Let's Talk about Words, Baby.

Words are charged with

an exceptional amount of power.

They can move the planet

if used properly. From the strongest

words to the mildest, they have raw

power.

There have been famous words,

heard by every school child and

adult, so a piece of our collective

consciousness, that to take those

words away would be to strip us

of who we are.

The words that make us, inside our

minds, the loves, hopes, dreams,

and monologues are stitched together

in an intricate pattern of delicately

chosen words, a pattern which becomes

who we are and how we’re perceived.

We’ve thrown words away when they’re not

right. We’ve corrected our words when they

don’t adequately express what we’re trying to say,

we’re the constant editors of our own

narrative, and that is what gives our words

such strength.

Words are immediate, present. The words we

choose give meaning to the most inconsequential and

consequential moments of our lives.

Words provide a way to define our reality,

to make sense of the wonder always around us.

Words live and breathe.

Words, can at most times, speak louder than action.

Words can be taken away with a surprised gasp,

or in the rage of a fiery throat, sore from yelling,

Words, are not disposable things to be catted about

willy-nilly. They have power and should be respected

for that power.  Words resonate with our will.

Even the word, “pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis”.

Deserves respect.

Yes, it’s a real word.     

It’s medical and super real.

And I use it to make my point,

about the power of a word.

If I heard a doctor used that

word, I would immediately pique up

my ears and pay very close attention to

the words that followed.

A twenty-dollar word like that should

be heeded.   

It goes to show what power,

gravity, metal and or grit any

word can have and how important it

is to use them properly, with mindfulness,

thoughtfulness and some amount

of compassion for the ears your words may

fall upon.

Choose these powerful tools wisely,

sticks and stones may break your bones,

but words can scar you for life.

They can destroy other’s lives,

they can destroy your own life.

So be responsible with this power.

Be responsible with your words.

The Tree

“See that tree there,” said the old man.

“Which tree,” I asked.

“The one with the lopsided broken branch resting on the ground. In the clearing,” he replied.

                I looked across the road in the direction the old man was pointing with his shaking finger. I saw a large, lush tree, green with Spring leaves and a full canopy. There was a large broken branch leaning to the tree’s right side, but it too seemed to be alive with growth.

                “I do see it,” I said, “looks like a nice tree.”

                “No. That tree… that tree is evil,” said the old man.

                I looked at the old man’s wrinkled and worn face. His expression was wistfully distant. He seemed to be lost in a memory and was wearing it across his weathered brow.

                “How can a tree be evil,” I asked. “It’s just a tree. Trees in my experience are rather morally neutral.”

                “No sir. That tree wants nothing but misery, terror and general unhappiness for all who gaze upon it,” said the old man.

                The old man pressed his lips tightly as he stared at the tree across the road. The tree was surrounded by large yellow dandelions mixed with a creeping violet colored flower. The leaves stirred gently in the Spring breeze.

                “It mocks me,” said the old man.

                “How in the world can a tree mock you,” I asked.

                The old man turned to me. He looked me directly in the eyes.  I could see his impatience and anger churning behind his aging eyes.

                “I’m telling you young man. That tree, that tree is a trickster. A lying, two-faced, tree of misery and falsehoods,” said the old man.

                “Why do you say all this about this tree,” I asked.

                The old man straightened his back and looked across the road. The tree was bristling in a sharp Spring breeze.

                “I used to see that tree every day on my way to work. It always seemed to stand out to me as I drove by. It was set away and apart from the other trees. Almost like it had crawled away from the forest to make it on its own in the clearing. I felt a kinship with that idea since I too had struck out on my own and was trying to make it. Every day I saw that tree, I felt like it was there for me to see; to remind me that I could grow and become something bigger and better than I was. That tree made me feel like my goals were achievable.  I felt something like love for that tree and wished it nothing but the best but all I got in return was bad luck, disappointment and a feeling of betrayal,” said the old man.

“Wow,” I said, “That’s a lot of feeling for a tree.”

The old man ignored me and kept on with the telling of his tale.

 “One day, after a particularly violent Summer storm the tree seemed to be in trouble. The tree trimming crews for the State seemed set on cutting it down. That large branch you see, still sitting on the ground. It was knocked onto the ground, perhaps by wind, perhaps hit by lightning, I don’t know which. But I didn’t want to see the tree get cut down just because of that one branch loss. It looked like such a healthy and full tree. It has always been surrounded by those lush flowers and thick, full grass. It seemed somehow wrong to cut it down, just because one large branch had fallen during some big weather event,” said the old man.

I nodded along with the old man’s story as I looked out over the tree. The branch was still leaning on the ground, slightly overgrown with flowers and tall grass. The rough edge of where it broke away from the trunk still visible, poking up in defiance of it’s condition.

“So I prayed on it. I prayed so hard that the State would leave my tree alone. I prayed to God to protect that tree. I prayed it wouldn’t be cut down and continue its growth unimpeded,” said the old man.

“I didn’t know you were religious,” I said.

The old man gave me an askance glare.

“Don’t change the subject,” said the old man.

“Sorry,” I said, “Please continue.”

“So it seemed that my prayers were answered. The next day as I drove by. The tree trimming crews were gone and my tree, that tree, seemed to be saved. The tree trimmers hadn’t even removed the broken branch. I was so happy about it. I said so, out loud as I drove past. ‘Well done,’ I said and cheered in my heart at our mutual good fortune. You see, I felt that tree was now safe because of my prayers and in some way the tree knew it and would somehow be grateful to me,” said the old man.

I tried not to snicker.

“Go ahead and laugh if you must. I know it sounds silly. It sounds mad actually,” said the old man.

“I mean, it’s a tree. It can’t have any sense of gratitude or any possible understanding of our human concept for prayer. It’s just pretty…crazy, if you ask me,” I said.

The old man licked his lips and smiled a little.

“I agree. How in this universe could a tree have any soul, or concept of a soul? How could these naturally occurring, organic clumps of wood fiber feel anything? I know it’s a crazy idea. But, what if, on the same crazy spectrum, they know more than we arrogant humans give them credit for,” said the old man.

                I stopped my judgmental snickering and did ponder the essence of a tree’s soul. Could a tree have a soul?

                “Well, I believed this tree had a soul. I believed this tree had a heart. What I didn’t know was that soul was black and its heart was filled with malevolence,” said the old man.

                I looked at the old man. He was leaning back now in his chair. His head held up slightly. He started to speak as if he was giving a eulogy for some long-departed friend.

                “Every morning after that night of prayer, and the apparent saving of the tree, I started greeting it aloud as I drove past. I’d say, ‘Good morning tree, I hope you have a great day!’ and things like, ‘Morning my friend, let’s hope for a good day…,’ and so on and so forth, every single morning. In fact, on the weekends, when I didn’t drive those roads, I felt bad for not saying hello to my tree friend. It became a ritual for me. Something I felt like I had to do, not only for the sake of the tree, but for me as well. Something that re-affirmed our connection to each other,” said the old man.

                The old man’s face shifted. He seemed to be uncomfortable in his chair.

                “Soon after I began this morning ritual of wishing good morning to the tree; things started to go terrible for me.  My job, which I loved, started to become an unbearable burden. My co-workers started second guessing me. My bosses stopped trusting me with important work. I felt marginalized and unimportant.  Then my personal life started to go amok. The woman I was dating started cheating on me with a friend of mine. I got into fights with my family, with whom I had never fought. I lost money on normally sure things. I had car problems that cost a fortune, rent issues, leaks in my apartment ceiling, my friends stopped calling me or hanging out with me and I was heading for some odd forced isolation,” continued the old man.

                I leaned in further toward the old man as he recounted his sudden misfortunes.

                “I couldn’t figure out why things had suddenly started to go so wrong for me, yet every morning I still drove past that tree and wished it a good day and tried to send some positive vibes towards it. Every morning I thought, ‘Well, today is a new day for things to go right and get back on track,’ and yet, they wouldn’t. Things seemed to continue to go badly for me. Yet every morning, I still had to say good morning to my tree,” said the old man.

                He cleared his throat but kept a close eye on the tree across the road. The tree’s leaves continued to flutter in the breeze.

                “Then one day, I had to start taking a new route to work. The normal road was under construction and I couldn’t drive past the tree and say good morning. And that’s when things started to turn around for me. My job suddenly returned to normal, I even got a promotion. I found a new girlfriend who would never cheat on me. My money troubles stopped and I even was able to start saving again. It was as if a magician had waved a wand and all my troubles just stopped. It was just too odd not to notice it. I was feeling quite good about myself again. But then, the construction on the roads stopped and my old route was re-opened. So I thought, I should certainly say hello to my tree friend. I’ve missed him. That very morning, after driving past my tree and saying, ‘Hey tree, I missed you my friend. I hope you’re well and we have a great day.’ The moment after I said it I got in to a terrible car accident,” said the old man.

                I sat back in my chair. I’d heard of this terrible accident before. The old man was nearly killed. He was broken in so many places that it didn’t seem likely he would live. I shook my head in awe.

                “That’s right. The accident that nearly ended my life. All because I decided to say hello to that damn tree. That tree, that tree tried to kill me. It was then that I realized that it wasn’t a tree with a good soul, but one of evil. An evil tree bent on hurting those around it. That’s why it was separate from the other trees in the forest. He was excommunicated. He was banished to be in the clearing on his own. The other trees in the forest knew that tree was bad. A bad seed as it were. He wasn’t cut down by the tree trimmers because they were afraid of it, not because of my prayers. The tree was just evil,” said the old man.

                I stopped myself from saying anything. It was indeed too crazy to comment on. I started to worry about the old man’s mind.

                “I assure you I am not senile,” said the old man, “I can prove the tree is evil.”

                “I believe you,” I said.

                “Sure, sure you do,” said the old man.

                “Well, I mean, it’s just a tree after all,” I said.

                The old man pointed at the tree again but then lowered his arm. He relaxed and took a deep breath.

                “After the accident, I never said hello to that tree again. I never once gave it another kind look or hoped the best for it. Once I recovered fully and stopped being nice to that tree, my life got better again. I met the woman who became my wife, became president of the company I worked for, bought my lovely home, had a family, raised them up to be successful and found a happiness I never knew. All because I turned my back on that tree. That tree across the road,” said the old man.

                He looked across the road at the tree. It’s leaves, still teasing the air. I looked across with him and we were silent.

                “Why tell me this story,” I asked.

                “To warn you. To warn you that there are evil things in this world and to be vigilant against their seemingly innocent influence,” said the old man.

                “Well, I... I appreciate that I guess,” I said.

                “Plus, I wanted you here for this,” said the old man.

                “Here for what,” I asked.

                “To witness that tree’s power,” said the old man.

                I looked out toward the tree. The old man next to me. He whispered softly into the air, toward the tree.

                “Good morning my friend,” said the old man, “I’ve never forgotten you.”

                The leaves on the tree picked up the intensity of their rustling, even though the wind seemed light and calm. I looked around at the graying sky as if a storm was soon rolling in.  I felt a chill and goose bumps on the back of my neck.

                “That was indeed odd, I’ll grant you that,” I said as I rubbed my arms.

                I turned toward the old man next to me. He was slumped forward in his chair, chin resting on his chest. He wasn’t breathing.  I jumped up and grabbed him by the arms and gave him a slight shake. I checked his pulse but it was gone. I listened to his chest but heard nothing.  I looked down at his old face, seemingly serene.  At peace.  I turned and looked toward the tree across the road. It was still.

Too Many Poems About This

Another pile of words

to fall on

deaf ears.

Like cordwood next

to a

funeral pyre.

Picket signs stacked

near the trash

after the protest.

The avalanche already

down the

mountain side.

The seas receding

after the

Tsunami.

After the fact,

we react,

without proact.

Necks are sore

from all the

shaking and head down sobbing.

One more number

posted on the

big tally board.

While repetition

repeats redundantly

because we said it before.

Another pile of words,

spilled on the floor

that we’ll ignore.

No.

No more.

Again.

Running Out of Steam

The giant paddle wheels

turned through the muddy

waters of the Mississippi as

dragonflies zipped through

the humid air.

In the thick forests along the

watery banks, cicada’s buzzed

in their urgency to mate, as soon

as possible, before they have to

die.

The steam stacks, billowing out

clouds of heavy vapor, adding to the

already thick mid-afternoon air,

that was already bulging with rain

on the horizon.

No. Wait…, that’s not a riverboat,

There’s no muddy Mississippi,

that’s just here, in my office, while

I try to keep my steam going to

complete these Monday tasks.

You see, I’m running out of steam

to keep up any enthusiasm for these

mundane Monday chores we’re all

saddled with after such a long and

pleasant weekend.

That ringing isn’t a steamboat whistle,

it’s my office phone, burdening me with the

ills and distemper of the other Earthly

passengers. All needy and corrupted by

false privilege.    

Yet the Walter Mitty of my mind still

dreams of Steamboat adventures,

and the “Tah-pucketah-pucketah-tah pucketah”,

of the steam engines, turning the paddle wheels

through the waters of the muddy Mississippi.  

The Denials of Icarus

I was not flying too close

to the sun.

It was a manufacturing defect.

I wasn’t there.

I didn’t even know Daedalus.

My father was on Crete at the

time of the alleged incident.

I did not crash into the Icarian Sea.

It’s only coincidence that it has the

same name as me.

Totally a coincidence.

Those aren’t feathers stuck to

my back, it’s ornamental decoration.

I did not provide kickbacks to Big Feather.

I only go out at night.

I don’t even like to travel.

I have never been to Greece.

I don’t even have a Greek name.

I’m pretty sure I would have noticed

my own plummeting from the sky.

I don’t know anything about aerodynamics.

Okay, maybe my father, Daedalus, did “invent”

some wings, but he can’t be held responsible

for poor overseas manufacturing failures.

He’s an inventor, and he creates jobs for

the Grecian people. But, I’ve never used

his wings for anything, that I know of.

I’ve no further comment on our relationship.

If anything, this scandal has been manufactured

by the liberals on Crete in an effort to

malign our good family name. Fake Crete News.

We’re putting Greece first and they can’t stand

how super awesome we are. But I do want to warn

them that any incursion into our airspace will be

sternly criticized.

Okay, I have a flight to catch.

This press conference is over.

The Ruin of Matilda Pepperstance

                Carolyn closed her book and sighed. She’d finally read her way through though all 18 books by her favorite author, Matilda Pepperstance. Carolyn arched her neck toward the cavernous ceiling of the public library and rotated her head round, back and forth. She rubbed her eyes and took another deep breath. She felt tired but extremely relieved to have made her way through Matilda Pepperstance’s weaving, layered and sometimes convoluted storytelling to the final ending in which the main character, Julius Craven, discovered that he was never an ageless Magi, but was really just a seven-year-old boy in a hospital imagining a magical life.

                Carolyn had started the whole series of books in college after getting dumped by Roger and she needed something to distract herself from re-living their 11 year long relationship. A story-line filled with fantasy and adventure and a little mushiness was just what she needed.  She didn’t know at that time it would turn into a lifelong obsession, conventions, book signings, cos-play, and even permeate its way into her bedroom and sex life.  Yet now, it was done.

                Matilda Pepperstance had died two years ago after the completion of the last book, so there were no more Julius Craven stories to come, ever. Which now seemed okay since discovering that her sexual fantasies regarding Julius were actually the imaginings of a seven-year-old sick child in a hospital. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she felt slightly betrayed by Matilda Pepperstance and her perhaps strange desire to let her readers down with such a moronic ending. “A sick kid imagined he was Julius!?” thought Carolyn.

                Carolyn looked down at the finished book on the long library table. She felt warm. She felt like she might be sweating. The library was cool and quiet, sparsely populated by old men at the periodicals and a small table of worn out mothers near the kid’s reading room. Carolyn felt angry. She felt betrayed. She felt that the last four years of her life, so devoted to these books was now suddenly a waste. A complete waste.  She pushed the thick book to the other end of the long library table with disgust.

“Matilda Pepperstance,” said Carolyn, “that bitch!”

The librarian looked up from her computer instinctively, to shush Carolyn. Carolyn gave the middle-aged librarian a dirty look and stood up from her chair. She pushed it angrily in and grabbed her jacket from the back of it. She looped her purse strap around her shoulder and stormed toward the exit. She threw open the large library doors and looked up at the blue springtime sky. She squinted against the afternoon sun as she started to walk toward her car. She remembered feeling so happy when she first arrived to the library. She felt like she would finally have the peace and quiet she needed to finish this last book. She felt like a fool now.

She opened her car door and threw her purse and jacket into the passenger seat. She sat behind the steering wheel and slammed the driver’s side door. She sat for a moment remembering how Roger told her that he was seeing someone else, someone sexier and better looking and touched him in the way that he wanted to be satisfied and how she could never be that for him. She remembered staring at him, not crying, not feeling anything but contempt for all the things she had done for him. She remembered seeing Matilda Pepperstance’s first book on the shelf next to where Roger was standing as he delivered his selfish news. The book, The Resistance of Mercy, was what Carolyn focused on. It was what she poured her rage, compassion and love into since feeling so abandoned by Roger.

She felt that same abandonment now as she sat in her car.  Roger, the car salesman, the cheap whiskey and casual cocaine user, the sadist and unrepentant selfish asshole. She missed him. She hated him. She hated she wasted so much of her time with Matilda Pepperstance’s stupid books, stories and generally bad writing.

She started to cry. She felt the hot tears of rage, sadness, and wasted time streaming down her cheeks. She started her car and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. She tossed her head back, banging it against the headrest. She grit her teeth and let out a silent scream, part fury and part exhaustion.

 Her tears, running down her cheeks, felt right. She felt like this cry was perhaps right somehow, like it was the eulogy she needed for the last four years of her life. It felt cathartic. She felt her rage and self-delusion start to slip away. She took a deep breath.   

Carolyn caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view. She burst out in a short laugh at herself. She wiped her cheeks and looked around the parking lot. She put the car in reverse and backed out of her parking space. She put the car in drive and left the library parking lot. She turned on the radio. Tom Petty came on, singing about not backing down.

“Screw Matilda, screw Julius, Screw Roger,” she said.

She hit the accelerator and drove West.

Isn't it Outrageous

It’s outrageous this outrage

that has raged for so long,

outraging the outrageous

rage.

Appalled at the apathy,

apathetically appalling

actionable angst, antitheses

to amity and amiability.

Broke down broken hearts,

beating in bullrings of

bombastic blathering,

bludgeoning bureaucratic bedfellows.

Seems sense and sanity are shipwrecked

on some silent shore, unseen by

passing sailing vessels whose passengers

are seduced by social shuffleboard.

Outraged over whose turn it is

and starting fires in protest

over the rules, the game,

the shifting ocean currents.

They’ll sink the ship rather than

right the ballast, claiming outrage

is the only sanity when confronted

with perceived inequities.

Below decks, the steerage suffers,

while the upper decks burn from the

fires set by those in lifeboats, rowing

to the next ship.

They row, outraged there’s no

outboard motor, to speed them along.

As the ship sinks below the seas,

unsalvageable.

Outrageous.