November 12: Light and Hope, Classic Saint Marty, "White Noise"

A lot of ink and air has been spilled this week over the fact that it is the one year anniversary of the election of the 45th President of the United States.  It hardly seems possible that it has already been 365 days since my country went off its rocker.

I know that I sometimes climb on soapboxes when I broach this topic.  Not doing that tonight.  I'm too tired, and, as I approach the Christmas season, I would like to embrace light and hope instead of darkness and hatred, because I still believe that light and hope will win.  I have to.

So, my Christmas decorations are up.  Tonight, I may watch A Charlie Brown Christmas with my son, to get in the mood.  There are still people out there--a lot of them--who welcome the poor and homeless, who don't care what color your skin is or who you love, who embrace peace and love.

I believe this with all my heart.

A year ago, it was a little harder . . .

November 12, 2016:  A Tailless Sparrow, Nicks and Bumps, Healing

Nature seems to catch you by the tail.  I think of all the butterflies I have seen whose torn hind wings bore the jagged marks of birds' bills.  There were four or five tiger swallowtails missing one of their tails, and a fritillary missing two thirds of a hind wing.  The birds, too, who make up the bulk of my list, always seem to have been snatched at from behind, except for the killdeer I saw just yesterday, who was missing all of its toes; its slender shank ended in a smooth, gray knob.  Once I saw a swallowtailed sparrow, who on second look proved to be a sparrow from whose tail the central wedge of feathers had been torn.  I've seen a completely tailless sparrow, a tailless robin, and a tailless grackle.  Then my private list ends with one bob-tailed and one tailless squirrel, and a muskrat kit whose tail bore a sizeable nick near the spine.

Dillard spends a whole chapter of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek discussing this aspect of Nature.  Chomped and be chomped.  Eat and be eaten.  That's the way things work.  Even human beings are not immune to this design.  Dillard lists all kinds of creatures that snack on people, from insects to worms.  It's not a pretty picture.

Me?  I have a few nicks and bumps.  You don't get to be my age without such souvenirs.  On either side of my right knee, I have two caterpillar-shaped scars.  When I was a kid, I had an operation on my leg because my right leg is longer than my left.  On the back of my neck, I have a dent from where a cyst was removed a few years ago.  I am the proud owner of an appendix scar as well. 

All of these things are my trophies of living on this planet as long as I have.  I have been chomped, cut, bit, and stomped.  As a parent, I've been peed and pooped on.  My son has been throwing up all morning long.  Sometimes he hits the bucket.  Sometimes he doesn't.  He has not hit me.  Yet. 

We all have to take our personal and collective hits.  All experience heartbreaks and joys.  Disappointments and triumphs.  This week, some people in the United States have been incredibly jubilant.  Other people have been angry and depressed.  There will be healing, eventually.  But there's going to be a whole lot of tailless robins and sparrows in the streets of America after things calm down.

I am trying to move on.  Regain some perspective.  I cannot share in the beliefs that shaped the outcome of last Tuesday night.  They don't represent who I am.  I can't embrace a movement that is founded on bigotry and hatred.  I believe in love and charity and acceptance.  That's what being a Christian is all about.

Saint Marty gives thanks for the scars on his leg and neck.  His nicks and bumps.  They are reminders that healing happens.  Slowly. 

And a poem for this evening about seeing truth in the storm . . .

White Noise

by:  Martin Achatz

It’s always in my ears

            Thrush and blue jay in the forest

Fills the air

            Indistinct as grains of sand

The way winter afternoon fills

            Radio.  Handel?  Zeppelin?  Kanye?

In the palm of a storm

            Horn and siren, freight truck

With fat, silencing flakes

            Voice, sharp as January

I absent it, let it quilt my day

            Shit man, shit call me

Until all I hear through its

            Phone, insistent as labor pains

Silence is what I choose

            News of Libya and Iraq and Pakistan

To hear.  White

            A new planet, expanding.  White

Bread baking in my oven

            Fist of hurricane tearing up the Milky Way

June 16: Soapboxes, Judgment Day, New Poem

I do have a new poem today.  It was inspired by a lot of recent news stories and experiences in my life.  Basically, I'm tired of Chicken Littles, people who run around screaming "The sky if falling!" all the time.  I have several individuals like that in my life, and it becomes a little tiresome at times.  (I can also be a Chicken Little, but I try not to feed into the frenzy most of the time.)

The sky is falling!!!

Of course, just last month, there was a preacher who claimed the day of rapture was going to be May 21.  Everybody was waiting for Jesus to make His appearance, and it didn't happen.  The preacher, after a day or so of complete disappointment that he was still alive, announced that he'd made an error in addition.  He probably forgot to carry the 8 or something.  Any way, the actual day of rapture, according to Reverend Chicken Little, is going to be December 21, so get ready.  At least that saves everyone a lot of money.  We don't have to worry about buying Christmas presents this year.

There is the whole contingent of the world's population who believe that the world's going to end in the year 2012.  I guess there's something Biblical about the year or the number or something.  I don't really pay that much attention to such things.  I will confess to stockpiling some water and money for Y2K, but, of course, nothing came of that whole scare. 

I know I can worry a little too much.  Some of my friends may even say that I'm a little negative at times.  However, I don't go out of my way to seek out things to worry about.  Worries come naturally enough without me having to fabricate them.  I just try to be happy for what I have right now and hope that I still have it tomorrow.  Doomsday will come soon enough.  I'm going to try not to rush it.

That's what today's poem is about.  I dedicate it to all the Chicken Littles in my life.

Saint Marty, keepin' it real.

Judgment Day

I’m tired of people on soapboxes

Who stand in the middle

Of college quads, busy intersections,

Preach the world will come

To an end tomorrow, Jesus will rip

The Sky in two at noon, ride

In on a Harley, His pack

Of Heaven’s Angels tear up

The clouds behind Him with their hogs,

The day of rapture shattered

By motorcycle thunder, leather jackets.

I’m tired of people who whisper

In offices about budget cuts,

Pink slips, whip coworkers

Into meringues of worry

Until they can’t sleep, sit up

All night, spoon lemon pie

Into their mouths, cry

Over its sour bite on their tongues.

I’m tired of people telling me

My two-year-old should speak

In ten-word sentences

Instead of point at garbage trucks,

Bulldozers, say beep-beep and smile.

I’m tired of self-helpers,

12-steppers, magic-eight-ballers,

Thought-of-the-dayers, New Agers

Who meditate and yoga, go vegan,

Go organic, detox and cleanse,

Chant mantras like, “The only sure thing

In life is change.”  I’m tired

Of all those people who have

Their bombshelters stocked,

Their swimsuits packed for the next

Great Flood.  Judgment Day won’t be

Like fireworks over Cinderella’s castle.

It will be like this morning,

When I woke up, couldn’t find

My car keys or debit card,

When the light in the bathroom

Burned out.  It will be the day

When all my boxers are in the dirty laundry.

I hope he's wearing clean underwear!