Idyllic times were they?
Of caring for the rule of law,
Times of regard for one another?
Of a homogeneous society,
Times when people believed like you?
A lie, this past
When happy homemakers
Loved their Amanas,
Joined the PTA,
Happily ironed shirts;
Baked goodies for the neighbors.
A Madison Avenue mirage
Staring Betty Furness.
This post war boom
Paid for with the
Lives of countless millions
And a reckless belief
In our own superiority.
We have much to learn
You and I.
A great clanging
And clamorous
In no known key
Disorganized
Discombobulated
Noise from Neanderthals
Untrained
Yet unabashed.
Willing to perform
On any occasion
Thinking little
But gaining attention
Then
Preening
As though
Maestros
Of this
Their conflagration
Fright, hesitation of the mind,
Consternation
There is so much
We know about what we
Don’t know.
There is little
Satisfaction for the mind.
Unless it is made up.
Science reveals
We congeal
Befog with silliness.
We would take from books
Thousands of years old
Written exclusively by men
Who knew a lot about goats.
And precious little else.
Who believed in witches
And golems
And stoning.
Let us lie to one another
For it is not a lie if believed.
Once lies are accepted
Or unchallenged
Or simply a way of life
We deserve
To be boggled
Connected they are
To the throbbings
The echoes
Of the earth
Secret knowledge
Of their souls
Delights
Men know of power
Of drubbings
Of romantic vistas
Men seek greatness
The chase
The hunt
While women
Deal with calamity
Men seek confrontation
Women want serenity
Quietude
A parsing of their dreams.
Men want to build dreams
Kingdoms of ego
Men want to know how
Women, why
We need
More women
Building our future
From shallow beginnings
He struts the stage
The rhetoric
That of the carnival barker.
An entourage of sycophants
And spin-meisters,
A family
From the murky depths
Of a muddy rut.
Clinging to anecdotal
Knowledge
Of the authors of dystopia.
Assured of their knowledge
Gained from wealth and privilege.
Here truth is as
Elusive as the memory
Of last weeks
TV show.
Who dare question
This paragon,
This man of self proclaimed
Brilliance?
A bully and a coward
To boot.
A “frat boy” who
Never grew up.
He yet sees hazing
As a tool to build loyalty.
Reflective study,
Science are
Not to be trusted.
These tools
Of the truly knowledgeable
Too often defame
The self proclaimed.
A cavil collection this
Loyal to their creed of greed
And the dismantling of a government
Beyond their ken.
We sulk
Over hurts
Real and imagined
Is the pout
A plea for sympathy?
Gimme a hug
Then
Make it all better.
Please love me
I’ve been violated
Trod upon
Disrespected
Loyalties abused.
No pats upon the head
Not enough
Veneration is needed
Show me
Really, truly care.
Then
You may have
Anything you ask.
Whence cometh evil?
When good is
Out of practice
When we decry
The beliefs
Of others
When we cease
Empathy, compassion
It flourishes in their absence
When we see good
In only us
In our beliefs
Fear,
The handmaiden of evil
O’erwhelms the mind.
Evil oozes
Envelopes
Mortifies the soul
Lepers are we
Innocent yet consumed
Conspiracy is everywhere
And we nowhere.
Teasing, as old as
Upright peoples perhaps
Before we knew
What it was
We were involved
In banter.
Sometimes
We call it free speech.
Often an excuse for
Exclusion or dehumanizing
Others who are
Somehow different.
Quickly it becomes
A cloak for venom, spite
A subterfuge
For the small minded
Whose egos
Need propping.
“Only kidding”
Exposes
The shallowness
Of bullies
Rascals and ruffians
If done with love
There be no hurt.
“First, do no harm”
And if harm
We must
Let us do it with love
And all the knowledge
We can muster.
Each day we slough off
Our sleep
Our brush with Morpheus
To face the day.
We may well have a plan
A destination
A route.
Regardless we know
Not what fate
Will bring
Challenges we may face
Dire or delightful
Consequences.
Our pasts may
O’er take us
Our bright futures
Gone suddenly murky.
This is the parade
Take it for what
You will,
Think ticker tape
And balloons
See serenity in the storm
Calm in contention.
It is gloom
That brings doom.
May your journey
Get you
Wherever you might
Be going
Though there be only
One final destination.
Ah, to float
To drift
Atop the liquids
Of our dreams
Carefree
Consoled
Coddled
And unaware.
It is always
There for us
A human virtue
This bobbing
Above the shoals,
The imminent reefs
Of care and woe.
Ever in our imaginings.
Always carry a raft
Even if ‘tis only
In your mind.
More importantly perhaps,
Who would we like to be?
That discovery begins
With a formula for success.
Let us consider
The Golden Rule.
It requires civility
It requires an understanding
Of who we are as human beings
And
An appreciation of our weaknesses
As well as our strengths
Of
Ourselves and our neighbors.
It means we are all culpable.
We must build
On what we know.
Knowledge gives us power
To perform at our best.
It means we see the sciences
As a cornerstone of our future.
It means that health care
And education are a right.
Else how are we to survive
As a society?
We must acknowledge the
Value of our curiosity,
Our determination
And our thirst for discovery.
“The pursuit of happiness.”
It requires us to share
In the fruits of our bounty
As well as our sorrows.
It requires empathy,
Tough love,
Forgiveness
And above all
Humility.
Been there
Lived it
Beijing
Tienamen Square
In the army of the
Great Kublai Kahn
The drums echo still.
Rome
In the fetid alleyways
Where I plied my trade
As an assassin
For the Borgias;
The aromas linger.
New Orleans
In the “Quarter”
I sold my
Ladies of the night
To the sound of Jazz.
Here I met Betty
A club singer
And wife in this life.
Or perhaps it’s just my
Fevered imagination.
Fighting all my life
To reach the fullness
Of myself.
In the end
An oxymoron.
Potential is pregnant
With possibilities
Never realized.
If it were it would
Be something else,
Perfection perhaps.
As am not
Anywhere near
An idealization.
This aim,
Full potential
Is ever in
The weeds
Of my existence.
A curse
In Never Never Land.
A bitterness
An indignation
Has us in its thrall
Us against them
Racial, social
Animus
Fear and loathing
Partisanship as a test
Of moral fiber.
We are at the
Bottom of the barrel
Of human emotion.
Perhaps only
Self destruction is next.
We are all one
One and the same.
Out of Africa
We’ve mated
With most everything
On two legs.
Our DNA is a mirror
Of our neighbors’.
Must now we
Settle for the cheap
The ugly?
The intransigence
Of smallness
This is fuel for
The demagogues
The fanatics.
There is hope
That we will become
Tired of being
Sick and Tired.
Though
The wake up call
Will be ugly.
They are gone
All the yesterdays
Swept away
With the turning
Of the globe
Whisked into
The space of memory.
Some would ponder
The past
Rethink and retool
It to our own
Ism
Our tribal tout.
But that will not
Do.
We may add
To our knowledge
To learn more
About ourselves;
Our possible future.
To change it for other
Benefits
To twist and turn
The perceived outcomes
Sullies all our thought.
As entertainment
It may be a lark
As serious thought
It carries viral
Vanity,
A process of small
Worth
For our own
Aggrandizement.
O ye fates
Why do you treat me so?
The future
Seems right,
Bright.
What signs of my fate
Do you give me?
Naught but
Slo, Road Under Repair
Or
Detour Ahead
Is that what my
Life shall be?
Am I but a pinball
On this path?
Yes
It shall ever be thus;
Complaints are for
Those truly without.
Perhaps these detours
Shall be worthy of
Of my best effort
With blindness a virtue.
Capable of germinating
Or working – a good plan
I am neither
There is no financial
Independence here;
Little lucre of any sort.
I must toil
To survive.
No complaints
No recriminations
Just not viable
As a partner
For I do not bring
That to the relationship.
Were it not for
My life as a caregiver
I would be homeless.
There is naught
To be done.
I am poor,
Though
There is wealth
Of other sorts here:
Lodes of creativity,
Curiosity
Empathy;
A deep regard
For my fellow man.
There is passion
And Poetry;
A willingness
To communicate.
Also, I am
Cleanly and Kind,
Just not viable.
Mine eye sees
Power and strength in me.
In confrontations both
Physical
And mental
A wizard of prowess.
Ever a victor;
At the very least
I prevail.
Alas, not true.
Though I adore
The minting
In my rosy pictured mind.
In most cases
I am a coward
Fleeing from confrontation.
The coinage of my
Presses is fool’s gold.
I swagger in peace
And cower in war.
From time to time
There is truth
In my bravery;
In my willingness
To confront.
Though I can not
Count on them
These few moments
So I dream instead
And mint my majesty.
The earth rotates
As it spins about the sun.
Rotation creates gravity.
There will soon be
Eight billion of us
Upon this globe
Many of us clinging
To the self same spot.
Who deserves our concern?
Some, none?
What is the definition
Of deserving?
Should we endeavor to help
Curb the birth rates
So there is enough space
And food for the rest of us?
Despite the falling crime
And murder rates
Many of us see Malice
And Menace
All around.
There is fear of “the other”
Folks who are different.
Does that make them a threat?
Let us hearken back
50,000 years
When we relied
Entirely on our senses
And the lore of the tribe
For our knowledge.
Nature simply was
What we perceived
That day.
Any day.
Knowledge is a terrible
Burden,
A responsibility;
It must be borne
If we are to survive.
Though it is
The third definition
In the dictionary
“Small mindedness”
Is something
To abhor
In others.
When it
Raises its
Bleakness in me
I am chagrined,
Mystified.
There it is
Just when
I thought
So highly of myself;
Placing my thoughts
On a pedestal.
Brought low
In the smallness
Of self.
An act of humility
Selflessness
Giving for the pleasure
Of giving
Beyond self
For the greater
Good.
Controlled passion
For the sake
Of the journey.
Exploration
And discovery;
Pathways
To potential,
Loss of me
For the sake of
Us.
Seeking the best
In one another
So that we may
Bask
In the beauty
Uncovered.
Our short existence
May be but a part
A momentary
Stop along the way
There is no
Real control;
The fates decree.
Though we have
The ability
To make this journey
Better
To fashion
Rewards from
Chaos.
We have thought.
A powerful tool
At our disposal.
Embrace your journey
Regardless.
Suffering
Is ever eminent
No one escapes.
We must not
Live for our fears,
Nor capitulate
Our future.
If we are anything
We are explorers
Of our own minds,
Of our space,
Of the greater
Space around us.
We have great
Imaginings.
We can conjure;
We can cajole.
We belong
To ourselves and each other.
Live this life
As if there were
No other.
There is little quiet
21st century life
Is all
Hustle, bustle and speed
We are enveloped.
Why then do
So many seem alone?
Suffering
As though
The quiet
Of the inside
A bane, an open wound.
We suffer
Travails faced
Exposed in our
Sanctum of self.
It is a jail
Where mind dithers;
Imaginings flout
The senses.
It is the fountains
Of our relationships
That succor self.
Rivulets of caring
One for another.
If we are to face
The din of destiny
We must hold hands.
Over the top
Under the sway
Attached to ism’s
My way
Or the highway
An unbearable
Rightness.
They are not bloodless
But engorged
With rectitude
That bleeds
Rivers of righteousness
On others
And themselves.
Practical solutions
Compromise
Are lost
In the dialogue.
The battle of words
Is but a prelude
To their
Inevitable triumph.
Verbose, long and windy
Becomes a way to
Obfuscate, blur;
Then we
Forget the question
Or the premise.
Is concise dead?
Where was I?
Here before
Was I
On the verge
Of knowing
Then the flood began,
Avalanches of words.
Truth at bay
Facts on a stack;
An aroma of falseness,
Yet
Somewhere
In that pile
Is a pony.
A dislike of humans
Human nature,
Misanthropy,
A characteristic of
Many who lead
Today.
“Leadership”
In business
And government
Doesn’t seem to like
Or trust
So many of us.
They don’t even like
Or trust each other.
Then
How do they
Deal with
Each other?
Not well
It seems.
Grief never dies.
Losses of loved ones,
Scar tissue on the heart
The passage of time
Like the waning
Of the moon
May seem to quell
The pain
Yet
It is ever there
To be burnished by
The inevitable losses
Life brings
To us all
It must be embraced
For it is part of us
Ever
There are balms,
Ointments
And Unguents
That may be applied
New loves;
A rebirth of happiness
Relations that flourish
And quench the thirst
For grief.
Yet
It is ever there
And may flood
Our souls
With remembrances
Thought dissipated.
Shed a tear
Gnash the teeth
Then move on
With a new caress.
It is perhaps
A small thing
That first lie.
Those involved
Felt better;
Even if it only ourselves.
It made sense,
Or it brought peace
Or happiness.
Though
In order to keep
The first lie
We must create
A second,
Then a third.
Soon there is a structure
Even a monument
Built entirely of falsehoods.
A temple of untruth.
It takes all our will
To tear it down
And begin again.
Once upon a time
There was a lot of
Work.
Folks were busy
Now, not so much
It takes so little
Toil to provide
The things we like.
Technology creates
Fewer jobs.
Not a bad thing
Consider leisure,
Opportunity to create,
Time to play.
Unless we strive
To beat the Joneses.
Then it takes all our days.
Is this fulfilling?
Let the Jones folks
Have all they want.
Maybe less is better.
We are built for crossing
Into the great unknown.
We’ve populated
The vast expanses
Of our blue orb.
Yet
Do we know how
To deal one with another?
Crossing into another’s life
Is a great responsibility.
It need not be done solemnly,
Nor to the sound of the dirge,
Nor a Souza march.
We must learn to play
Their tune.
In good faith we must cross
For together we
Are better than one.
And if needs be
Learn to play the tuba.
Though it may be
Heavy
The rewards are there.
The orb of the seer
Visioning the future
Snaring curiosity
In its sphere.
Or is it
The old Eight Ball
The one
Foretelling events?
The crystal is clear
The eight ball succinct
In which should we trust?
Ah, you say
They both offer
Half truths
Which we ply
To our own ends.
All future is fiction
Dear friends.
A full moon
Pulls on the Psyche
Grasping at weak links
Bending a reality
Here and there
Of the unaware.
It brings a mist
Distorting but slightly
Yet enough
To fog and flutter.
It troubles me
Though I know
Its sway will pass.
Let me know
A truth or two;
Give me respite
That I may
Rest in peace.
Then
What shall I find?
The vindication for fear
Of loss
Of others not understood
Of the unknown
Of change –
Cultural, social and demographic.
It is practiced by people
Of all colors
Races and religions.
It is both knee jerk
And strategic.
It taints modern
Rhetoric;
An answer in itself.
It is a dead end
Literally;
A temporary balm
Of the beguiled.
Like revenge
“Best served cold”.
History is never kind
To the malicious.
In the misty
Mystic past
There were dragons
Breathing fire
Flying o’er head
Beating their
Huge wings
With menace aforethought.
Taking what and whenever
They pleased.
E’en now
There are dragons
Though
They fly not
Nor breathe fire
But have
Menace aplenty.
They want without
Caring
Or sharing
They preen
And prance
Collecting the loot
Of their daring.
They care not
For truth
Nor fact of any kind
Creating their
Own mystic space.
They can not
Be understood
Nor is there
A plan to deal
With them.
They are dragons
You see
With their
Own rules
And place
Among the gods.
The hillsides
Resplendent in
Pungent greens
Echo a Pollock Painting
Splattered with
The rich yellows and Gold
Of the poppies
The mustards grown tall
Amid dapples of
Wild lilac.
Even the sage is resplendent
Now seeming purple
In the mid day sun.
All is in bloom
Awakened by
The fervent rains.
Are we done yet?
All will wilt in the heat
Of summer
Then
There will be winds of fire
That we may bloom again.
When did it happen?
The change.
One day it was
A mission to exist
Then a person
Consumed.
My time is short
No doubt
Many, Many
Moons ago
I was to live forever.
Time enough
For everything.
Mistakes and miss-steps
So what.
Then hiatus
Outside myself
Dedicated
Devoured.
A mission for another.
Now passions rediscovered
A value in my work
No longer healing
And marking time.
Things are happening
Through and to me.
Something is coming
Many new events
For which I am a cause
A carrier
A messenger
A participant
My time is short
Forgive the Rush
No time to waste
My moon is in
Its final phase
My Howard Roark
In a time
Of the petty and the pious.
That is how
I see Larry.
I have always admired
His constancy to
To his guiding principles.
A man of the West,
Independent in action
And thought.
Yet a man of
Humor with
A generous nature.
No, not a conundrum
But a person of grand scale.
A relentless thinker
And doer.
Though we may
Disagree, we are
Never disagreeable.
We think we know.
There is a common purpose
To most of our technology.
We assume
Then
That we know it.
As in understand
How it works.
Few of us
Can explain
How anything
Actually works.
We are all ignorant
Of most everything
Relying rather
On the community brain;
Its the diverse specialists
Our hubris
Requires certainty
Of things we know not.
Sometimes groups
Don’t help
As they rely on the same
Assumptions that they
Truly know
Groupthink
Amassed is a
Pile of anecdotal knowledge
Claimed to be fact-based
While a myth.
We are all ignorant
Believe that first.
She is gone
Dear, sweet Ruthie
Wife and mother
Of uncommonly
Sweet disposition
An innocent in a
Time of the garrulous.
A fighter for
Her children.
True to her
Commitments;
A creature of
Sunny days
And righteousness.
Terrible was her battle
With the evil of cancer.
She seldom waivered
In her resolve
To defeat the menace,
A farewell to
This lovely lady
A guide, a trooper
A lover
It comes upon me
A vicious surprise
Drear and darkness
A small torture
In a world of ease
And delights
Too many?
Yes, I am
Spoiled;
A flabby mind
Gone soft in pleasure.
An Embarrassment of riches
Yet I am
Momentarily disabled.
Seized in a funk
A losing Streak
A nadir
A country western song
Of loss
With no end.
In the canon of Gods
Little is known of
The great god
Poopi Loopi
His origins in lore
Are dim
Perhaps Hawaii
Was his home
Or New Hampshire
Just speculation,
Now he is about
Gaining Power
As he sews
His trademarks
Fear
Distrust
Loathing of “others”
Poopi, or just plain
Loopi
As some call him
Is a scamp
And thin skinned
Harboring ill will
Toward any who would
Question his god like
Power and panache
He often appears
Among the lower vertebrates
As a Man of great flash
But little depth
He knows little
Other than his
Own scampiness.
He seldom reads
Or learns
As if it would detract
From his powers
His many
Self confessed charms.
There is little doubt
Poopi Loopi
Loves himself above
All other Gods.
Placards and Posters
Abound
Marking roads,
Routes and points of view.
Visions
Come to holy folk
Mystics
Hindus and Hopis
Believers of every stripe.
So
Powers that be
Why not me?
Let me see
Some divine wisdom
Or
Clues perhaps
Smidgens to be read
Of coming events.
Why treat me thus?
Groping here in the dark
Among the knowing.
Turned the soil
Planted thoughts
Yet there is no growth.
No, not true
There are weeds aplenty
Where new growth
Should be,
Crops good for the body
Now
Dandelions fostering
Remembrances of failures
Errors
A milk weed mind
Generating no good news.
A yearning to create
Other than the past
The mind bends not
To the will.
Fear and impotence
Prevail
Doubt lingers.
Rain down upon my
Dust bowl
Give me rivulets of power
And prose
That I might promise
A brighter tomorrow.
Hugs beget hugs
Though
They must start
With you.
One is the promise
Of more to come.
Hugs engender trust
A promise of friendship,
Kinship even.
They speed up the heart;
The blood flows
With the promise of
Fulfillment.
A grasping of bonds
This hug
Building hope
A melding of
Heart beats
Enriching me and you
As us is formed..
There is light now;
Just enough
To show the way.
Who, if not I, is the
Arbiter of our relationship?
Who, if not I, is the
One to dare an intimacy?
Who, if not I, is the
Willing partner?
Man, woman, child
May destruct the
Two or three of us,
Or more.
Willfullness begets
The same.
An unthinking
Maybe over thought act,
Remark
Damaging trust.
Building a friendship,
Any relationship of intimacy
Requires dedication
And a willingness
To trust.
It is the moments
Of clarity
Of out of self
Or more than self
We crave.
Insights of ourselves
Of togetherness
That brings the
“We” of us into
Sharp focus.
Small steps compounded.
Give me your hand
That I may enhance it
For us.
Nearly upon us
A day we now celebrate
As sons and lovers
Of all kinds, ilks and sorts
With
Special intimacies
Caring caresses
Cards and Candies
Flowers, stuffed animals
Doodads and hearts galore.
Give thanks for the
Many brave women
And lovers we’ve known.
They, in so many ways
Are the voice
Of the future
Saviors of “mankind”.
Powerful redeemers
Of truth and justice;
Leaders with a
Consistent moral compass.
Lovers with a touch
That cures
That enables
Soothing caresses
Fiber that withstands;
Instincts for the
Benefit of all.
Be my Valentine
All you lovely Ladies
I have known
You are,
Each and every one
Devoutly to be adored.
Special
Favored
Loved.
We see our brains
As highly developed
Digital masterpieces
Receptors keen
For ever more waves
Beamed from chosen
Universes of our desires.
But what if
Our gray matter
Is more the 30’s type,
A vacuum tubed beauty
(Burnished walnut no doubt)
Unable to maintain a
Constant Signal
Where minute changes
Of the dial
Deliver us to
Alternate realms
Universes divergent
In subtle ways
And more
Where evil lurks;
The lurid and the low
Are we to be trapped?
Are we able to gain control?
Stay tuned,
Or not.
It happened
Or nearly so;
We knew nothing
About it.
A hidden message
In the depths
Of our depths
A good excuse
Perhaps
“It must have been subliminal”
We are often zombies
Putty in the realm
Of the subliminal.
Small children
And even adults
Are unable to defy
These under the cover
Messages
Unaware of their effect
But receptive
Nevertheless.
A little narssicism helps
Feed the biases
Changed, re-shaped
O’er molded
A new paradigm.
A new lesson learned
Changing the course
Of a life.
Fate bender
That be it.
It requires activity
In the mind
That spurs us.
It is not mind over matter
But mind congealed
With matter
Creating new animated atoms
A Yogi on one
Foot all day
Is just a one footed yogi
Be a yogi
Concentrated on
Directing traffic.
Fate is now bent
A time to live up to
Potential
Or become a better
Person
Or develop muscles
Better Pecs
Or finally complete
My to-do list
(The one begun in 1979)
Or?
Accept imperfections
Beginning with self.
Go ahead
Admit your faults,
Or shortcomings
Or flaws
Stand up to you
For you.
Now forgive yourself
And move on.
The oft challenged Yeti
The ogre of the Himalayas
Was abominable.
Naughty in the extreme
Though at what
Exactly?
Maybe they were was just
Lonely.
Why all male Yetis?
Though who would
Know?
All that hair and
Snow.
We just presume
Boys with a bad attitude.
Unfair to men?
Sexist in the extreme.
Really?
After all it’s the female
Lion
That is the true hunter;
Cruel beast.
You go Yeti girl.
My name is Janice. I am 12, nearly 13. It may not seem like much to you but I like to think I’m pretty grown up. No more Mrs. “Ratchit” the baby sitter. I’m in charge of my own self. At least till Dad comes home.
My dad is Edward. We live on Maple St just off 63rd. He delivers bread. He likes the smells.
It’s not a bad street. Dad says a neighborhood is what you make it. Don’t know if it’s true or not, but I like to pretend my dad’s sayings are like gold, or precious stones. Rubies maybe. He’s not always right, but he wants to be. He’s nearly perfect.
I’m right now in my room which I share with my favorite doll, Essie. She’s sorta frayed. But I love her still. She listens and agrees with everything I say. Never talks back. Essie is kinda dark, like me. Her hair is a bit frizzed, like mine. Though dad is white, I’m still a black person. Mom was real dark, an Ethiopian princess, says dad. Ethiopia, that’s in Africa near the top.
Dad just got me a big world map for my room. He says it’s time I got some pers…pective It’s like now I have a world view. Germany is soo small. Do they know?
I see Iran on the map. That’s where my best friends’ family is from. Her name is Naldi, He skin is kinda like mine, but creamier. Her eyes are big and brown. They’re like ….those dials on old time radios. Yeah, the girl is always trying to tune in.
She just started wearing her head scarf, the hijab, she says it’s because she will soon be a woman. So will I then. She says in the old days girls were of marrying age when they were 13. Yuch! Can you imagine?
Mom
I was very young when mom died. I don’t remember her much. Though I can still smell her…..aroma? It was……a scent all her own, with a bit of cinnamon. I remember her lap so warm and soft. The safest place in the world. When things are bad…..like with the lying Mrs. Ratchit I think of myself there, safe and in a land of truth….that would be Mom’s arms cuddled on her lap and the smell of her. Better than aspirin. Better than warm milk with cocoa. She had no family. She was a refugee. So I have no aunts and uncles or grandparents to spoil me. Dad says I’m better for it. What else is he gonna say?
Now Dad, he’s got a boat load of relatives. I’ve met many. Though to most I’m like a surprise. They warm up after awhile. But it’s too late. I know I’m odd. Are they trying to pretend I’m white? A few of my cousins are not bad. It’s just that they are on the other side of dumb.
Grandmother dotes (?) on me when we’re alone but not in public. I think she would feel more comfortable if I were on a leash. Grandpop says there was another black in the family way back when…….but why? They are no good to me now. I wonder, would they feel better If I wore a sign, “Ed’s mistake”…questions answered. Watch out folks, here comes the error.
What is the word? Mystified! That’s it. They were all mystified by mom. She was better looking. A goddess. I think they were afraid of her. Everyone looks kinda funny when they talk about her. Grandmother and Grandpop are sorta ugly. Not a nice thing to say? Truth hurts. The folks have got some serious warts and spots. But I love them anyway, I guess.
Some day I will look like mom and I will be a queen from a far a- way land……..and get rid of the leash. I will be superior, but nice. And treat them as I do all my subjects. Haha.
I have a few pictures of mom. They are in a special place that only Naldi knows. Well maybe Dad. I take them out and study them, then I look at myself in the mirror. I try to see the princess in me. Not this gangly, skinny half-n-half.
I am all knees and elbows. And feet, they are huuuge. Skis more like.
“Doddi”, she would say, “that’s my name without the e”. So she became “No E” to the folks under the Torrant Street Bridge, our home away from home, so to speak. It was not really a place to call ‘home’ but it was out of the weather and protected from the prevailing winds. It’s where we slept most nights.
Since we could not be seen by John Q Public (unless they really tried), we were safe from police harassment. Some cops, not Gestapo by nature, would even bring by food and clothing.
The winter months could be brutal. Folks from the downtown mission would come by every Wednesday with hot food. Wednesdays were the best. Even these volunteers, though, learned to leave “No E” alone. She tolerated few people. She was always armed with a sharp knife and a sharper tongue which at a moments notice could be accompanied by the wail of all the banshees. The woman had a war cry to put all the Scots to shame.
Her dog, “Fido”, she said, “was actually short for Federico de Medici. That was fine until he urinated on your leg. You might say he was overly protective, or that he believed in preventive action. We dubbed him “Pisser”. No E didn’t like it, but it fit and so it stayed.
One day No E and Pisser were with a few of us waiting for “the jug man” to open his Liquor emporium, Earl’s Jug Store. He would often do “trades” for things we had found for a jug of his finest head banging swill. Filing behind No E were James the Coot who seldom drew a sober breath……unless there was no other choice and Mabel Norman, no, not the old silent movie star, but a guy we called Mabel because he hated the name. We were like that. I was also in the group but stayed well back. I’m inured to most things but the stench was……well, horrific. Pisser seemed to be in his element.
It seems Earl was a no show, but our door banging did bring the local beat cop, Lard Butt (our name for him and I’m guessing not his mother’s), running up behind us. “Hey now, what’s this kerfuffle?” “Get back, you!” Mabel, the Coot and I cowered in his wake, but Doddi continued her whacking on Earl’s door. And, Pisser, well, he turned on Lard Butt with a snarl.
Lard Butt was all tact as he kicked at the cur and yelled at Doddi, “Woman, if you are one, get back from that door before I run you in!” Surely, this was the wrong approach, for Doddi had worked up quite lather in her noisome quest for swill. She turned on Lard Butt in her highest dudgeon. “You loathsome creature,” she wailed, “be gone you vile thrall.” “I’m on an errand of mercy for me and these quavering relics of mankind. We require our nectar of the gods.”
Lard Butt brandished his baton, Pisser went mad and Doddi, with a great squeal leapt at the officer. The Coot was whining in fright, Mabel had scarpered down the alley and I pleaded with Doddi. “No E, please stop, let it go!”
And she did, for at that moment the baton struck he skull and she collapsed in a heap at Lard Butt’s feet. He then hit Pisser a mighty blow and the poor dog died then and there. Lard Butt kicked the poor dog’s body out of the way and bent over Doddi. He called for an ambulance on his body mike and told me to “Beat it, now!”
It was two days before we could find out what had happened to No E. It turns out she had family in town who had been notified of her condition, a terrible concussion. They kept her in the hospital for three days. She recovered somewhat. Then we heard the family took her to a sanitarium, probably to dry her out.
Months later (I think it was months for seasons had passed) I thought I saw her on Main Street with a dog that looked just like Pisser. I followed her until she turned suddenly, looked me in my good eye and said, “Is it you? Am I No E? Then please, take me with you.” And I did. A sweeter No E and Pisser II are with us to this day.
We have no choice
We must move on
To the next
Horizon.
Our world is in
Constant invention
All sciences affected
All related thoughts
In flux.
A tsunami that carries
Us all
Regardless of our understanding
Or a desire to stop
Go back
Slow down.
We must adapt
As we go,
Each day something new
Is required of us.
Listen, it says,
Else you will perish
Under the weight
Ofour accomplishments.
Arabic
‘you bury me’
As opposed to
I should live long
Enough to
Bury you.
My dear friends
I’ve no wish to bury
Any of you.
Take it from
The Arab in me,
I wish to go first.
I insist.
Ergo
You have long
(and prosperous)
Lives ahead of you.
For
I am not
Ready yet,
Nor wish to be.
Zounds
What a great word
Dated, of course,
Great nevertheless.
Like Egad, a ship
Long sailed
Into history.
Used by the Victorians
A mild expletive.
Spluttered by Gentlemen;
Never ladies.
I shall use both
As I am a gentleman,
A man of fortitude
A man of the past.
A man with a real crease
In his trousers
But not a monocle
Those are for fops
And Fakers.
These are the writings
Of Chase Nutley.
Had I been him
I’d have been
Brave and strong.
I don’t remember
Ever being
Brave
Or strong
For that matter.
Although my memories
Often morph into a more
Heroic figure of myself,
A blur of action
And fortitude.
Now writing as Chase
I can be the best of me
That never was.
Chill and Gloomy
In a word
Am I victimized
By the fates?
Does Mother Nature
Control my mood?
No
There is a sun lamp
In my mind.
Warm lights pervade
The abscesses
Of my frontal lobes.
Cold tile
Becomes a sandy beach
Chill wind
A warm surf foam
I shall swim
Naked in the sea.
Brrrrr.
The carousel of life
Plays the tune
Of our days
Each day we choose
Our ride.
Round and round
The same horse each day
The ride is the same
Round and round
The trip is the same.
Choose an alternate ride;
Oddly different this trip.
Round and round
To a different perspective.
Sameness lulls the mind.
Our carousel may be
A matter of fate
Our choices
Each day
Are not.
There needs to be a first step
A hash mark
A starting place
This is it.
From here we shall
Begin our journey
It has no apparent
Ending
Simply this beginning
The trip is uphill
But not always
There may be some
Coasting
Lollygagging
There will be dangers
Lessons learned
Storms
And gentle breezes.
Strange new people
Friends in abundance;
So there will be drama
Some laughs
But no taunting
No calling of names
Though teasing is allowed.
We will seek passion
Understanding
And even civility.
We will be kind
To the vulnerable
Generous with those
Who have less
There will be forgiveness
And a mea culpa
Or two.
As ever
We shall test our humanity.
If it exists
Perfection, that is,
It is beyond our knowing.
My excuse,
This
For my manifold malapropos
Like drug addled decisions
They ooze up
To the fevered surface
Of my fevered surface
And lay eggs
Of enormous
Stench.
They cannot be un-laid;
Covered with a tarp
Perhaps?
No, the odor gives them away.
Why, oh why did I
Do or say that?
In the waste land
Of their aftermath
The destruction is horrific.
With silly putty and Gorilla tape
I rush to aid the victims
Hoping against hope
For repair and even resurrection.
Restitution?
Yet I know
This is a nuclear winter,
Mine own Chernobyl.
The rains pour down
Upon us
Cleansing
Draining
We are reborn
In its aftermath
The air sweet
Soil budding anew
For a brief moment
We are free
Of the past
As though we are
No longer chained
To history
Our fears and foibles
Swept away
Until the morrow
When they return.
Embrace the moment
The perfume
Of the possible.
Hold it close
That you remember.
Relationships,
The IED’s of the human
Condition.
Yet we must
Attempt the journey
Even in the face
Of potential explosions
Else we be mulch
Dormant
Danger breeds fear
Of loss
Hence we covet
Our embracing’s
We take title
Pink slips of the mind
Garnered for protection
From theft
Failure to communicate
Or even lack of judgment.
Are these “pinks”
Signs of debts
One to another?
Our expectations?
How often have
We signed over
Title without
Measuring
Or even knowing
Consequences.
Did we not realize?
Let’s relinquish our titles
Or at least some of them.
Well, okay, one or two.
Bosco, the name given about 15 years
Ago to my SUV.
For a time we called it
The Argo as we, Tasha and I
Were on a voyage of discovery.
Bosco it still is.
Like me it’s got
A few dings and a
Worn but unfrayed interior.
Like me it’s got a lot
Of miles on the odometer
But is still very reliable.
Like me it is kept
Relatively cleaned
And well oiled.
And like me its
Get up and go
Has gone up and went.
To me it is still a beauty.
So I got her a very colorful
Steering wheel cover.
Merry Christmas Bosco.
Popular effrontery
A game anyone can play.
Must you be heard?
Do you have
Secret knowledge
Unknowable
except to you?
Must you swagger;
Is this your minute of fame?
Is your voice raised
In your particular truth?
Must your wisdom
Be shared
At the risk of
Squashing mine?
Does fake news
Brighten your day?
Is your tribe
So very special?
Does democracy
Belong to you?
Are we simply objects
For your display?
It is happening
A metamorphosis
A new becoming
What was
Still is
Yet transformed.
What will I be?
An ordinary moth
A Monarch butterfly
Or a totally new creature
As yet unknown?
The stirrings
The yearnings
Darkness of the pupae
Light, a purple dawn,
Just beyond.
Or
Is this my second sleep?
Am I fooled by slumber?
If real, this imagining
Do I have it in me?
Am I too old to fly?
Life’s little scars
Piled up in my brain
Forgotten, yet not
Everything is remembered
It is all in there.
Inanimate objects strike back
In a
Revenge of the mindless
Ekeing bits of pain;
Carelessness punished.
We’ve all had them
These memorials
To sloth of one kind or another.
Are they deserved?
What god’s choice?
Are they random
Reminders to pay attention?
Watch it!
We are adding up
Defining our judgments
Pushing our luck
Expressing our will
Making our points
Ever jostling
Ever wrestling
With ourselves
And our fellows.
Life for some
Is to maximize
To outdo, outduel
Others may seek to
Entertain,
If only themselves.
Regardless the calculations
Are ceaseless
Gluttons are we
For more of what we crave.
There is no real respite
In what we call serenity
Even the most
Oxygen bereft Tibetan
Can not cease
The calliope of calculation.
Only in our end
The ceaseless
Ceases.
Planned in secret
Hushed rooms
Internet servers in Kosovo
Yet, it seems
We all know
Or someone knows.
Countries and corporations
With grotesquely large ears
Awash in the noise.
Then why
Are we surprised
By events?
Ah
It is the sheer volume
That o’rwhelms us.
Could we but connect the dots
In the maze.
Then too
The chain of command
Leads to dark,
Bottomless holes
Where all is
Clandestine.
This is not fake news
Gremlins are all about us
Nearly seen them
Teeny Tiny foot prints
In the pile carpet
And their chatter
Incessant
Cacophonous.
Put your ear to the floor
Hold your breath
“Yammer, yammer, yammer.”
Could I but speak Gremlin
I would know their plans.
Things are missing
My keys from
Their allotted spot
One sock
Of each pair.
Finger nail clippers
Never where I put them.
Gremlins, give me peace!
People you are warned.
An ugly word
Stigmas attached
Sometimes failure to heal
Lasting maybe a lifetime
Even forever.
Yet history often reveals
It’s a team sport
Plenty to go around
More causes than we knew
Failures to forgive
Fingers pointing
So often ignorant of the facts
Maybe any facts
We can always round up
The usual suspects
Or the others,
The different ones
An obvious choice.
Yet, wariness is all
For blame is a
Two edged sword
Wielding, ugly, unknown wounds.
The proverbial petard.
A favorite movie
In which
The crippled and capsized
African Queen
Torpedoes the Louisa,
Queen of Lake Tanganyika
Metaphor perhaps?
Does this means our
Good deeds will come back
To save us
Or haunt us?
Perhaps, in the end
All we have
Are the clothes on our back
Like Rosie and Charlie Allnut?
Perhaps cataclysm
Of one sort or another
Is ever in our future.
Might as well
Be of good cheer
And learn to swim.
All of us carry
Dead weight,
Our past
Is chained to us
Now, in the present.
And but for brief moments
Are the shackles released.
Euphoric times
Of great buoyancy
As we freely
Swim our allotted course.
My bonds are rusty now
Leaving their marks upon me.
I am gouged
But not defeated
They will drag upon me
Yet I shall soar,
It is my delight;
I shall be Houdini
Ever escaping
Till I am claimed
And am no more.
Is it tears that make them so?
They shine those eyes
With a sparkle
That catches my breath.
They see into
And through me.
I am laid bare.
They promise a
Duvet of delight
A comfort forgotten
A stillness of spirit;
Timelessness
No tears shed
Could it be joy
They promise?
The languor of fearlessness
A lilting of the heart.
A life well lived
Involves risk
Often risk without reward
We must challenge ourselves
Else why be human?
Chances are inevitable
Waiting is often prudent
Waiting
Then there we sit
Eating ourselves up
Wishing for naught
Hoping to be saved
From our vigil
Of self.
Only the Zen master
Finds enlightenment
In the long wait
Seeking inward answers
That serve few, if any.
Ride the Ferris wheel
Hop a train
Knock on doors
Ride the waves
Write a story
Share it with others
Go naked for a day
You find out about self
By doing, stretching
Criticism is inevitable
There is no escaping it
Seek it out.
Fear is a great crippler
Sapping our strength.
Look before you leap
Then leap anyway.
Though you might consider a net.
Wham, slam
Away she goes!
As shot from a cannon
Gaining speed
Down the long hall
Will she break Mach 1?
Three steps of
Three rushed rumbles
To the kitchen and coffee
Then
Sit on the veranda;
Plan her day
Every
Week day morning
Divesting of
The cocoon of Morpheus
To become
A beauteous butterfly of business
Constant, in control
The paragon of administration
And my landlady.
Women get blithe.
Men just get confused.
Women can be indifferent,
Happily so.
A man gets aggravated.
“These are the facts,”
Says he.
“That’s nice,” says she.
Ignoring the contentions
And carefully reasoned outcomes
Altogether.
She doesn’t require them.
As if to say,
“So what”?
She’s got blithe.
How can she be so
Cheerful about it?
Life is baffling
A trip to somewhere
And nowhere
Always familiar territory
Yet unknown
No Map Quest
No guide to the treasure.
You got here
For good reasons or not.
Now what?
We want satisfaction
A measure of serenity
And peace
We want to be wanted
By someone, anyone.
Is there an unraveling?
A way to our happy selves?
Perhaps the first step is to
Cede the me.
Give it up.
Get out of your bad self.
Help others,
Wash a few feet.
Be of use.
No strings attached.
No lucre changing hands.
Climb out of your own skull
Life is still baffling
But you might care less.
Would you like a foot massage too?
It has been years
Music died in me
There was no rhythm I could stand
Quiet was the sound of the day
There is no good music for dying
Maybe for the dead
But not for those clinging to existence.
Now when my roommate comes home
Music fills the dusk
Otis Redding, Amy Winehouse and
My beloved Ray Charles mingle with
The evening breezes
My spirit thrums with the notes
The unique sounds of each.
I dance in the dusk
“Georgia” fills my soul
I am transported to beds of my first loves.
Their sighs are real now.
The slow motion of their stirrings
Run through me. Part of me.
I love myself again
No longer a stranger in my own skin.
The rhythms gather me
My parts newly assembled
It is joy I feel
It is to be alive
Blood beating to the tempos.
Soon I will have someone
To kiss and stroke
Adele and Frank will guide me.
Roy Orbison knows my way.
The Righteous Brothers sing a paean
To my growth;
Ray will rejoice in my birth.
Women see in color;
Men in black and white
Women nurture,
They seek the positives
On which to build.
Women will lay aside politics
To percolate a relationship.
Women will make exceptions
Women return a smile.
They presume everyone
Has hidden agendas
They care not.
They generally see
Goodness
They seek to encourage
Not abet.
They more readily
Embrace our humanness.
They more readily forgive.
They more readily touch.
We need them, desperately.
Treading the sands
Of time
Seeking an oasis
Knowing there is a future
Or a past I will understand,
Worth the effort
Hands and knees
Rubbed raw
In the dunes of the desert
That marks our journey,
Not quitting.
I shall not be diminished
By the fates
Nor be made small
Or weak
Every day I begin again.
Every night I Pledge
Myself to the fight.
First Mate’s Log, June 11, 2016
As the First Mate of the good ship Argo
One of my many duties is the health
And welfare of my Captain.
As a human he has little ability
To live in the now.
Not so with me.
As a dog living in the now is all.
I see him time and again looking at
Nothing.
He studies his hands at length,
Me, I lick my paws but do not seek
Answers there.
Is he looking for something in them?
Do they hold a key?
I think he is lost
Somewhere inside.
At times he seems but a shell to me
Hiding a wandering only he knows.
If he is troubled perhaps, like me,
He should take up licking.
I know some interesting places
Providing some very decent solace.
Worrisome he.
Submitted June 11, 2016 by Tasha II
We’re off.
Well, not entirely, for first we stopped at Mikki’s Cafe where the Captain indulges in breakfasts. I am in favor of these stops because I get the meat!
I get the ham steak of the breakfast which includes a nice round bone. Yummm. He enjoys his portion – I know this for he often wears his breakfast on his shirt front.
I think this makes him handsome. He’s always dabbing himself with cold water.
Now, we’re off! We ply the high seas of route 215 north to Palm Springs with its large stick men waving their arms in the gusts of wind that bedevil this place.
We try for a short cut through the desert seas but it is closed so we must retrace our course for another crossing to I40. Ugly seas, no zephyrs of sweet smells but gusts of dry winds.
We reach Kingman in short order and berth at familiar lodgings. The next morning we find Annie,s berth and help her aboard. She is sweet; kisses me. I deserve this kind of attention.
The day is hot and the Captain engages the air conditioning. Thank you very much. Dogs get hot. We retrace our steps and find ourselves dodging the “blue darters” of the desert seas, the small nearly keel-less craft dodging in and out of the sea lanes. They are foolish and careless. The Captain swears and I nap.
All in all it was a fine trip getting back to our home berth where Annie was welcomed by the port mistress, Donna. I am welcomed as a heroine. And why not?
May 27, 1016
First Mate
Tasha II.
This is First Mate, Tasha II reporting that the Argo will be setting sail – with the tide I suppose – early Thursday the 26th of May.
The Captain will be making certain we have the stores necessary to get us to the windy (and very sandy) port of Kingman, Az.
where we will be picking up a very important passenger, Annie, would be her name. She is a close friend of our Harbor Master
who misses her very much. The plan is to bring her back here to our home port Friday and then return her to Kingman on the 3rd of June.
We do not intend to stay.
The Captain assures me there will be air conditioning and treats, two things this Mate insists on for trips of any length. I have recently
been to the groomer and am at least as adorable as ever. Shi-Tsus insist on pruned perfection.
More to follow as we weigh anchor for inaptly named oasis of the Arizona desert, that would be Kingman.
Your Servant,
First Mate Tasha.
There is a breeze
But we do not sail
We are at rest
Bobbing here at our moorage.
For me there is little to do.
Well, I worry about the Captain
But he seems at rest
Mulling the horizon
As if there were to be
A message soon.
He worries from time to time.
Perhaps he fears his future.
Not me, I am well cared for.
Do not think me lazy or idle
And of little purpose.
I lick my captain regularly
Cleaning, dressing his unseen scars.
As First Mate I must anticipate
So I am ever ready with my toy.
He throws; I fetch.
It is a good game.
I get fleas;
He rubs stinky stuff on me
I am free of them now.
Where do fleas come from?
Like the tides,
Life is a mystery.
Tasha, First Mate
Collecting all our gear we left Oakland in the late AM planning to miss the going to work boaters. And we did.
We got to the port of Bakersfield after of day of playing “tag” with the many scows that ply these water ways. They hatch like insects in swarms rumbling down the canals with belching engines and a penchant for bravado. They like to race one another to where-ever. The Captain bobs and weaves skirting their advances.
We took the Tahachapi Pass over the mountains to the desert of Mohave.
Then it rained. I became sea sick. The first time ever! Horrid….I left nothing for the future. 
The Captain, a man of good graces, made no complaint of my seamanship, dabbed my chin and said I was a “good dog”.
We traversed more mountains and deserts with more rain and Friday afternoon traffic as we channeled through the throngs of boaters all dripping in gunnel’ to gunnel’ mayhem.
We made it soaked and sappy as ever. The Harbor Master, the sweet Donna, was there to greet us. Treats for me!
It was good to be here. I like a place with treats.
Your Servant,
Tasha II, First Mate.
The trip to Indio to see Ginny was rather uneventful except that I was given a bath. I’m such a good girl and very sweet smelling I might add.
Ginny’s in Indio: After a harrowing face off with her neighbors who cornered me under the Argo. They thought me a run-away. I had escaped Ginny’s back yard to seek out the Captain. He and Ginny had left me with some strange animal, also called a dog. I preferred the company of the Captain, thank you. When Ginny and the Captain returned they saved me from the savages living just next door. I was embarrassed and HOT. We left on good graces for northern climes, while I panting all the while from the heat.
Los Angeles: The channel the Captain chose was Route 10. A choppy ride at best. Whatever you’ve learned about sailing, boater safety and water decorum has nothing to do with your Los Angeles sailors. They travel a great speeds while stylin’ behind the helm, hurrying from one snarl to the next. Not a Mae West among ’em.
Our mad dash was just that, a mad dash through a vortex of villany (not bad for a dog, eh?). Every sailor for himself; indeed, the human race. Then it was up and
over Cajon Pass. The Captain hates passes. His knuckles turn white and he grinds his teeth.
What an awful place – rising and rising, then falling and falling. If I had eaten it would have come up.
After a good night’s rest in a channel inn we made it to Oakland and our friends there and a place called Dan and Jeanne’s. Ah! the aromas! Especially down the stairs to a place Dan called his “man cave”. This is a lovely, quiet port with a great garden for doing ones’ business.
Your Servant,
Tasha II
First and Only Mate of the Argo.
We are explorers and daredevils. We go places few have gone before. At least I think so.
The sea lanes were whipped up with grit and froth. The Argo was buffeted about. Mother Nature has no respect. The Captain was glued to the wheel. I was mostly napping in my mate’s quarters aft of the wheel house. We went through the Indian oceans of the Hopi, Navajo and Apache.
We were rained and snowed on. Yet the Captain persisted – I think he was lost. We were through the mesas and Monument Valley. The Captain said he was looking for John Ford and the 7th Calvary. Me, I wanted Rin Tin Tin, or maybe Lassie.
Then on to the Painted Desert, which isn’t really painted. We saw the Petrified Forest. Dead trees, really old, especially in dog’s years it gazillions. The Captain said it looked like Yellowstone Park without any water….anywhere. An odd looking wasteland where the sands of time are endeavoring to recapture man’s by-ways.
Up we went into the forests of Show Low and the rim rocks of Globe. We traded with fearsome Apache warriors. It was a day of dangerous sea lanes over great abysses. Surely this was the end of the world as foretold by ancient mariners. We traveled many canyon rims with darkness below, fallen rocks craggedy pines. We survived, though I think the Captain will require additional oxygen for a few days. 
I reside safely in my aft cabin. Here are my treats and my water…….but no oranges!
Yours Faithfully,
First Mate
Tasha II
Log Information:
The Argo is a 2002 Mitsubishi Montero Sport, SUV, silver in color.
I am a Shih-tsu, black and white in color.
I have had some recent bowel issues much to the chagrin of the Captain who is called “Ben” and is a codger of about 70 years of age. When not my Captain he is my master – or so he thinks. We are both adorable.
Log entry:
We arrived in Wilcox, Az., a very sad port, on Tuesday evening after jostling about on Rte 40, a poorly kept waterway. I continue to have bowel issues (Was it the oranges?). At any rate, the Captain says we can never go back to Wilcox.
Quickly, we left for the Hopi Reservation Wednesday morning where we visited their ancient village, Second Mesa. An aerie high upon a lone mesa in the vast flat lands of the “res” it is rife with spirits of the past and a shanty town of the present. There is much sadness here. I do not leave the Argo. We then proceeded to the Navajo Reservation where we dined at a grocery store. There are many people here but few teeth. Many strange aromas in these places, but obviously no dentists.
We were wind swept all day with gusts up to 50 mph. I don’t know what that means but it is no place for a small dog (that would be me). We passed the “Four Corners” area without much note. There were codgers there taking a leak on the sign. I presume they were of the Spaniel clan…..an uncouth bunch.
Eastern Utah is scenic once Blandings is reached. Prior to that it is all taupe and chalk. Ugly.
We proceeded through the winds to Moab, a community in a narrow valley with red cliffs on either side. There were many humans here all seeming to stand in the same space. Could it be pack mentality? Is everyone here a hiker?
I continued to be ill (@#%$# oranges) until the Captain reached my old vet in Loma, Colorado…..just before closing. I received some foul tasting elixir. Later the Captain partied with old friends at a favorite eating and watering hole. As usual, I got leftovers which I quickly expelled from my system.
It snowed the next morning. I do not like snow. It is quaint, I’ll grant you. It quickly melted and my attitude improved.
We are now traveling about the “Grand Mesa” this high valley wherein lies Grand Junction. It is Colorado. The Captain is glad handing and hitting up old compatriots for free meals. As usual, I receive the left overs. Not bad.
Daniel and Juan put us up for a few days. They are sweet. Their three dogs are not. O.K., so two aren’t too bad but the third,
A little black devil, is just that, a little black devil. We visit with the Capps and Margie of the book store. The Captain gets misty eyed. I do not. It is cold and I have little fur.
The Captain informs me we have a few more days here until we return to warm weather. All is well.
We cast off with the early morning tide. Today we filled the water casks and loaded the oranges to protect against the sailor’s bane, scurvy.
Also we got some bananas because, well, I like bananas and some bacon treats because they are the best. Any Shih-tsu will tell you there is no better treat than those bacon things.
The captain will have to finish cleaning the quarters here…..ship shape and Bristol fashion.
The log will be kept up to date…..unless we run out of those bacon bits; then there will be talk of mutiny.
Your devoted log keeper,
First Mate, Tasha II
As the cast off date, Sunday the 20th, draws near the Captain begins to dither.
Planning is a large part of the voyage so he is making his list and checking it twice.
How did we assemble so much stuff? Already time to reshuffle.
It is imperative that my quarters with their attendant bowls and blankets be in good order.
Also, we must lade on my treats and water. He can be so forgetful, though he means well.
Then, too, there are the prerequisite goodbyes and fond farewells. You would think they would think of me with an extra treat or two. Too often the First Mate is forgotten in all the hubbub.
Our planned course is through the back by-ways of the desert and then through Indian country….home of the Navajo, Utes and Piutes.
We will traverse the “four corners” then up through Moab in Ute-land and thence to Grand Junction where we will pow-wow with many friends who will give me treats.
We will then visit a Ginny person (she has a Corgi….are they friendly?) and hopefully follow with a sail into Oakland.
This is the Captain’s plan. Mine would include more time in places where they cook chicken and bacon, essential First Mate food elements.
Until We Cast Off,
First Mate, Tasha II
People are a mystery. If I could spell conundrum I would call them that too. Why do they so enjoy flopping about in a pool of water? I can see drinking it, but no. They flail about and then declare they’ve had a good time … the Captain is one of the worst.
Now that the Argo has had her gunnels painted and her keel scraped she sails much better. Yesterday we took out for a trial spin to a distant land called Jamul where we berthed for a very short time at a place called Steve and Dianne’s. There we met a grizzled, old sailor who wanted to tell of of his many adventures. So we left. I’m glad as the rambunctious Pugs were there. I’m so not into Pugs. They mean well, but they just aren’t my cup of tea … one of them called himself a male … odd, that.
Before we go on our next voyage, this one to the northern climes and the Colorado sea, we shall visit many other local berths. I will keep you posted.
Submitted with All Due Respect,
First Mate, Tasha II
The Argo has been in repairs. Not a bad thing. Soon she will look like she was loved.
As the First Mate my duties are light. I look after the Captain who requires little attention; he acts like he knows what he is doing – nothing at the moment. We’ve visited Amy, Rhysa, Donna and Victoria; he says the boys can wait. Although I’m eager to sniff Steve and his henchmen…..great odors. We hope to see Gordon and Dr. Paul – do we still owe him money? Of course there is David, the wise one of Escondido.
We are planning our next exploration in which we will follow the Colorado River through Parker and other ports busy in the winter and vacated in the summer. We will then wander eastern Utah through Moab and on to our old stomping grounds in western Colorado, Fruita and Grand Junction. There live many loved ones and aromas I will fondly remember. March 25 is our target date. What’s the big deal about calendars?
On our way back the Captain wishes to visit Indio, a place the Captain says is filled with mystery and dance. Makes no sense to me for I’m not much of dancer and if I were it would be all for show.
Tomorrow I will get pruned and washed and ready for the next big adventure.
Your Willing Servant,
First Mate, Tasha II
We left before the sun arose. This is the no wind time. The Captain is slow to gain speed.
We are to meet Niece Lisa today. We sail grandly through Albuquerque and arrive at 
, a 400 year old Spanish village north of the city. Some of it looks the same. We find a berth near The Range Cafe which treats the Captain as a special guest while he awaits the arrival of Lisa from Aztec where she berths.
What a grand time they had. Some of the local crew of the Cafe participated in the kissing and hugging with Lisa’s arrival. What the hell, the Captain seems harmless enough. He promised all a poem.
We’ve sadly left Lisa, who is very tall and sweet to me and returned South to Socorro….a charming farming community off I25. The librarian is German and I am a thumb-less Shih Tsu.
We are to be away early before the gales begin and intend to go to the Colorado River communities, e.g. Lake Havasu then on to adventures in Indio, home of many active retirees.
Until we berth again,
First Mate and Psychic to the Stars.
Tasha II
We weighed anchor early….hoping to beat the winds that blow across West Texas. We’ll the captain nearly grounded us on a reef so we waited for sunrise. The captain explained that he’s not afraid of the dark, rather his imaginings in the dark. The mind makes up what the eyes can not see, he said. Personally, I see in the dark just fine, but because I have no thumbs I cannot steer the boat.
There were some sad towns along the way. Bare bones sticking up in the prairie (desert more like) winds. We made El Paso. Like San Antonio the freeway system was made after the city flourished. So you got spirals of concrete in the air o’erpassing the streets and by ways. And always under construction. What a mess. We could not have moored our poor vessel even had we wanted to.
Then at Las Cruces (wonderful little city with some charm – unlike the above) we turned north – nice at first – then we ran into a sand storm.
Does Mother Nature have it in for this crew.
We’ve reaching Truth or Consequences (sounded apt) where we will moor for the night. The motel clerk seemed to be dressed for another kind of business. Then head north to meet with the fair Lisa (niece by any other name). I’ve got to tend to the Captain…..his hands are still quivering.
Tasha, First Mate
We pulled away from the dock on the East side of Mobile Bay and headed through Mobile into Mississippi.
Which is another world entirely. Here we encountered head winds of great ferocity and then near the port of Hattiesburg (ugly) it began to rain. Not satisfied with a drizzle or a drop or two it began to pour, as in buckets. Then we were in the clutches of a squall that nearly turned us around as it stopped us in our tracks. Yet, we sailed on. The white knuckled captain at the tiller squinting through the mist and rain. It let up until we came to the large port known as Jackson. Here we experienced another squall bringing much of the traffic to a complete stop. Yet, we sailed on for our destination was Vicksburg.
Once in this battlefield of a city we anchored so that we could view that National Military Cemetery there. We saw it first in the morning mist coming off the Mississippi. We traveled through both Union and Confederate lines. Many plaques, many deaths. We came upon the Union Cemetery as the mist began to lift. A pungent odor from a local mill filled the air. We walked among the single, small white steles marking the graves of the unknown thousands. The siege here lasted nearly two years claiming 5,000 Confederates and 17,000 Union soldiers and sailors. As the mist rose we expected to see a spirit or two released from their plots and become the “un-fallen”. No such luck. There was a “private” cemetery not far away near one of the Confederate redoubts. Here the fallen were much better remembered with plaques and even busts and full figure statues. But it did not resonate as did the thousands of unmarked (unnamed) plots with the odor from across the river.
We later visited the downtown area which looks much like it did in 1863, except for the fast food joints.
We will sail on, but two much sadder souls.
With all due respect,
First Mate, Tasha the wonder dog.
There under the spreading oaks
Midst the pine needles
Of the forest nearby
Lay the fallen
The victims of the Confederacy
Many markers unnamed
Unremarked
Men who had given their all
Men who had not survived
The hospital nearby
Serving the Mississippi
And Alabama militias
Overwhelmed by the odds
Of battle
Without recourse
At the end
And now o’er seen
By these mighty old oaks
My coming is too late
My knowing is not
Please, please
Never again.
Dallas is a very major port. But first we had to go through Fort Worth, home of “the” bible belt.
We found the Gales who have succored and fed us. We are sublime.
Captain Roly-poly was so proud of himself. He did the laundry in Hillsboro, not far from this port. He is such a clutz. Put too much in the dryer….took forever. You wonder why he did not consult with me? Pride goeth before the fall.
All is well.
Below are some new poems.
First Mate,
Tasha the Wonder Dog.
The Saguaro cacto
Seemingly frozen in time
Each lonely
Though there be thousands
Strewn about the desert hills
Distant but near one another.
Naked Triffids
Stripped to the core-self
Dessicated
So very still
The wind howls about them
Complaining of their impediments
“No shelter for thee
Ever”.
They endure
Time measured in thousands
Of days, years
Impervious to stress and strain.
Growth comes in
Patient increments
So unlike us.
Short forests of
Scrub oak, manzanita
Cypres and Pinon Pine
Gnarled, a jumble
Back to back and
Belly to belly.
The few taller trees
Are dead and dying
Drowning in a sea of short.
Bare limbs rising to the skies
Pleading for deliverance from
The bush, brush and stunted.
They are not wanted
The large and tall…
In the land of the
Short and small.
A height limitation here.
“You don’t belong.”
And so never were.
The Texas metropolis
grows without concern.
Higgledy-piggledy around
And on top of itself.
All directions at once.
Then the dawning comes.
No highways and byways.
We must push and pull,
Stretch and strain,
Chop and crop
To make them fit.
All, after thoughts of transportation.
Now they swallow you up
Jostling the drivers hither and thither.
Anything to make ends meet.
Soaring ramps, cramped corners
And windy, winnowing connectors.
The maze in the maw
A wretched and dark place.
No freedom for the drivers here.
Doomed until finally spewed out
Ejected and seemingly unwanted
Used up.
Grist for the mill and maze
Of the maw.
Clinging to existence
Any fresh blood and oxygen
Delivered on the Interstate.
They hold on though
There is no new
Just the worn and dated.
“God, give me paint!”
Generations flee
The frail of mind,
The fearful remain.
To wish and hope.
Yet, all they perceive
Is the long good bye.
It is disintegration
All about
Slow, inevitable
Even the birds
Have flown.
Lourdsburg, N.M.
The old west lives, if these roads are any example. Yet we wallow along. The Captain, Mr. Roly-Poly, has decided to drop anchor here because we just got to redo our packing. Nothing is where it should be. This is important at 5 AM when seeking the pee place in the dark.
This motel is just the respite his holiness needs. And, Sunday night television, God forbid we miss the Good Wife or Downton Abbey.
These deserts of Southern Arizona and New Mexico are where the Rocky Mountains come to die. Way off to the North we can see some snow capped peaks, yet here, we have a rock strewn desert with signs that warn of impending dust storms.
Tomorrow we may reach El Paso, where we will stop at their KOA and do the laundry.
Yours in cleanliness,
Tasha II
A dog of many Mates.
Today we sailed valiantly into Texas, a land of high winds and cacti.
We reached Osona one of the many needy little towns along I10. Sad, really.
Now Demming and Las Cruces of New Mexico at least had tiny, snow covered Tetons on one side of the town. Kind of dramatic even if the towns weren’t.
At noon we reached that great maw of a port called San Antonio. The highways and were more or less after thoughts to a city that has grown like topsy. We, like so many of our fellow vessels were swallowed whole and whirled round and round in its’ great gullet…hours were spent dodging and darting among the craft. Then we seemed to approach the bowel of the beast and we were finally spewed out upon Hwy 35. Hi winds every day make the captain a nervous nelly. Me? I sleep.
Well, we have cast anchor here in Temple just south of Waco.
Until the next posting.
Tasha II
First, Second and Third Mate.
The Argo set sail Thursday AM after a hardy breakfast with Steve and Dianne.
As ever, there was wind going over the mountains….the Argo wallows.
It is hard to believe the number of dairy cows in SW Arizona….tens of thousands…black and white devils producing mile after mile of pungent aroma, believe me, I would know.
There was a solar farm of many acres with an attendant power plant. No aroma.
Nearer to Phoenix there was a forest of Saguaro cacti. Eerie, like naked Triffids all come to a halt, evenly spaced 10 yards from each other. All perished or frozen in place at the same time. Many were marching up the rocky, lava flows that pass for mountains here. Few made it to the top.
We stopped ….finally…at a KOA. Glad to see us. They had a nice little steak house attached. Great meal for $13.00.
Unfortunately, the evening was a bust. Mr. Roly-Poly could never seem to get comfortable. I believe he did not plan very well. He was looking for drugs at midnight. I’m certain tonight will be better.
Mostly older folks here, bitching about the grief they get from “the gommint” which invariably provides them with social security, medicare and the like. So very put upon, these folks. I don’t doubt many of them are also retirees from some state, county or city “gommint”. They enjoy their checks but the responsibilities are just killing them.
Me, I’m a dog so its no skin off my ….whatever.
Mr. Roly-Poly is now in the local library where he’s found a connection that works. The wi-fi at the KOA “sucks” as I am told.
We’ve been lost a few times but his highness sees that as progress. I understand this place is one big bedroom community. People are nice.
Costs are low and I gotta pee.
Submitted 1/29/2016
Tasha II
We are ever closer to the jump off date. That’s the news from Mr. Roly Poly who insists he is to be the captain of the ship. The slightly daft man insists we call our venture the Voyage of the Argo. He is to be the captain and I, of course, will be the crew.
During the coming week we will be mooring said ship at the home of Stephen and Dianne….who curry the favor of two all too curious Pugs. No noses, so they’ve got to get real close. We will be refitting the “Argo” there……making a list and checking it twice sort of thing. I will insist on plenty of water, a warm bed…and beaucoup snack treats. Nothing is too good for this crew member.
Our first destination will be Tucson, that wild, half tamed land in Arizona. Then it will be on to New Mexico and Texas, which I understand is very close to the edge of the world.
Between you and me I think the captain is quite mad, though at his age it is hard to tell the difference between the onset of “you know what” and sanity.
Yours Faithfully,
Tasha the Shih-Tzu
My roly poly guy has made a decision to hit the road in the near future. Even though I don’t have the two legs roly poly has I do know this will take planning and forethought … big words for a Shih-Tsu. Really, I’m willing to follow him anywhere (tells you something about my intellect). I just hope he doesn’t forget things we’ll need, like water and water and Milk-Bone goodies and water. Then there’s my leash so I don’t get lost. Geez I hate the great out of doors. Give me a pair of roly poly’s old socks – preferably properly soiled and I’m a delighted four legged critter.
A beautiful, explicit word
Describing unscrupulous folks
Who sell lies
For fame, fortune or power.
Pretenders
To special knowledge
These con types.
They are among us
Aplenty.
On the tubes, in print
These media mavens
Snare the gullible,
Resentful and naïve.
Ah, such boastful claims.
They require no real knowledge
Just anecdotal lore, myth
And half truths
To ply their trade.
And then they will
Write a book,
For even if they
Are caught out, this
Reveals their true knowledge
… of punctuation.
Theirs will no doubt be
The first book most of them have read
All the way through.