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LITTLE GENTLE EMPTY HEAD 12/2011
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A bobbing globe rests carefully above the newborn neck
Soon strength of morning fades into darkness
Dreams are filling an empty head, drifting into afternoon
I wonder of his dreams, brand new and in the beginning
Does milk flow from an endless breast ?
Do chimes toil below a sun filled skylight ?
Where does the soul wander ?
What generates thoughts from the seen and unseen ?
The mostly unknown
Brand new and undetermined he lays like an unsolved puzzle
I can choose the placement and direction of assorted pieces
I may decide the future and his fate
He is not mine, a daughter's child, I ponder the difference
Subtle and sublime the differences mount yet the challenge remains the same
I fight to understand it all, obligation and desire, dedication and fear
Still no emotion grapples with his sleep
Peace and contentment reign, oblivious to all
Keep this time, revel in simplicity
Tomorrows bring pain, love, suffering, joy, needs and desire
The clock begins the race
The clock is not a fair measure of time
Wishing makes my dreams his own, I touch the future
Struggling mightily against the fish tugged line
The young boy laughs on grandfather's boat
Motion brings their hands together, a sudden smile and a heart filled laugh
The old man moves back in time, another hour thought forgotten
Alive the memory serves, tradition falls along the path of family
He walks the trail in a snow filled park, branches bow to the weight
Looking up the old mans face distorts, reveling in another story
Stories he won't hear at home, he smiles knowing the difference
Winter winds will not disturb the warmth they have together
Another brick into the pyramid of life
A young man sits at a worn wooden table, some marks are his own
Blood red sausages fry in a black iron pan, smells waft into the morning air
Great Great Grandmother and the mountains of Spain, she is here as well
Stuffing seasoned meat into it's own essence, long ago the mixture made
The old man brings them to the table, telling the story, adding company to the eggs
A sound, his eyes open, he sees the infant stirring
Give away what you were given, share a heart that finds what's true
Find a piece of life to live in, give the boy a part of you
Take his hand into the future; build a soul that conquers fate
Leave a legacy that's past him, hurry up it's not too late.
Lifting him I shout with purpose, Dawson Dawson, child awake!
Soon strength of morning fades into darkness
Dreams are filling an empty head, drifting into afternoon
I wonder of his dreams, brand new and in the beginning
Does milk flow from an endless breast ?
Do chimes toil below a sun filled skylight ?
Where does the soul wander ?
What generates thoughts from the seen and unseen ?
The mostly unknown
Brand new and undetermined he lays like an unsolved puzzle
I can choose the placement and direction of assorted pieces
I may decide the future and his fate
He is not mine, a daughter's child, I ponder the difference
Subtle and sublime the differences mount yet the challenge remains the same
I fight to understand it all, obligation and desire, dedication and fear
Still no emotion grapples with his sleep
Peace and contentment reign, oblivious to all
Keep this time, revel in simplicity
Tomorrows bring pain, love, suffering, joy, needs and desire
The clock begins the race
The clock is not a fair measure of time
Wishing makes my dreams his own, I touch the future
Struggling mightily against the fish tugged line
The young boy laughs on grandfather's boat
Motion brings their hands together, a sudden smile and a heart filled laugh
The old man moves back in time, another hour thought forgotten
Alive the memory serves, tradition falls along the path of family
He walks the trail in a snow filled park, branches bow to the weight
Looking up the old mans face distorts, reveling in another story
Stories he won't hear at home, he smiles knowing the difference
Winter winds will not disturb the warmth they have together
Another brick into the pyramid of life
A young man sits at a worn wooden table, some marks are his own
Blood red sausages fry in a black iron pan, smells waft into the morning air
Great Great Grandmother and the mountains of Spain, she is here as well
Stuffing seasoned meat into it's own essence, long ago the mixture made
The old man brings them to the table, telling the story, adding company to the eggs
A sound, his eyes open, he sees the infant stirring
Give away what you were given, share a heart that finds what's true
Find a piece of life to live in, give the boy a part of you
Take his hand into the future; build a soul that conquers fate
Leave a legacy that's past him, hurry up it's not too late.
Lifting him I shout with purpose, Dawson Dawson, child awake!
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All We Need 5/12 |
Henry was sleeping. The glass of half filled “Dago Red” on the bedside table held many fingerprints and smudges telling the story of one too many refills. He moved restlessly in the king sized bed, inhabiting much more space than his 200 pound body required. Light from a sun blocking set of curtains peeked around ruffled edges threatening news of morning.
Henry was having a nightmare; his mind was playing disjointed pieces of video in nonsensical sequence. Somewhere in the ocean a whirlpool was racing nowhere. Bits of garbage and plastic danced within a circle. Henry was floating at the center of this madness, arms flailing against the surge, legs flapping and kicking pieces of submerged debris.
His bedroom held memories and mementoes of a life Henry hated. Items superfluous to his needs, no accomplice to his desires. Christmas shoes, empty plastic boxes, broken holiday lights, a dog’s bowl and collar, 14 pieces from an old chess set and a glass Avon bottle formed as the presidential bust of Abraham Lincoln. Boxes lay stuffed under the raised platform of the Oriental bed. Their contents were a mystery as they hadn’t been moved in a decade. On the walls were dozens of pictures intermixed with plastic recreations of classic ornaments spray painted with gold, layered with dust.
His eyes opened as the nightmare retreated back into his unconscious brain. Looking down at his left leg and arm there was a tingling sensation. He sat up slowly and rubbed his left arm. He was very thirsty, “I forgot the water again” he thought. “Can’t drink so much wine without water.”
Rising slowly he edged off the bed. Grabbing fake vinyl moccasins and a Velour robe that made his skin itch he headed downstairs. Through the bedroom was an A framed hall, along that path were more items strewn left and right.
Children’s books, socks, pens, VHS tapes showing Jane Fonda’s ass in tights, a broken etch a sketch and plastic deer antlers. They lay in a haphazard fashion with no apparent design or purpose. He stopped a moment in their midst. “We don’t need any of this shit he thought, none of it.” It’s the monster in my closet he was thinking, under my bed, organized in the cabinets, wrapped in a blanket behind the couch. It’s on shelves in the medicine box, stuffed into the barn, behind chairs and on the floor by the vanity.
On the first floor was a huge kitchen Henry designed and had built years before when the house came into their possession through an estate sale. Mr. Dimler, the 92 year old man that had died here was a hero in Henry’s mind, he took care of everything. Nothing disturbed, even the stove and fridge were decades old but shone like new when they bought the house.
He kept a picture of Mr. Dimler on the bookshelf in the same room. It was tiny. His children had given it to him when he demanded a picture of the previous owner at settlement. Henry thought he looked dignified and purposeful, a man of his times.
The old part of the house was built in the 1950’s. He loved the plaster walls, arched entranceways, hardwood floors and crown molding. Exposed bricks from the renovations still had dark lines running through them from 50 years of rain. Henry refused to clean it off, made it look natural he thought. He paused a moment to run his hand along the brick and real pine trim he had created where the back window once stood.
Henry added filtered water to the coffee machine and waited impatiently for the first cup to run through. He was considering the argument coming in the next few minutes in the basement. His wife Susan, recently arrived home from a night shift at the local hospital. He could hear the buzz and alternating volumes of some crime drama running below.
The coffee was cheap and dark, just the way he liked it. Adding a generous splash of milk he picked a dirty fork out of the basin and stirred the coffee with the clean end. Taking a gulp he added more water to the machine. No one but Henry knew he cheated the other coffee drinkers out of a strong first cup like he had.
Morning was breaking through the large windows on the back porch built to the east. He could see the sun through a sliding glass door separating the kitchen from the porch. Yellow and red streaks were forming along the horizon, there was a breeze.
Topping off his cup and another splash of milk he headed down into the basement.
She was on the couch eating an Everything Bagel with butter and cream cheese. Her neck and face were smooth as velvet. Belying 50 years of heartbeats, kid’s softball games and a troubling 2 week search for a lost dog.
How does she do that he thought? Must be the Asian DNA, just doesn’t age the same. Black folks get that deal too.
Her feet were up and head askew peering at one of the 20 cop shows living inside the DVR. He sat across from her and drank the coffee in silence looking at nothing in particular.
“What is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. An old argument in Henry’s wakening mind was searching for an opening. Some definition or assault that would break the barrier growing 30 years between them, allow him to explain the concept while they both existed in the same place.
He sat quietly and looked at her thinking. “Poor thing, all night on her feet transporting and managing sick people for another radiation zap and test.”
He still loved her, and knew it. A good hard working woman that just didn’t understand him, couldn’t make the journey, wouldn’t spend a weekend on his 23 foot boat. Not enough shit on a 23 foot boat for her. Had to be lean to cruise the Chesapeake.
She looked away from the TV and stared at him, knowing that anything, absolutely anything could fall out of his mouth in the next few moments.
“What is it?” she exclaimed in a slightly heightened tone.
Pausing he looked directly in her eyes, taking another sip of coffee he summoned some courage and threw the dart knowing it could miss the target.
“All we need in this house is food and tampons!” he blurted out with some violence, a second line fell more carefully, “and maybe a dump truck.”
Susan did not looked shocked, “what do you mean Hen, please don’t lecture me again, I’m really tired.”
“This shit Sue, all over the house. I don’t want it and we don’t need it. $2000 dollars a month on our credit cards for what? How much of that is food and gas? The rest is shit.”
She opened her mouth to respond and Henry stood interrupting, a sharp pain travelled from the top of his left shoulder down his side and burst like a box of needles in his calf. Ignoring it he shifted weight to his right leg and spoke with some purpose.
“100 years ago we made things in this country, important things, wonderful things. A decent item in your house could cost a week’s wages, perhaps months. These things had value. They were treasured, passed on to children and grandchildren. We didn’t have 12 of them in different colors, wouldn’t have thought of it. When they broke we fixed them.”
“100 years… we…what?” she chortled.
He spoke again interrupting her.
“Today, we graze like farm animals in shopping malls while endless music plays in the background.”
“You take our girls there with those 30% off coupons, good till Wednesday if they use your credit card. But every week the same God Damn coupons are in the paper. You don’t see what they’re doing Sue. Filling our house with things I don’t want and they don’t need. And where does it go Sue, where the hell does it go when you finally get rid of this crap?”
With some difficulty Susan put down the pop up leg rest, folded her arms and responded. “I like these things Henry. This is my house, these are my kids. I work hard and I’ll buy them what I want. You cheap old bastard, you order those science fiction books that come in the mail all the time, the tools, the junk for your boat.”
Whenever there was an argument she often brought up the boat. Henry’s one luxury and the only link to his dead father and the times they had fishing and crabbing when he was a child. It was below the belt, but she was tired and it was a convenient weapon. There was a hint of shame on her face but she said nothing further.
Henry looked down at the floor and thought about his girls.
It’s the end of the world and they don’t know it. They are texting and face paging each other into oblivion. If you gave them a book they would burn it on a cold winter night. Bamboozled out of tradition, hoodwinked out of family time and frozen dinnered out of humanity.
He stood up and walked past her, pausing at the steps he remembered last night’s night mare. Henry realized he had started crying, turning towards her he began speaking very quietly.
“What isn’t piling up in our homes floods into our pastures, sickens our rivers and is swimming in a million ton whirlpool in the South Pacific where great tides from the oceans meet. It’s going to spin forever there with trash and plastic jugs that will outlive us 10,000 years. This is what you’re buying for our girls. This is what we’re doing in our home.”
Going upstairs he felt a heavy tightness in his chest, there was sweat beading up on his forehead and his left hand was numb. Walking slowly onto the back porch the dog lifted her graying head from the corner to greet him. Age is taking her he thought, it won’t be long. She stood carefully and followed him to the couch, lying by his feet.
Feeling odd and very tired he sat down and gazed out the back window as winds shifted yellow and green leaves from the trees left clinging as the last vestige of an early winter. His head fell slowly to the couch cushion, as his eyes closed his heart skipped every other beat.
Before it stopped completely Henry whispered a quiet prayer.
“Please God, let me live a simple life.”
Up in the mountains a log cabin sits next to a running brook. Windows tarnished by decades filter light into a large single room. On the floor are animal skins, the door has leather hinges. A simple oak mantle sets above a stone fireplace. In its hearth a fire dances beneath a cast iron cauldron. The wall by the mantle holds a few iron pans, a fishing rod and fading pictures of a wedding scene along a hillside. Across the room is a loft with a homemade ladder. The ladder leads to a soft cotton bed where love is made in darkness. Above the ceiling holds a simple skylight where the sun, moon and stars live exposing the heavens. Beneath the loft is a crib fashioned with pine twigs. Soft white fur separates a year old girl from her moistening bottom. In her heart she holds the dreams of her father.
The door is opening. A middle aged woman with windswept beauty is smiling and holding two rabbits and a basket of fresh blueberries. Behind her is Shadow, Henry’s Dog. He runs to greet them.
Henry was having a nightmare; his mind was playing disjointed pieces of video in nonsensical sequence. Somewhere in the ocean a whirlpool was racing nowhere. Bits of garbage and plastic danced within a circle. Henry was floating at the center of this madness, arms flailing against the surge, legs flapping and kicking pieces of submerged debris.
His bedroom held memories and mementoes of a life Henry hated. Items superfluous to his needs, no accomplice to his desires. Christmas shoes, empty plastic boxes, broken holiday lights, a dog’s bowl and collar, 14 pieces from an old chess set and a glass Avon bottle formed as the presidential bust of Abraham Lincoln. Boxes lay stuffed under the raised platform of the Oriental bed. Their contents were a mystery as they hadn’t been moved in a decade. On the walls were dozens of pictures intermixed with plastic recreations of classic ornaments spray painted with gold, layered with dust.
His eyes opened as the nightmare retreated back into his unconscious brain. Looking down at his left leg and arm there was a tingling sensation. He sat up slowly and rubbed his left arm. He was very thirsty, “I forgot the water again” he thought. “Can’t drink so much wine without water.”
Rising slowly he edged off the bed. Grabbing fake vinyl moccasins and a Velour robe that made his skin itch he headed downstairs. Through the bedroom was an A framed hall, along that path were more items strewn left and right.
Children’s books, socks, pens, VHS tapes showing Jane Fonda’s ass in tights, a broken etch a sketch and plastic deer antlers. They lay in a haphazard fashion with no apparent design or purpose. He stopped a moment in their midst. “We don’t need any of this shit he thought, none of it.” It’s the monster in my closet he was thinking, under my bed, organized in the cabinets, wrapped in a blanket behind the couch. It’s on shelves in the medicine box, stuffed into the barn, behind chairs and on the floor by the vanity.
On the first floor was a huge kitchen Henry designed and had built years before when the house came into their possession through an estate sale. Mr. Dimler, the 92 year old man that had died here was a hero in Henry’s mind, he took care of everything. Nothing disturbed, even the stove and fridge were decades old but shone like new when they bought the house.
He kept a picture of Mr. Dimler on the bookshelf in the same room. It was tiny. His children had given it to him when he demanded a picture of the previous owner at settlement. Henry thought he looked dignified and purposeful, a man of his times.
The old part of the house was built in the 1950’s. He loved the plaster walls, arched entranceways, hardwood floors and crown molding. Exposed bricks from the renovations still had dark lines running through them from 50 years of rain. Henry refused to clean it off, made it look natural he thought. He paused a moment to run his hand along the brick and real pine trim he had created where the back window once stood.
Henry added filtered water to the coffee machine and waited impatiently for the first cup to run through. He was considering the argument coming in the next few minutes in the basement. His wife Susan, recently arrived home from a night shift at the local hospital. He could hear the buzz and alternating volumes of some crime drama running below.
The coffee was cheap and dark, just the way he liked it. Adding a generous splash of milk he picked a dirty fork out of the basin and stirred the coffee with the clean end. Taking a gulp he added more water to the machine. No one but Henry knew he cheated the other coffee drinkers out of a strong first cup like he had.
Morning was breaking through the large windows on the back porch built to the east. He could see the sun through a sliding glass door separating the kitchen from the porch. Yellow and red streaks were forming along the horizon, there was a breeze.
Topping off his cup and another splash of milk he headed down into the basement.
She was on the couch eating an Everything Bagel with butter and cream cheese. Her neck and face were smooth as velvet. Belying 50 years of heartbeats, kid’s softball games and a troubling 2 week search for a lost dog.
How does she do that he thought? Must be the Asian DNA, just doesn’t age the same. Black folks get that deal too.
Her feet were up and head askew peering at one of the 20 cop shows living inside the DVR. He sat across from her and drank the coffee in silence looking at nothing in particular.
“What is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. An old argument in Henry’s wakening mind was searching for an opening. Some definition or assault that would break the barrier growing 30 years between them, allow him to explain the concept while they both existed in the same place.
He sat quietly and looked at her thinking. “Poor thing, all night on her feet transporting and managing sick people for another radiation zap and test.”
He still loved her, and knew it. A good hard working woman that just didn’t understand him, couldn’t make the journey, wouldn’t spend a weekend on his 23 foot boat. Not enough shit on a 23 foot boat for her. Had to be lean to cruise the Chesapeake.
She looked away from the TV and stared at him, knowing that anything, absolutely anything could fall out of his mouth in the next few moments.
“What is it?” she exclaimed in a slightly heightened tone.
Pausing he looked directly in her eyes, taking another sip of coffee he summoned some courage and threw the dart knowing it could miss the target.
“All we need in this house is food and tampons!” he blurted out with some violence, a second line fell more carefully, “and maybe a dump truck.”
Susan did not looked shocked, “what do you mean Hen, please don’t lecture me again, I’m really tired.”
“This shit Sue, all over the house. I don’t want it and we don’t need it. $2000 dollars a month on our credit cards for what? How much of that is food and gas? The rest is shit.”
She opened her mouth to respond and Henry stood interrupting, a sharp pain travelled from the top of his left shoulder down his side and burst like a box of needles in his calf. Ignoring it he shifted weight to his right leg and spoke with some purpose.
“100 years ago we made things in this country, important things, wonderful things. A decent item in your house could cost a week’s wages, perhaps months. These things had value. They were treasured, passed on to children and grandchildren. We didn’t have 12 of them in different colors, wouldn’t have thought of it. When they broke we fixed them.”
“100 years… we…what?” she chortled.
He spoke again interrupting her.
“Today, we graze like farm animals in shopping malls while endless music plays in the background.”
“You take our girls there with those 30% off coupons, good till Wednesday if they use your credit card. But every week the same God Damn coupons are in the paper. You don’t see what they’re doing Sue. Filling our house with things I don’t want and they don’t need. And where does it go Sue, where the hell does it go when you finally get rid of this crap?”
With some difficulty Susan put down the pop up leg rest, folded her arms and responded. “I like these things Henry. This is my house, these are my kids. I work hard and I’ll buy them what I want. You cheap old bastard, you order those science fiction books that come in the mail all the time, the tools, the junk for your boat.”
Whenever there was an argument she often brought up the boat. Henry’s one luxury and the only link to his dead father and the times they had fishing and crabbing when he was a child. It was below the belt, but she was tired and it was a convenient weapon. There was a hint of shame on her face but she said nothing further.
Henry looked down at the floor and thought about his girls.
It’s the end of the world and they don’t know it. They are texting and face paging each other into oblivion. If you gave them a book they would burn it on a cold winter night. Bamboozled out of tradition, hoodwinked out of family time and frozen dinnered out of humanity.
He stood up and walked past her, pausing at the steps he remembered last night’s night mare. Henry realized he had started crying, turning towards her he began speaking very quietly.
“What isn’t piling up in our homes floods into our pastures, sickens our rivers and is swimming in a million ton whirlpool in the South Pacific where great tides from the oceans meet. It’s going to spin forever there with trash and plastic jugs that will outlive us 10,000 years. This is what you’re buying for our girls. This is what we’re doing in our home.”
Going upstairs he felt a heavy tightness in his chest, there was sweat beading up on his forehead and his left hand was numb. Walking slowly onto the back porch the dog lifted her graying head from the corner to greet him. Age is taking her he thought, it won’t be long. She stood carefully and followed him to the couch, lying by his feet.
Feeling odd and very tired he sat down and gazed out the back window as winds shifted yellow and green leaves from the trees left clinging as the last vestige of an early winter. His head fell slowly to the couch cushion, as his eyes closed his heart skipped every other beat.
Before it stopped completely Henry whispered a quiet prayer.
“Please God, let me live a simple life.”
Up in the mountains a log cabin sits next to a running brook. Windows tarnished by decades filter light into a large single room. On the floor are animal skins, the door has leather hinges. A simple oak mantle sets above a stone fireplace. In its hearth a fire dances beneath a cast iron cauldron. The wall by the mantle holds a few iron pans, a fishing rod and fading pictures of a wedding scene along a hillside. Across the room is a loft with a homemade ladder. The ladder leads to a soft cotton bed where love is made in darkness. Above the ceiling holds a simple skylight where the sun, moon and stars live exposing the heavens. Beneath the loft is a crib fashioned with pine twigs. Soft white fur separates a year old girl from her moistening bottom. In her heart she holds the dreams of her father.
The door is opening. A middle aged woman with windswept beauty is smiling and holding two rabbits and a basket of fresh blueberries. Behind her is Shadow, Henry’s Dog. He runs to greet them.