Schrödinger’s Letter

As long as the envelope is unopened

it is both good news and bad.

Not knowing is both hopeless and hopeful,

and there is no joy in such a state.

Anticipation is a rusty blade that

slips into the gut faster than pain, but

the anticipation gives the blade a twist

and the pain is there. The twist of fate.

The autobiographical plot-twist,

and there is no end to this without

opening that damn envelope.

‘Wanting to know' battles ‘it’s better

not to know.’  Fear of not knowing

begins to hurt worse than fear of

knowing.  Eventually.  To know

‘Knowing’ is, however, the natural

death of hope.  Not knowing is the

most essential ingredient of Hope.

 

Useless Wings by tex norman

Useless Wings by tex norman

 

Some birds don't fly, but they have wings.

What that must be like to have something

that should impart an ability but it doesn't.

 

How painful it must be to want do something

that, for all apparent reasons, you should be

able to do, and yet you clearly, demonstrably

 

cannot do.  It is doubtful the turkey would be

on so many plates for Thanksgiving if they

had the gift of soaring flight.  And chickens

 

are like sitting ducks.  No. It's worse than that,

and it explains why so many are consumed

daily.  Do Penguins pensively stand patiently

 

huddled on a sheet of ice, all winter, because,

being nonflying birds, it is safer for them there?

Are Ostriches so unpredictable mean because

 

they are just so pissed off about not being

able to use the wing they were bone with?

Having a few useless gifts of my own I am

 

not totally clueless to how the might feel.

I can see the edge, and I'm thinking, do

I dare dash to the edge determined

 

to place my faith in what has failed me so

many times before?  Is my lack of faith

the flaw that keeps from from success?

 

Do I dare try to do what I've been unable

to do a dozen times before?  Is my flaw

never taking that one, no turning back try?

Schwinn

The Christmas I was 9 I got

A Schwinn, red, no basket.

By May I’d discovered

Suicide Hill.  I was the only

one calling it Suicide Hill,

but coasting down this hill

felt dangerous.  As I grew

confident, it seemed not

dangerous but thrilling.  I

reached a speed that filled me

with joy.  I was going so it felt

like I could almost leave myself

behind

which was the ultimate

relief.    For a few moments I

escaped myself

I left me behind

 I remember looking back.  I could

almost so myself panting, weary,

out of breath

free of me finally.

Dandelion Days

We are fast approaching

                                      the dandelion days

when a weed    with  a    noble history

teaches us all 
                        an important life lesson. 

From early spring to

                                  the first icy touches of winter,

the dandelion thrives. 

                      Some of us pull them,

                                               cut them

                                                    poison them

but the dandelion

                               keeps    showing up

                 holding no grudge. 

The dandelions      are 
                        just there,    
                                              alive,

                                                   flourishing,

                                                            

allowing us to observe a cycle of life

                                    we wish were ours.

Who among us would not want
                                        to survive,

                                              to thrive

                                        to live until
like the flower

                     our heads turn white, and lite
 our thoughts     are     fluffy little stars

                   
  thoughts that could be,
                            would be 
                                      will be
swept up by even the most subtle 
                                               breath of breeze,

thoughts that scattered
                              in all the obvious directions
                         landing in unexpected  places 

Each thought becomes a floating reminder

                     that we have one unequivocal  promise:

                                    
                                    life  goes  on.

Let Go

My dog is half lab which is,

as you know, short for

Labrador Retriever.  He will,

with no hesitation, run after

and retrieve whatever is thrown

but once retrieved he won’t

let go.  “Drop it!  Let Go, dog-gone-

it!”  I beg.  But he won’t let go,

he will not, no way in hell

is he going to let go despite

the fact that he delights in

chasing after whatever is thrown.

We hold on so tightly, even when

There are advantages to letting go.

Why is it so hard to let go?

Why is it so incredibly difficult

to accept nothing in exchange

for the utter bliss of the chase?

The Button Tin

My mother had a tin container

that had once held a fruitcake,

and now it held buttons.

Buttons were prized in those times.

Before an old shirt became rags,

the buttons were salvaged and placed

in the tin.  Buttons from dresses,

pants, coats, shirts, blouses,

even the eyes of a rag doll were

removed, a sort of organ donation

before the toy was laid to rest.

In the early days each button had a story.

My mother remembered the dress or

shirt a particular button came from, and

she remembered some incident that

happened while that garment was worn.

The buttons were saved out of Great

Depression fear that someday you would

need a button the size of a lady bug, and

when that day came you wouldn’t be able

to afford to buy one.  This huge tin of buttons,

many older than me, were still in her sewing

room after she died.  No one felt the need

to inherit all those buttons.  They were about

as popular as a fruitcake in late June.

Dewberries

He was old enough to explore the fields

no longer needing line of sight supervision

which is how he came across the

span of wild dewberries hugging the earth.

They belonged to no one, which allowed them

to belong to him.  He carried his baseball

cap full of bleeding berries back to his mother.

She was delighted and gave the boy

a large pan and instructions to harvest more

berries, describing what made the fruit ripe

and warning the boy to watch for snakes.

The warning turned this chore into an

adventure, this tiny additional danger, this

possibility, however slight, that he could,

maybe, just possibly die in service to his family,

he imagines how they would grieve their loss

of him, how wonderful all this was, and how

much sweeter the cobbler would be if he

managed somehow to survive.

Worries 1962

PE.  Gym.  Physical Education.  They had mandatory

nude showering.  I was worried, never having

been nude in front of anyone since the age of 5

and that was uncomfortable, memorably uncomfortable.

Would the other boys laugh at me?  Would they have hair

down there?  Would they describe my penis to girls?

“He’s got a  teeny-weeny peenie.”  Would I be the only

one with skid marks on his tighty whities?

The mysteries of puberty

were frightening and unavoidable.

Later there were new worries.

Dodge balls aimed at the balls.  My balls.

The flinch game with the mandatory

punch of the shoulder for punishment.

I learned in 1962 that worry is anticipated

pain that doesn’t always happen, or isn’t

always as bad as one would expect.

But there were days when I should have worried more.

My Last Dog

I wake to his cold moist nose

touching my arm.  Without words

with only that one touch I am touched

inside, touched profoundly, and I know

I’m needed.  I am loved.  My dog needs

to pee and he has learned not to pee

inside the house.  His need is a fundamental

need, it is a real need, but it is need permeated

with respect.  The truth is, I’ve never felt

more needed, more respected, I have never

felt this level of adoration.  At my age, this

may be my last dog.  This dog has a good chance

to outlive me.  It would be accurate to say

I saved the very best, for my last.

How to Peel A Peach

Patience:  start with the obvious,
and know there is no natural
separation of skin from flesh.

Have the right tool:  Having a knife
is not the same thing as having
a knife sharp enough to shave a peach.

It is not a contest--nor is it a race:  The goal
is to leave behind as much
peach as possible. Oh, yeah, expect

juice:  it will coat your fingers with 
something sweet, but as sticky  as
blood. Through all this peeling--remember

that the skin on a peach won't hurt you.
The fiber you peel away is actually a benefit.  
Still, you should wait to ask yourself:  

"Why do I do the things I do?"
Mostly the reasons won't matter.
Bad's good is often delicious.

HOW I'VE LIVED MY LIFE

I've lived my life like an empty
suitcase stashed in the back 
of a back closet.  I've always had 
the capacity to be filled, but I've 
not been filled.  I was designed
to go places, but I went nowhere.
My usefulness was, well, useless,
because you can't use less of what
was never used in the first place.
I've been stored away in a dark
place, longing for and loving light.