Buckets Through Time

 

I don’t have a bucket list.

I hardly have any real buckets.

But I don’t have a list of things

I think I need to do before I die.

I’ve never really worried about

a bucket list.

Or dying.

 

I have always joked that my

curse will be to live for an

excruciatingly long time;

outliving my peers, my loves,

my family by long stretches

of time.

And be really, really, really, old.

 

150 years old or older,

a forever curmudgeon,

trying to remember who

did what and when and then

realizing that no one would know

what I was talking about anyway.

“Bucket lists?”  

 

“You had lists for different buckets?”, The kids ask.

“No, no, it was a kick the bucket sort of

thing,” I’d reply in a weak old voice.

“What does kicking a bucket have to do with

being turned into Soylent Green?”

“Oh my science…,” I’d say and wave the

robot person away.

 

I have no desires to finish some

great task like climbing Mt. Everest,

or fighting a llama or smoking Cuban cigars

on the Moon with the ghost of Che Guevara,

none of those things appeal to my sensibilities.

I only hope for peace. For Quiet.

 

I hope the bucket lists of millions of other

people get fulfilled, leaving a memory of

accomplishment and a legacy of intelligent

exploration of the human condition.

Maybe a deep investigation of buckets themselves.

Buckets through time.

 

But for my own “Bucket”,

I hope I filled it while I lived,

in the present, not longing for what it could or should

be filled with. But a full and friendly reminder, tucked away in

a closet, glowing warm with happy memories,

and likely the radiation from WWIII.

 

Hopefully we can share our buckets,

and dip into them often,

never worried about what could have been,

but proudly filled with our contended souls.

Crashing the Bookmobile

 

I read things that make me mad. I read things that make me sad. I read things to explore worlds and lifestyles I’d never normally have any access to.  Passageways to unbridled imagination. 

Which I guess is…bad? 

I mean, I’m trying to understand the other side of the argument here. The part where books illustrating or representing differences in ideology, love, romance, war, sex, goose poop, what have you, or different points of view are somehow bad for us and should be banned.   

I mean, I’m not a fan of Mein Kampf but I still believe you can read it if you like and make your own decisions about what it means to you.  I’m not asking any library to take it off the shelves because the ideas represented in it are quite reprehensible. It is, after all, just the ravings of an incarcerated lunatic so upset he didn’t get his way he has to blame an entire ethnic group for all his, and therefore the worlds, problems. But I’m not asking for it to be removed. I’m not afraid of it. I might be a little afraid of the people who read it and think, “Yeah, this really speaks to me”. That is the terrifying part, but I still don’t want the book removed. 

I don’t agree with or accept a lot of what is written in the Bible. There’s a lot of killing and murder and sex and all kinds of really crazy things going in in that book. Yet, I don’t want it pulled from Libraries or bookstores. I am not afraid of it. It is a book, written centuries ago by a mostly patriarchal bros club of religious whack-a-doos. I am afraid of the people who take it literally though. They scare me more than most groups. To have the gall to say you understand the words of an omnipotent super-sky being and how those words should be interpreted; that’s something to fear. And yet, I still do not write and cry and complain to have the Bible taken off the shelves. I’m even respectful enough to still capitalize the “B” in the word, “Bible”. (Thanks Catholic school.) 

So I don’t get it. I don’t understand where all this fear of ideas is coming from. I genuinely don’t get where this vitriolic hate for the written word is spawning from. An idea is just an abstract construct. It takes many minds and hands and shoulders of the willing to bring any idea to a fruitful reality.  When did resistance to new ideas ever help to move a society forward? When did sticking our heads in the sand ever make us cool, hip, or even mildly palatable at social gatherings? 

“Hey great wine, where is it from,” asked Gary. 

“Oh!  I read this wonderful book about the vineyard, it tells you all about how the wine was made, the colorful history of the region, the atmospheric condi…, Hello? Gary? Um, why did you just ram your head into my floor?” 

“Books are scary,” was Gary’s muffled response. 

Is that really how some people want us to behave? Are we just an eyelash away from a Fahrenheit 451 future? (If you don’t get that reference, then you have to read more.) 

I cannot wrap my head around a desire to limit our human capacity for empathy, understanding, compassion, love or even the exploration of our own humanity. To try and limit that search is like hobbling an explorer or blinding any sailor who looked over the oceanic horizon and wondered what was on the other side.  I cannot fathom a civilization in which the exploration of our humanness is abandoned for the sake of “Morality” or “to safeguard the children”.  You might as well crash the bookmobile into the side of a mountain, set it on fire and run away screaming, “it was the elves, it was the Elves!” 

A society that bans the availability of books to anyone who wants them is in league with the worst autocrats, despots, dictators in history. A book banner will always be on the wrong side of history. It’s been proven over and over again. And I know that, because I’m not afraid of certain uncomfortable truths I read about, in a history book, in school, when I was nine.   

I just don’t understand where it comes from. It makes me sad. It makes me mad, every time I read about it. And still, I don’t demand it be removed from my field of view. I only ask more questions.

 Questioning is what we’re supposed to do and it’s…good.

 

 

 

 

In The Dirt

 

It grows there,

in the yard,

tendrilled roots,

twisting through

the soft Spring

dirt.

 

The weeds,

the grass,

the trees,

the bees,

the worms,

in the dirt.

 

Sunlight dappled,

burgeoning turf,

seeking out the

best sunbeams

to rise up towards,

to live in the dirt.

 

The twisted and

gnarled knots of

weedy invaders,

slowed in Winter,

defrosted in the veld grasses,

to conquer the dirt.

 

The battleground,

siege will be the order,

relentless tides of invading

greenery, hell-bent on life,

defeat simply not an option,

for those in the dirt.

 

Those that grow there,

those that go there,

are in the thick of it now;

a slow battle of nature,

unfolding relentlessly,

in the dirt.

 

 

We Rage

 

In the dying light,

we rage,

as we were told to do,

by Dylan Thomas.

Perhaps we didn’t follow

the directions.

 

If we are to rage,

then let us do so

for the good of the many,

that haven’t seen the light,

and not look back on our follies,

but on our grand achievements.

 

Let us rage for the right

reasons, not out of some

long archaic duty to an

antiquated notion of Puritanical

mores or beliefs. Let us rage

for the future and the light just emerging.

 

As aged people, on our death beds,

we should look back with pride

at what our rage has wrought,

for the betterment and progression

of all people, rather than how well we

stuck to Dogmatic traditions of the past.

 

Rage against the darkness,

rage against those who refuse to

embrace a future where being

closed minded is the biggest sin

and the worst shame of all.

Rage for a future.

 

Don’t waste your rage on what has

been done, use it for what can be.

Do not become an old crone in bed,

with eyes tearful with regret in your death nells,

for raging in favor of a dying past,

instead of a full and hopeful destiny.  

 

Rage, Rage, for the emerging light.

 

 

 

When They See You

 

When they see you,

for who you are,

it’s exhilaratingly

terrifying;

especially when they see;

You.

 

And all your splotches,

blemishes, scabs and scars,

smeared over with make-up,

gregarious personality traits,

dabbling in the stream of

misdirection and joke telling.

 

It’s a sort of love,

that blooms, or explodes,

or erupts from the depths of

you, beaming and bubbling,

from the bowels of all creation,

in blasts of radiating validation.

 

It’s when we see them

for who they are,

that makes you want to

go back to the shadows

and get in your gilded armor

and hide until they’re out of view.

 

Sometime the lure of

the shadows, or the suit of

gilded armor, is preferable

to the bright eyes, seeing you,

for what seems like the very

first time.  Every time.

 

Their judging gazes, fixed on you,

waiting on their tip-toes in

anticipation for what crazy

thing you think next.

The “how-dares-yous”, that

seem to tumble from their eyes.

 

Like your tears,

as you recoil, because you

were seen by the wrong eyes,

at the wrong time, in the wrong light,

the stage wasn’t set, the cues were all

off…

 

Oh God!

Just start the band already!

I want to get off this stage!

Drop the Curtain!

 

… their eyes,

in the dark,

 

seeing me for who I am,

is exhilaratingly terrifying.

 

 

 

 

 

Ba Dum Tssshhh

 

Timing is…

 

Everything.

 

Or so I’m told.

 

So when you see this…

 

 

 

 

poem,

 

 

 

You’ll know that I

 

carefully crafted it

 

to give the impression

 

of the…

 

…passage of time.

 

 

 

So you might…

 

 

…think on it,

 

a little more

 

than…

 

usual.

 

 

…Timing.

 

 

 

(Ta-Dah!)

The "Un" of it All

 

The “Un” is trying to get me.

The un-motivated,

the un-happy,

the un-resolved,

the un of it all.

 

Fat fingers of depression,

trying to curl their

way around my neck,

to choke me with devious glee,

un-satisfied with the present.

 

The face of depression,

hidden in unlit corridors;

unfazed by the unrelenting

lengthening of Sunny days,

and potentials to come.

 

Unforgivable in its haunting

of my always tired mind,

unashamed of the torment

its cracking knuckles cause,

as they echo through my head.

 

Undaunted, I fight against

this creeping and unwelcome

pall of sadness, ever present

enemy, of the most unpopular

kind.

 

I’m steeled,

but rusty,

unsatisfied with my defenses,

unabashedly awkward in my

sword-play.

 

The “Un”.

The unrepentant depression,

swirling around my head,

like Emily Dickinson’s fly,

in her ear as she died.

 

Uncalled for violence,

unpolished blade,

dulled, unsharpened,

in the shaking hands

of depression.