A Fable from my Youth

 

I was a child when I heard

the Aesop Fable about the Sun

and the Wind.

 

As far as I remember it,

The Wind saw a cloaked man walking

along a long and winding dirt road;

as a gag, the Wind said to the Sun,

“I bet I can make that man lose

his cloak. I’m clearly more powerful

than you, Sun.”

 

The Sun looked down at the man and

said it was a bet. So, the Wind began

to blow and howl right into the poor man,

who was just walking by.

 

The Wind blew and blew, swirled and

spun, tossed dust in the breeze and

pelted the man with debris.

The Wind called upon the rain to

spit and splatter on the man.

 

The man, chilled by the Wind, cold from the rain,

pulled his cloak tighter around himself and

kept trudging forward.

 

The Wind, out of breath, collapsed.

“How did that not work,” the Wind cried,

“I’ve blown over cities, towns and bridges,

and none can resist. That cloak should have

flown from his shoulders. I was cheated!”

 

The Sun, seeing this said, “I’m sure that I might

be able to make the man take off his cloak.”

The Wind scoffed, “You are just the Sun, so far away,

what can you do?”

 

The Sun smiled and started gently beaming

on the road on which the man was walking.

The bright sunshine filling the scenery.

The clouds in they sky parted.

The rain dried; the flowers perked up.

 

The man in the cloak on the road,

pulled his hat off his head,

he dabbed at the sweat beading on his

brow.  He untied the cloak from around his

neck and pulled it off his shoulders.

 

The Sun, now satisfied, had proven the more powerful.

The Wind was breathless. The Wind frowned.

The man kept walking, smiling, with his cloak

slung over his arm.

 

I remember this fable,

this story, because it always

made me think that bullies

never get their way, and simple

kindness will usually lead to the

desired result.  Force and Bluster

are less effective than kind persuasion.

 

This Fable is always with me, ingrained.

 

- Thank you Aesop.

Draped in Yellow, Covered in Red

 

Draped in yellow,

covered in red.

Cornered by black,

hiding in blue.

 

I am torn.

Stuck between the cynical past,

hopeful for the future,

unsure of the path.

 

Mixed signals and colors,

flashing all the time,

in noisy hues,

unsyncopated rhythms.

 

Neon, horns, flags and signs,

jostling, buzzing and marching in different

cadence, in streets and in

minds.

 

Huddled masses, kowtowed,

bent but unbroken, with imperative

shouts pleading at the sandals of lady justice.

She is not blind. Justice is blindfolded.    

 

In this spectrum of the present,

I stand; baffled by the colors of

emotion, of pride, of duty and cause,

wanting equality, acknowledging weakness.

 

Robert Pinsky’s gasoline rainbow in a gutter,

a picture of the moment in full color history,

vivid and on display on TV’s flickering against

the rage reflected faces.

 

There is fear,

in blood.

Of people, for people,

against people.

 

Branded in color

for nothing.

For everything.

 

                        ----- 

Painting by: The Metropolitan Museum of Art - Artist: Soomin Park, Title: Yellow Sunday

So Fast the Fall

 

I can almost hear the crisp

crunching of leaves underfoot

echoing through the city streets.

As I go in search of a cozy

Autumn pub to sit and reflect on

the past Winter, Spring and Summer.

 

Fall is a great time for pub sitting,

and discussing the trials of the past

Winter, Spring and Summer, and

be hopeful the change in season will

encourage a change in the souls of

the stubborn residents of a certain City on a Hill.

 

I can almost taste the delicious

Guinness, a fall favorite beverage,

on my lips as I look out the pub windows

at the early setting sun and the mix of

confused people trapped between their

Summer and Autumn clothes.  

 

I’m looking forward to opening

my closet and pulling out my

collection of cardigan sweaters,

anticipating the chill that will

soon thicken the wind and

rattle the trees to their bones.

 

It’s not there yet, the leaves

are still green on the trees,

there’s still sunshine heating the

sidewalks and there hasn’t been

enough time for reflection.

But we’re Almost there.

 

It’s the First Day of Autumn,

yet there’s still a lot of Summer

life left in everything.

Cloudless blue skies and gentle

Summer breezes still blow my

hair in the wrong direction.

 

This seasonal change, seems

to have arrived with some

unexpected alacrity. We

knew it was coming, but it feels,

like we were somehow, cheated,

yet now it’s upon us.

 

A Summer that never got started,

a Spring that never was, as we were

all locked away inside our homes,

dreading the disease running rampant

through our dreams and in every

nook of our once normal lives.

 

The crunch of the brown, dried leaves

however, is what I’m looking forward

towards. The ultimate symbol of change,

rebirth and the potential to find more,

and newer cardigans to add to the

collection.

The Impact

 

“Whoa, that hole in the street just keeps getting bigger,” said Jerry.

 He was munching on some cheesy pop snacks, licking the orange Cheetle from

his fingertips. He was standing near the edge of the growing hole.

                 “Yeah, it’s getting pretty big I guess,” I said.

                 Something had fallen from the sky earlier in the morning and punctured the city street. The hole was originally about the size of a softball. Since then it had steadily spread itself out and had grown to the size of a beach-ball.

                 “What do you suppose it was,” asked Jerry. He continued to lick his orange fingers.

                “It’s probably the Planet’s self-esteem plummeting,” I said.

                 Jerry stopped licking his fingers. He took a step backwards as the hole expanded again in a rubbery shudder.

                 “Whoa, that was not cool,” said Jerry.

                “Definitely not cool,” I said.

                 A police car pulled up and blocked the North end of the street. Two uniformed officers came up to me and Jerry. The were hard looking cops; as if they were actors hired for their grizzled and hard nose features to portray world weary beat cops.

                 “So who made this hole,” said the old looking cop.

                 Jerry and I shrugged and stepped backwards a bit more.

                 “Hey, he asked you a question,” said the other old looking cop, but not as old looking as the first cop.

                “Something fell, from the sky and like went, “shooom, ka-blam-o”, into the street here and then, like this hole formed and it’s been getting bigger since then,” said Jerry.

                 I nodded in agreement. The sounds were fairly accurate too. “I didn’t see what caused the impact, but it hit right here and WHAM, here it is I guess.”

                 The two grizzled cops looked at each other but they didn’t say anything to each other. It was as if they were able to communicate telepathically.

                 “Have either of you been drinking today,” asked old cop number One.

                “It’s 9:30 in the morning officer,” I said.

                “Are you getting smart with me,” said the Cop.

                “No, I just, you know, it’s a little early for me to start drinking,” I said and shrugged at Jerry.

                 The cops had their hands on the butts of their side arms and they were speaking with us. I hadn’t noticed until taking a step back.

                 “I don’t like your smart mouth,” said old, but younger, cop.

                 The hole in the street shuddered again and Jerry and I took another step back. Other pedestrians on the sidewalk began to take notice and congregate a bit as they walked past. A lot only cast a cursory glance; others stopped in their tracks to watch.

                 “You two, up against the car,” said Old Cop number one.

                 Jerry looked at me and snickered. “What,” he said in curious disbelief.

                 The younger old cop drew his side arm and pointed it at Jerry and me. “Get up against the car immediately,” he shouted.

                 I turned and placed my hands on the nearest parked car and Jerry dropped his empty bag of orange puffs to the street. It blew up in the air and then was sucked into the ever-growing hole.

                 “Did you see that officer,” I said.

                “Shut your smart mouth,” said older Cop as he began to frisk me.

                 Jerry was also being frisked by the other officer and he looked scared. His eyes, usually so playful and fun, and often a bit bloodshot from all the pot he smoked, were clear and terrified.

                 “Do not move,” said grizzled old cop. He got on his radio and began speaking in the cop code of numbers and directions and more numbers as some dispatcher responded with their own set of garbled numbers and directions and squawks. The other old, but not so old, cop leaned on Jerry’s back as Jerry leaned against the car hood.

                 “Officer, you’d putting a lot of weight on my back,” said Jerry.

                “Shut up,” said the younger old Cop.

                 The hole in the street quivered again and expanded once more. It was now the size of a small backyard personal swimming pool. The inflatable size that you could kind of fill with a bicycle pump but never really could.

                 “Officer,” I said, “I think you should watch your step.”

                “Are you threatening me,” asked old Cop, “Is that a threat?”

                 I looked at Jerry, not sure what to say but Jerry had his eyes closed and his head was now resting on the hood of the parked car as he was bent over. He didn’t look so good.

                 “No, sir, not a threat, it’s just…,” I started to say, but then the street rumbled and the hole belched.

                 The cops didn’t seem to see the hole anymore. It didn’t seem to even be a concern. They kept their focus on Jerry and me.

                 “I don’t like your tone,” said older Cop.

                “I’m sorry, but I think you should really watch your step,” I said trying to sound innocent.

                 “That’s it buddy. You and me got a problem,” said older Cop.

                 Old cop stepped back from me as if to maybe pull out some handcuffs or a billy club or something but I couldn’t see since my back was to him. I was expecting something terrible, but then the hole belched again, setting off car alarms and rattling some windows.

                 “Johnny?” said young/old cop as he turned from holding Jerry down against the car.

                 I turned around slowly and old cop, who I guess was named Johnny, was gone. Where he had been standing was now just part of the hole.

                 “What did you do,” demanded young/old cop as he trained his firearm on me.

                 I sat up on the hood of the car, now aware that the hole was inches from my feet. “Whoa, Whoa,” I said, “I didn’t do anything. I think your buddy fell in the hole.”

                 Young/Old cop looked at the hole and stood near the edge, finally letting Jerry up. I pulled him up onto the hood next to me.

                 “In the hole?” asked younger yet somehow old cop. He looked down toward the hole.  He screamed for Johnny into the hole but there was no answer. The hole surged again with a rumble and the nose of the car Jerry and I were sitting dipped down. We leapt off the hood of the car to the sidewalk on the opposite side. People on the sidewalk screamed and began running. The younger old cop teetered on the edge of the hole. He was waving his arms wildly and fell face forward into the hole.

                 “Holy crap,” shouted Jerry as we stood back against the building behind us.

                 The hole belched again. The street shook and the hole lurched. It was bending the asphalt down and pulling the parked cars around it; like the edge of a waterfall.

                 “Let’s get our of here,” I said. Jerry nodded. We started to run wildly down the street amid the rush of the people trying to get away.

The Ringing in my Ears

 

There’s a ringing in my ears

but it doesn’t seem to be tinnitus,

it’s real and annoying,

high pitched and shrill,

constant and prolonged,

and making me irritable.

 

It seems to be coming from

the TV, the internet, the webs

of information swirling about

in the very air, broadcast in

every conceivable direction,

assaulting me with a ringing noise.

 

A mish-mash of noise,

coalescing into a pealing high pitch

through the tiny hairs of my

inner ear, through the eardrum

and into my over taxed and

under stimulated brain.

 

The “he said” and “she said”,

and “they said” and “he reported”

and “they alleged”, amidst

the crying pleas of the underserved,

the overserved, the guilty and the

innocent, comingling into a ringing deafness.

 

Sometimes, it goes away, in quiet places,

a drink in hand, a light fading Summer breeze,

tickling my forehead as errant hairs dance

about in cooling wind, a lover to lock eyes

with and feel the comfort of that silent

confirmation of mutual relaxation.

 

A short-lived respite among the organ

grinder’s constant insistence to fill the

air with noise, a jangling jingling of musical

gears grinding, producing a hellish decibel

level of ringing. Ringing of the ears,

followed by wringing of the hands.

 

The tintinnabulation of the Bells,

the ringing in my ears.

I hope it stops soon.

 

Old Monster

Old Monster stirs up the hill,

lumbering along the old dirt path,

winding through the trees,

scattering the birds and the leaves.

Old Monster groans and shakes,

fleas and bugs flung from matted

thick fur, dirty and muddy, grayed

and nappy, Old Monster starts his parade.

Old Monster trudges and stomps,

breaking up ancient wooden stumps,

creaking and groaning bones

as it climbs over the moldy thrones.

Old Monster passes the dens and nests,

the hives and the burrows of many

a creature who peek out as it crashes by,

too scared to run, too frightened to fly.

Old Monster sniffs the damp air,

a mildew scent, a smell, wafting in spirals,

through the tall trunks of towering trees,

a snort and a shuffle, hands on old knees.

Old Monster, approaches the summit of

the Old Mountain, in the Old Land, near

the Old Sea. Tired, weak and ancient,

one last peak to make complacent.

Old Monster huffs in great puffs of

cold stiff air, to the mountain top arriving,

in the clearness of the skies above,

all the stars of a universe unknowing of love.

Old Monster looks up into the vastness and

blinks, not much to see in all that darkness,

and then down to the Old Valley, Old Paths

and Old Trees below, in the Old Straths.

Old Monster sees all the love below, in the land,

in the trees, in the grasses and animals, the rain

and the dirt. So much more than just what was at

the top, so much more in the journey than the end.