the sound of rifle bolts
a good day to die
Moonlight in my window, forgive me
For my mistakes as I forgive myself.
The light through the pane is pale,
Yet glorious and as fine as new snow.
Tonight the moon is in its final quarter,
And perhaps I am in my final quarter
As well. Moonlight and forgiveness.
There is nothing that I feel
the need to prove, and no one
to prove it to anyway. There is
just the next thing that happens.
I can live with that.
Whether it was the sound of rifle bolts
Slapping into place,
Or the click of a pistol being cocked,
I hope there was defiance
In the eyes of Frederico Garcia Lorca
That last second before death.
May there always be defiance
When one of us, the people,
Faces the fascist.
Grief. Like swimming across an ocean.
Grief. Like measuring every tree in a vast forest.
Nothing lasts forever, friend.
Even a mountain will wear down, with enough time.
Even a star eventually explodes.
But this grief I carry?
It seems so huge, so powerful,
And I have carried it far.
Oh son, how fine it was
When we used to hike the Yuba River trails.
Together.
Together.
Now I am alone, and so small.
by jobe
Uncle Walty
stuff other people said:
All right, every day ain't going to be the best day of your life, don't worry about that. If you stick to it you hold the possibility open that you will have better days.
Wendell Berry
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
Sylvia Plath
I see great things in baseball. It's our game - the American game.
Walt Whitman
I've always wanted to write poems and nothing else.
Mary Oliver
Oceans
I have a feeling that my boat
has struck, down there in the depths,
against a great thing.
And nothing
happens! Nothing...Silence...Waves...
--Nothing happens? Or has everything happened,
and are we standing now, quietly, in the new life?
Juan Ramon Jimenez, 1881 - 1958 CE
How to Incorporate a Town, a poem by Steven Leyva
Thelonious Monk up loud so I don’t need my hearing aids. Strong dark roast coffee. The morning rain just ended, my little world is clean. These are things that comfort me. Monk is banging out ‘Ruby My Dear’ while my dog sleeps and my conure nods his head to the beat.
A number of indigenous tribes in North America have a sort of saying, “It’s a good day to die.” I love that. They’re not saying they want to die, not at all. It’s more like they’re all squared away, their ducks are in a row, you know? If it happens today, they’re ready for it. And man, I understand that.
So many people in my life are gone now. The entire older generation is gone, but at my age that is to be expected. As one approaches 70 it would be rare for Mom, Dad, or good ol’ Uncle Mack to be around. Three of my siblings have joined them, and a number of my friends. A husband and wife that were our friends were murdered in their bed, the man was my son’s mentor. And now that son is gone, too. That is never expected. He was 25 when his heart shut down.
My wife and I were crushed.
Our other son had a breakdown a year or so before the epidemic. A schizophrenic break. He did many strange and often dangerous things. He refused help and vanished for a time. He was in his mid 30s and had not been diagnosed, and the police said he had the right to take off if he wanted. No help at all from them. After some time passed he (notice I am not using his name, he would hate that) turned up in Los Angeles, over 300 miles away. He was arrested downtown for firing a ‘Nerf’ gun into traffic, then stopping traffic to recover the foam projectiles and reload. He put up a fight, and several LAPD officers penned him down. A temporary psych hold led to a longer hold, diagnosis, and medication. Then a halfway house and employment. He lives in LA, holds a job, and takes his meds. But he isn’t the same man today, more like a different person, subdued. Tends to answer you in as few words as possible. This is not something one expects either.
This also was staggering. Like the second blow in a combination punch, and we went down fast.
The music has moved on into Wayne Shorter on sax, playing Footprints. The influence of John Cotrane and Bird Parker seems clear, but in a very good way, not derivative.
Along the way I (I don’t feel should speak for my wife here, that’s her space) learned better how to grieve. I have let go of that which I can’t control. I forgive myself for not being Superman or Mother Teresa. I let the days come like favorite songs on a playlist that is set to play randomly. I feel ‘squared away’ in my relationships and debts. I miss both sons, and I love them both.
Now John Coltrane himself is playing Central Park West. It’s a good day to die.
jobe