is his tracks; Uhura is helping Spock towel off and she, too, pauses. This is an important moment.
Did somebody say rum ? Scotty asks.

to be continued....

Grave Humour: epitaph

Here rests the body of Eliza Devine
for her, life held no terrors.
Born a virgin, died a virgin....
no hits, no runs, no errors.

Plunderverse

Sea Gulls
E.J.Pratt

For one carved instant as they flew
The language had no simile--
Silver, crystal, ivory
Were tarnished. Etched upon the horizon blue,
The frieze must go unchallenged, for the lift
And carriage of the wings would stain the drift
Of stars against a tropic indigo
Or dull the parable of snow.

Now settling one by one
Within green hollows or where curled
Crests caught the spectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings are furled.
No clay-born lilies of the world
Could blow as free
As those wild orchids of the sea.



and, now plundered....

one carved
language

Etched
unchallenged

against a
parable

settling
curled
caught
furled

free



For one instant
silver
tarnished
wings stain the drift
of snow


one by one
within green hollows
a thousand wings are
born......lilies
as free
as wild orchids