In The Mud

In form, we are but mud,

smoothed and shaped,

mixed and churned,

blended into existence by

natural and unnatural forces.

Mud; heated and cooled next

to an enormous nuclear ball,

hardened and wilted, eroded,

molten and changed, in the image

of and by the whims of the universe.

We are but mud, a soupy mix,

stirred together in a puddle,

coalescing into the rock and mortar,

the sand and ash, of an unforgiving

world designed to test our muddy hearts.

It is the same mud for us all,

the same dirt, the same sticks and

stones, the same stardust, the same

wretched curses of time, erosion and

shifts.

It is the soil that we sprouted,

of which we will return, that

blood spills upon, that absorbs

us and distributes to the next tributary

of hereditary.

We are molded by older hands,

muddy clay that is smacked, cut, stacked, shaved,

turned and told that we are special,

unique and that our production was

important.

A vessel of hardened mud, delicately

filled to breaking, yet holding its form,

cracking and chipping ever so slightly,

along the way, repaired and sealed

with patience. All mud. All the time.

All the same mud.

Perplex-Giving

Thanksgiving.

A Holiday drenched in

memory and nostalgia.

I’m never really sure if

I like it or not.

Its History and tone

confuse me.

As a child we’re told that

it celebrated the survival of

the Pilgrims with the aid

of the Native Americans.

It was mildly celebrated,

on and off over the years,

Thomas Jefferson wanted nothing

to do with it and didn’t

celebrate it at all.

As we got older, we learned

Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving

a National holiday during the

American Civil War in 1863 to help

bring about some hopeful peace.

It has been observed since then. (More or less.)

Yet, I’m perplexed by it. I always

have been. It is a strange story of

two peoples, getting along through

tough and changing times, only to

eventually have one people practically

wipe the other out.

It is a holiday confusingly doused in

blood and dirt, wiped off, shined up,

and put on a display shelf, but still

infected with an odious, dubious,

past.

Here we are again, faced with a Holiday,

a Holiday season in general, tinged with

sadness, horrors and a sense of casual unease

with the state of the world, our nation

and in some instances, with each other.  

I don’t honestly recall a recent

Holiday Season that wasn’t touched

by some unrelenting grief. I can’t really

remember the simplicity of childhood

wonderment at the feasts, laughter and

obviously, wine induced euphoria of the Holiday.

I’m deeply saddened by the roughness of

this holiday, the coarseness of which we have

to carry on through it, pretend to see the

laughter in each other’s eyes but commonly

disavow the depression present there too.

We will feast in the face of famine,

we will drink in the face of sobriety,

we will fight in the face of reason,

we will ignore in the face of horrors,

we will laze in the face of hardships.

What are we?

Are we celebrating the work of

Colonial Entrepreneurship?

Are we ignoring the past and future

to revel in the present while simultaneously

ignoring it?

I’m quite perplexed by this holiday.

I’m very confused by us.

I’m not sure about it at all.

Perhaps, in the gathering of family,

friends and loved ones (maybe not so loved)

we can start to clear up some of this confusion,

to wipe away the muck of history and re-classify

this Holiday as one in which we can be proud of.

A holiday celebrating our humanness, our

universality, the fact that we’re not so different,

from one another, that violence is not an answer,

that hate has no place, that an open mind is

one of the most beautiful human traits we have.

Maybe that’s the solution to my confusion,

perhaps over cranberries and mashed potatoes,

we can try to heal each other, really see each other,

all of us, together and maybe; that is something

to be Thankful for.    

The Reveal

The painting, I have been told,

is already on the canvas before

the painter starts, the painter

just has to lovingly reveal it.

Much can be said about the

sculptor, tenderly releasing the statue

hidden in a block of stone, a figure

that was there all along.

A poem however, doesn’t feel

like it’s always on the page, waiting

to be revealed. The page is always

empty until it is filled.

A poet and the page are like

well accustomed rivals vying

for the affections of the same

lover.

The poet writes the word,

the page judges it,

the poet erases the word

or forces the page to take it.

The page never relaxes its

criticisms, but fights to keep

itself blank and crisp and clean,

unsullied by poetic rambling.

The poet, furrowed brow, can’t

understand why the words are so

lofty and lovely in their head but

so flat and obtuse on the page.

The page needs to be impressed

and smooth talked, complimented and

soothed into accepting the poet’s

need for expression.

There is no stone to chisel away

or paint contoured into a shape

that was already there. The words

have to stick to page’s slippery surface.

The poem lives, breathes,

rides the emotional wave of

each reader’s perspective before

expiring in memory.

It was not there before,

it may not be there after,

it is transitory

and illusive.

Only the page knows if

the words will live or die

in the chests of the poetic

beating hearts.

The poet, unknowing,

persists in hope,

the page will reveal some

tenderness and love it so harshly withholds.  

Therapy on a Cold Day

                Charlie rested his chin in the crook of his arm as he leaned on the window ledge. He watched as melting snow dripped slowly down the window in a pointless race to the sill. He looked out at the gray November morning. The day had hardly begun and he was already feeling sad. He had spent most of the session staring out the window.

“How do you talk about the un-talk-about-able,” asked Charlie finally.

“What do you mean,” asked Charlie’s therapist, “you know there’s nothing we can’t talk about right?”

Charlie pressed his index finger against the glass window and traced the path of a descending water droplet. The glass was slightly cold. Charlie felt the chilly numbness in the tip of his finger. He pulled away from the window. He turned in his lounger chair and faced Dr. Applebaum.

“Yeah, I mean, sure, we can talk about anything, but what about the things we’re not supposed to talk about,” said Charlie.

“Charlie, really, there’s nothing we can’t talk about at all. Everything is fair game. I’m not here to judge you or tell you if what you’re thinking is right or wrong. I’m just here to help you get to the core of what’s troubling you,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie looked around Dr. Applebaum’s office. There was a single motivational poster on the wall featuring a humpback whale cresting through the ocean in a flurry of white foam. The motivational phrase didn’t seem to relate to the picture of the whale. It was some claptrap about achievement or over-coming adversity. Charlie didn’t care for it. Dr. Applebaum had multiple certifications and degrees framed on the walls. There was one slowly withering house plant in the corner that had obviously been neglected for a few weeks. There was a little dust on the bookshelves Charlie could easily see.

“I’ll tell you Doc, there’s a lot troubling me, but I don’t really think it has anything to do with me,” said Charlie.

“How so,” asked Dr. Applebaum.

“Well, the world seems mad Doc. Like, no matter what I do, with good intentions, love in my heart and sympathy in my soul, and doing what I’m told, the world keeps trying to kill itself, along with all the people in it. How do we talk about that,” asked Charlie.

“Those are pretty large-scale problems for sure. The world is indeed a complicated place, but perhaps we can try and bring this down to a more, individual perspective,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie nodded absently. He had already decided that this was dumb. Charlie didn’t feel depressed. He was sad. There was a big difference in his mind about the two things.

“Yes, big problems for sure,” said Charlie, “the whole thing though, the whole mess of the world, the people, politics, this hatred under the skin, the lack of togetherness, it’s all just too much for me to bare and honestly doc, it’s bumming me out.”

Dr. Applebaum flipped to the front page of Charlie’s medical file folder. He tapped at one of the forms with the tip of his ball-point pen.

“Charlie,” said Dr. Applebaum, “I understand that you’re upset about it all. What really has me concerned is that you’re eight years old and you’re having some, very mature thoughts. Thoughts fairly unexpected for an eight-year-old. Do you see why that might be a point of concern for your parents?”

Charlie folded his arms across his small chest and looked back at Dr. Applebaum. Dr. Applebaum was looking back at Charlie over the rims of his reading glasses. They stared at each other for a long while until Charlie finally spoke.

“I’m a really smart kid,” said Charlie, “I know my parents are worried and maybe it’s their fault for raising such a smart and emotionally aware kid. Maybe it’s all their fault. I mean, I didn’t make this world that is bothering me so much. They did, my grand parents did. Heck Doc, even you made this world and I’m here, struggling with the consequences.”

Dr. Applebaum sat back in his own chair.

“See, these are the things that are un-talk-about-able,” said Charlie, “The fact that I’m just a kid and I’m smart and I’m aware and I read the news but there’s no one, absolutely know one that can relate to me, to talk about any of it. It’s un-talk-about-able.”

“I don’t believe that Charlie,” said Dr. Applebaum, “we can absolutely talk about it. Is that what you’d really like?”

Charlie wanted to leave this small room. Dr. Applebaum could never understand. His parents in the waiting room outside would never understand.

“I’m eight doc. There’s nothing I can do to fix it,” said Charlie. “I’m trapped in this small world, this small body, I hate playing soccer which my dad makes me do; I’m running from bullies at school, being called a nerd, afraid of girls but I really like them, and hoping that someone doesn’t barge into my school and start shooting everybody because they are crazy or depressed or sick on medications. It’s making me really sad doctor. What does that have to do with me? Isn’t that everybody else? Why isn’t anybody doing anything?”

Dr. Applebaum scratched his nose. Charlie saw he had some long gray nose hairs. Charlie wished Dr. Applebaum would trim his nose hairs.

“Charlie, you are an amazing young man,” said Dr. Applebaum, “I’ve have provided years of treatment for some patients that haven’t come close to your level of maturity. You’re right. You’re eight and you have little control over where life takes you. You are at the whims of terror far greater than I ever had to deal with as an eight-year-old. I never had to worry about shootings or terrorism or any of that stuff. Well, maybe the communists, but even that was so far-fetched. But none of it is un-talk-about-able. I hope you and I can talk more about it but unfortunately, that’s our time today.”

Dr. Applebaum stood from his leathery worn chair and reached out to shake Charlie’s hand. Charlie stood up. Politely shook the doctor’s hand.

“Charlie, please send your parents in please and we’ll see you next week,” said Dr. Applebaum.

Charlie nodded and exited Dr. Applebaum’s office into the waiting room. His mother looked up at him with wet, teary eyes and his father barely looked at him at all.

“He wants to see you,” said Charlie.

His parents stood up from their chairs and walked toward Dr. Applebaum’s office and closed the door behind them.