Showing posts with label My Choice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Choice. Show all posts

Friday, May 25, 2018

May 25: Bob Hicok, "The semantics of flowers on Memorial Day," Taking a Knee

The semantics of flowers on Memorial Day

by:  Bob Hicok

Historians will tell you my uncle
wouldn't have called it World War II
or the Great War plus One or Tombstone

over My Head. All of this language
came later. He and his buddies
knew it as get my ass outta here

or fucking trench foot and of course
sex please now. Petunias are an apology
for ignorance, my confidence

that saying high-density bombing
or chunks of brain in cold coffee
even suggests the athleticism

of his flinch or how casually
he picked the pieces out.
Geraniums symbolize the secrets

life kept from him, the wonder
of variable-speed drill and how
the sky would have changed had he lived

to shout it’s a girl. My hands
enter dirt easily, a premonition.
I sit back on my uncle’s stomach

exactly like I never did, he was
a picture to me, was my father
looking across a field at wheat

laying down to wind. For a while,
Tyrants’ War and War of World Freedom
and Anti-Nazi War skirmished

for linguistic domination. If
my uncle called it anything
but too many holes in too many bodies

no flower can say. I plant marigolds
because they came cheap and who knows
what the earth’s in the mood to eat.

_________________________

A lot is being said about patriotism today, since the owners in the NFL decided to force their players to stand for the national anthem or else be fined.  This decision, and the reaction from the people in Washington, D. C., make me a little sick.

People just don't get it.  Taking a knee during the national anthem is not disrespecting the brave men and women who have fought and died for the United States.  What it is about is calling attention to the inherent racism that still exists in this country.  (If you don't believe there is racism in the United States, try Googling ALL the verses of "The Star Spangled Banner."  You may be a little surprised.)  This protest is about trying to make America a better place for EVERYONE who lives here.

Don't worry.  If I'm sitting next to you at an event this weekend, I will stand up and put my hand over my heart when the band plays the national anthem.  That is my choice, not my duty.

The soldiers who fought and died did so in defense of the values of the United States.  One of the greatest values of this country is freedom of expression.  It is one of the core principles of a free society.  Unfortunately, people seem to be forgetting that principle a lot these days.

Players in the NFL have the right to kneel during the playing of the national anthem.  Just like Donald Trump had the right to avoid being drafted--FIVE TIMES--and he's President of the United States.  I would argue that the players who take a knee are being more patriotic than Donald Trump has ever been.  They really are trying to make America great.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for the First Amendment.  Read it while you still can.


Sunday, April 3, 2016

April 3: Snowing All Day, My Choice, Classic Saint Marty

It has been freakin' snowing all day long.  From sunrise to sunset.  About six to eight fresh inches.  I have shoveled two or three times since last night.  I am tired and sore.  And tomorrow morning, another work week begins.  A long, tiring week.

But I'm not complaining.  That's my life.  I choose to live in the Upper Peninsula, and there's lots of snow in the U. P.  I have two jobs.  I work a lot.  I never get to bed much before 11 p.m. or later.  That's my choice, too.  I worked about six or seven hours this afternoon, grading quizzes and tests, creating lesson plans.  My choice.  I love teaching.  My choice.

That doesn't change the fact that I am exhausted.  And the fact that, five years ago, it was snowing, too:

April 3, 2011:  Paying Bills, Psalm 26, More Snow

I think this psalm pretty much speaks for itself today.  I don't have a lot of time to type this evening.  I have bills to pay, a baby to bathe, papers to grade.  Just read the poem.  You'll understand.  I'm feeling a little overburdened today, have been since this morning.  I didn't accomplish half the stuff I wanted to accomplish this weekend.  As always.  And it's snowing again.  A lot.  I'm ready for spring, summer.  I'm ready for this semester to be over.

Saint Marty is feeling stressed.  Really stressed.  He's trying to find his happy place.  He really is.

Psalm 26:  Take My Burdens

Take my burdens, Lord.
Take my mortgage payment, water bill.
Car insurance due two days ago.
You can pay it online.  I'm sure
You have WiFi.  Take the essays
I have to grade.  They're about Dante's
The Inferno.  You probably have more
Insight than I about hell, anyway.
Just watch for comma splices, plagiarism.
My attic needs to be emptied out, Lord.
Old clothes, toys to Vincent de Paul,
The store not the saint.  Let's talk about
Painting my kitchen, too.  Strip wallpaper,
Tear out wood panelling.  You may have
To drywall a little.  I'd prefer a color
That reminds me of summer, light green,
Oak and maple leaves at dawn.
You know the shade.  I trust You.
Take my burdens, Lord.
If You could drive tomorrow morning
That would be great.  Snow's coming, patches
Of black ice, snow plows and sanders
In pitch dark.  Your eyes are better,
Plus You can keep deer out of our way.
Or You could just hold off on snow,
Take those clouds, overstuffed
Laundry bags, send them to cleaners
In a different place, New York or Ontario,
Bermuda or Cuba, if it wouldn't screw up
Things too much, global warming, ozone
Depletion, all that.  You know what's best.
Take my burdens, Lord.
I suppose I should say something
About Afghanistan, Libya, Iraq, ask
For peace in the world, people of all
Colors and religions to exist together
In harmony, really close harmony.
Peter, Paul, and Mary, Kingston Trio
Harmony, where you can't tell one voice
From the other, like some Tibetan monks
Can vibrate their vocal chords, create
Two voices in their throats at the same time.
Take all my burdens, Lord.
I'll leave them piled on my front step, the way
My grandmother left milk bottles
On her stoop in the old days
For the milkman she never saw. 
Take my burdens, milkman