me, a farmer?

The perpetual nature of the journey, until it's over, can drive us mad. But what I've learned in the last year or so is how the journey goes on despite difficulty and even major error. We have to pull ourselves up a lot of the time - and pull ourselves down, at times - keep moving and keep witnessing to those who always have it worse off than we do.

I think I want to do this, is a phrase often muttered from my lips. And it's driven a few people crazy over and over, when I think it should have been a flame to embellish the embrace of opportunity and ideas I find to be inspiring. If they have been for others, why not for me, I think.I look for signs. And when I see them - and I have seen them, believe me - I talk about them to people who are closest to me. Certain ideas pop in and out of my mind, but a few always seem to persist: more education, traveling to far-away lands to teach, publishing poems and short-stories, and getting married. All these things have been on my frontal lobe for as long as I can remember. Other ideas have popped in and out, some less than practical...and Lord knows I have always urged my mind to veer on the side of that slope, of which I've often failed.

I think I want to be a farmer today. I know nothing of farming, other than growing up near it. And ironically, I'm going back to that land in a few short days (excitedly!). For some reason the continual search for more answers (or shoves) in a direction that would have me tilling gardens and milking cows persists. I see signs to make moves in license plates, dreams of close friends, whispers to recollect of the smell those tilled fields, and a poet whose birthday we will celebrate tomorrow in poetry group at The Center.

Without reading much Wendell Berry, I assess to believe we may have a lot in common and especially with the changing grasp I have held of my own personal-philosophy these past few years (which, I believe, should constantly evolve).

I'm here, you're here; we're here

To you:

When we feel most vulnerable, frustrated, or even excited to the touch - that is the time to note.

Poetry is a gift to the masses from those who see the world with - at least, semi - divine eyes, i was told. The perspective drawn, with favorite words repeated and syllables not always aligning, can be significant enough to break new ground in the mind, and to the soul. The words of a poet speak to us all, without a given ear or eye. The sounds of a poem are soothing, yet off-putting, and it's for that reason we write. To do, what is right.

At the current, nature's break in the cloudless sky has shifted. Taking a vacation the calmness has; to speak without pretension, with the flow of the constant to all things genuine and susceptible.

To answer a question to the uncertainty which draws in what or - more importantly - who we love, we so often have words to allocate. Using hyperbole, and conjugations of emotions relative to our current state of life, we utilize formula to tell our friends and our other friends exactly how and what we feel, albeit with the pinch of doubt in our temples.

To answer a question to the uncertainty which draws us into ourselves when times seem overwhelming, and the game being played is in extra innings, we silence our rational congruence and give way to the emotions and fears, we so-more often press under our pinkies.

Checking for responses to defensive remarks, our mind swirls with worst-case, worst-case, worst-case without ever actually providing the 'what ifs' and the 'of which could happens'. Unlike the times of contentment, we are unable to discern the stems of the plants we normally eat, from those we don't eat of.

Where are the sprinklers keeping those plants alive? And the gardner who supplants those toxic soul-ripping stalks, when we need her/him most?

Kafka died today, and he only made it so far. In the state of mind-current, I'll be lucky to make it there. However, in my right mind I don't believe that. And, I don't believe in luck. Or Kafka, for that matter. There seems to exist a conundrum to the writings from those who everyone insists on reading. A silver line of ignorance runs through novel after novel where the protagonist, and the story holds nothing to be fruitful but elements of a passing world; a passing time.

;

I watch as the students watch videos never seen by these eyes; certainly not to be witnessed on my daughter's screen. Praying a decision such as this is to be made.

Someday.

;

Hope breeds in small touches and glances. We need these stepping stones of our beloved's fashioning. How we ask for them, I'll never know. Nor, will i ask. For a gift given is just that; no conditions, but with the upmost of guarantees.

There i go reaching for a response again. To no avail, but my own. For the wind blows me this way and that way, and I find it worthwhile to close my eyes when fog overtakes the bow, and then the stern; causing me more to yearn.

We haven't gotten to the 'you always' (always-is) or even the 'i wish you would haves', but I'm hoping we do someday soon, while noting the bond experience creates for two people. The assurance to breathe in each other's presence, fully. The willingness to yield all, asking for nothing in return. And the none-too laughable realization of I'm here, you're here; we're here.

State Of Contradiction

It is a state of contradiction we live in.

The recent news regarding the botched executions, stays on scheduled executions, and all news regarding prosecutors who now are staying away from 'pushing' for the capital punishment has me thinking.

And yes, it hurts. But not as badly as the conscience of every state which continues to embrace state-sponsored executions.

Since data has been collected on botched executions at least 40 state-sponsored executions have been acknowledged to have been 'miscarriages of judgement' on the state's part. Faulty research results, less-than-adequate diagnosis of mental illness, and/or misjudgment by lawyers (both defendants and prosecutors) have lead to an unknown number of innocents being executed. And, though some states have jumped on the bandwagon supporting the ban on execution, there are still some states where irrationality makes one think that the faith they so embrace must, ironically, not be sinking in. Yes, I am talking to you Texas.

I was surprised to read in a recent Reuters report that the death penalty has been banned in some states for a while, and in places like Wisconsin since the 1870s...a certain mark of time to make absolutely sure that the state killing its own people is wrong, no matter what the crime.

With the injustice to the sanctity of humanity aside, (though, it's the largest point to the argument) and with more and more uncertainty about 'efficiency' of execution drugs for lethal injections, and more push for human rights violations in all venues other than our state-owned prisons; wouldn't you think the governments, voted in place to represent our interests, would cease to make decisions that would further harm its constituents? And, all politics aside; haven't we reached a point in human history where the state isn't executing people in semi-medieval fashion framed by a modern aesthetic?

Seems dumb, and yet more-so appalling. But, that's the state we live in; where politics is the game, and the intentional killing by the state of its own citizens continues to be a sick reality.

just to be at my side, i said

There was so much chatter,

just so much chatter.

There was contradiction of good and evil, but only good seeing good

evil stuck on what should be good

but blindness

keeping all from seeing all,

and making liars out of good-natured wrist holders.

Where are those genuine hand-holders? Where are those days spent in the sand when land

after land,

…(emphasized pause) after land

is nothing more than a place we were always trying to flee,

but told ourselves time, and again,

that we actually loved it there.

Loved it there, so much that we deny the messages of our God,

Creator of love, who knew otherwise 

and we just spat on the just pamphlet laid at our feet, on sidewalks we should have never walked upon,

holding hands with someone upon which we should never have laid eyes.

There's paint in the middle of the street, and as we walk further and further from where we should (italics) be

I envision, as you talk on and on (so it would seem, though I knew otherwise), 

about falling deep into that paint splatter, dreading nothing

not even darkness, 

knowing,

I can perfectly well see the light as I stand and bask in it.

Why does distress take hold? Why must I continually call out in the night for protection from

the one who seeks my destruction?

Night after night/day after day

It doesn't seem fair, or even make sense that something so pure and beautiful could be turned into, perversed rather, into

someone/thing (as I refer at the behest of St. Michael) seeking nothing but ugliness and filth? 

I am lost this day, and tortured by the recollections of demons I never faced, never calling upon the angels who were ready

and willing

to be at my side. 

Staunchly, in my corner and going no where unless I command - I now know -

...but not without fire…

again and again

Night after night/day after day

this is the land that I face; the river that I attempt to jump across only to find myself interested in the current

so deep of spirit, and yet so

unwilling,

unwilling to truly jump. 

Make sure that's not you. 

Make sure that's not me.

bad writing and bananas

reading bad writing is the vein

and the rain, and it covers...

spilled out of houses where eaves

called gutters leak, and seep

peek and you'll see that the only

thing that you have when I am not there

is everything.

and reading bad writing is the worst thing I do each day

unless i am not reading anything,

then it's just the only thing I do

and since you left 

it is all I do

it is all I do

and I fall asleep to the memory of rain pouring outside

wishing I would have read a little bit more

a little bit more

a little bit more

before

the floor looked more appealing

than the peeling of those week-old bananas

we passed out to the drunks and the meth addicts

both of which more needed houses and drug counselors

and recognition of the fact that the people they say 

care 

and 

give

are really just there to

take

and 

flake.

what they need are more than bananas, 

and I'm no different

especially since the idea of your face close to mine entered again,

and again,

before i realized it's not happenin'

just like my friends;

the drunks, and the meth addicts

who will ne're get what they need. 

but, i will.

and, sadly, I'll ask for more.