May 9, 2016 - I am Blue

I AM BLUE

I am blue

because I am bold

and no other color would do

yellow was too soft

brown was too meek

black was too serious

I am blue

because I love drama

and catching everyone’s eye

I dart and flirt

I am loud and pushy

I yell at the other birds

because I love blue drama

I am blue

because I am aggressive

green was too passive

white was too shy

grey was too quiet

red was already taken

unfairly

but no matter

because I am blue

I am blue

because I am loud

my voice is a flute

but I can imitate the hawk

because I am very smart

what’s mine is mine

and what’s yours is mine

I take what I want

and I can use tools

but mostly

I am simply blue

May 8, 2016 - Seventy Years

Was it worth it?  When man became separate from the animals, when he became “different,” was it worth losing his freedom?  As soon as he could talk and thereby transfer his thoughts and receive the thoughts of others, a bridge was crossed and then immediately burned.  There was no going back.  He had gained the knowledge of good and evil, of discrimination and judgment, and he had lost the peace of the animals.

Twenty years.

Forever after, a part of him would always long for the simplicity of the beginning, for the eternal garden, which could only be found upon his final resting place in the old Potter’s Field.  It was all gone, and he gave it up so easily, without even a thought.  He tossed aside the ability to just “be” for the domination of the world.  For power and control.  But he did not know it was his own soul that would be in chains.

Whole civilizations came and went and came again.  Massive structure were built and crumbled and built again.  Every comfort and ease that could be imagined was created and enjoyed and glutted upon.  Everywhere was the mark of man.  The animals--once cousins--were all but forgotten except for how they could serve the ever-growing needs of man.  Their precious freedom, maintained to this day, was misunderstood and then forgotten altogether.

And for how many years?  Man has perhaps 60 to 100, usually 70-something.  Seventy odd years of survival, so much more than most animals.  Seventy years!  Such a long time!  Yes, 70 years with the continual voice of man’s command echoing in his own ears.  Seventy years of separation from the Source.  Seventy years of obeying and working.  Seventy years of guilt and working.  Seventy years of pride and working.  Seventy years of fear and working.  Seventy years of working and working.

As opposed to . . . one, five, 10, perhaps 15 years?  How many years of freedom?  Of running in the forest?  Of flying in the heavens?  Of swimming in the ocean?  Of living as opposed to survival?  Did you say one year?  Or two?  Or ten?  Or is it even just a few days of blessed freedom to simply be?  Is it so little?  Or can even a few days be an eternity?

Was it worth it?  Most would say yes if they understood at all.  Me?  I’m not so sure about that.  The gulls on the shore tell me a different story, and I am inclined to believe them.  They scream their odd song of freedom for 20-something years.  The pursuit for a bridge back continues here in Maine.

May 7, 2016 - Ghost Ports

The posts you see at low tide are just ghosts now.  There aren’t many left, and those that are left are shredded and worn-away pieces of ghost wood.  These ethereal posts dot the shores of Maine everywhere.  They can only be seen at low tide.  At high tide, they disappear and all is right with the world again.

But low tide always comes around again to show the ghosts.  These posts are all that is left of old docks and platforms along the ocean.  There are only a few in this photo, but in some areas, there are dozens of oddly-shaped pieces of jagged wood sticking up from the sometimes ocean floor.

Ghosts on the shore.

They look exactly like tombstones and, in fact, they serve the same purpose.  Like tombstones, they wear away and become old and crooked with time.  The wooden posts will disappear before the tombstones, but in the end, they both go to the same place.  Here lies Elijah Cook, gone to ground in 1797.  Here lies all that is left of a once-thriving port, gone to ground in 1879.

The old ports were such important places.  They were filled with people and traffic, albeit horses and carriages.  Men rushed back and forth along the docks, loading and unloading ships.  Valuable exports were sent on their way; essential imports were gladly taken ashore.  Business thrived!  People lived and died, directly and indirectly, due to the hub-bub at these ghost ports.

Now they’re all gone.  Perhaps a better port was built elsewhere.  Perhaps business slowed down as people moved into and out of different areas.  Perhaps new ways of transport were developed.  Who knows what brings about the ghosts?  We only know that they always come.

They always come, the ghosts do.  Dead people and dead ports and dead interests.  The ghosts always come.  The living are reminded by the jagged spikes that are revealed at low tide of how frivolous all of our well-made plans really are.  When it’s all said and done, everything goes to ground.

May 6, 2016 - But Then Came the Sun

BUT THEN CAME THE SUN

But then came the sun

and what did it matter?

Yesterday’s tears flew like the wind

scattered as leaves

blown to the four quarters

bowing to the mighty sun

to the Golden King.

Then came the sun!

Beautiful and warm and strong

and fierce--he was fierce!

Aflame with passion!

The birds sang

the animals leapt for joy

the people bowed their heads.

In reverence

in holy reverence

in sacred love

in the embrace of light

in the presence of divinity

the ancient and Shining One

the First.

The sun has come!

Don your finest!

Skip to the dance!

What is darkness?

What does it matter?

The sun is here!

Long live the King!

May 5, 2016 - Every Man is an Island

It was John Dunne who said that “no man is an island,” reasoning that we are all part of the whole, part of each other.  But there are times when I stare out into the fog, and I believe that every man is an island.  Sometimes the fog is physical, as in this photo.  Oftentimes it is an emotional occurrence.  I know for myself that I often walk around shrouded in a mist even on the sunniest of days.

Shrouded in mist . . .

The fog prevents us from seeing the others.  John Dunne might argue that it doesn’t matter if we can see them or not because we operate as a whole, and what happens to the one happens to the many.  He might argue that the idea of us being separate entities is an illusion.  Perhaps on a gentler day I would agree with him.  But there are times . . .

Standing on the foggy shore, the light burns and yearns to break through, but the fog holds.  There’s not a soul around.  There never is.  I think everyone stands on the foggy shore, peering out into the gloom, trying to reach the light.  Reaching and failing, becoming encompassed by the mist.  We are all alone.  There are over seven billion people in the world, and we are all alone.

And there is a bell that tolls.  Here on the ocean, it always tolls, an old clanking bell echoing in the distance.  I can never figure out where it comes from, but yes, it tolls for me.

May 4, 2016 - The Line in the Sand

To draw a line in the sand is to take a stand.  It’s a message to the world and a promise to yourself that says, “This is as far as I will go and no further.  This is as far as I will let you come.  This is where I say enough.”  Drawing a line in the sand is a physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual ultimatum issued to others, but more importantly, it is an ultimatum you issue to yourself as well.  This is where I do or die.

Many people flip flop back and forth so much these days that their decisions are actually only temporary ideas, whims that are whisked away with the slightest breeze, the slightest change in trends.  And each time they let one of their decisions fly away like dandelion fluff--no matter how small the issue might be--they weaken their ability to make real and hard choices and then stand by them.  Instead, with each passing broken decision, their will to resist and defend becomes more and more transparent until it disappears entirely.

The line has been drawn.

It’s a grave matter, to draw a line in the sand.  It’s not something that’s done every day, nor should it be.  It’s usually something done when all other options have been exhausted and all attempts at compromise have been annihilated.  It’s a decision borne out of desperation but levelheadedness.  I have made my choice.  Whether I stand or fall is immaterial at this point.  This is where I have placed my loyalties and beliefs.

You may recall J.R.R. Tolkien’s character Gandalf in the book “The Fellowship of the Ring” when he was fighting against the Balrog, a horrifying creature shrouded in darkness and fire.  When they confronted one another on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, Gandalf drew a proverbial line in the sand.  He said, “You cannot pass!”  (The movie changed the words to “You shall not pass!”)  He had reached his limit as to what evil he would allow to pass into the world.

You may also recall that the Balrog did not pass but fell from the broken bridge.  On his way down, however, his whip grabbed Gandalf and dragged him into the abyss.  And that was the end of Tolkien’s brave character who took a final stand and drew a line in the sand.  Except it wasn’t the end.  Gandalf disappeared for a long time but came back as a changed, more powerful, even wiser character.  It seems that drawing his line in the sand and being willing to die for it was a test that he passed, and in passing that test, he grew profoundly.

I have brought up characters from a fantasy novel on purpose because it’s easier for us to accept that fantasy characters deal with pure good and evil, right and wrong, life and death than it is to accept that we deal with the very same issues.  In our own world, those dramatic issues are often quite dulled for us (intentionally) by the media and our electronic gadgets.  The idea of who we are and what we stand for can become so cloudy and confusing for even the strongest person.  Day in and day out, our senses are dulled further in a purposeful effort.

But deep down inside, if we care to look, if we examine our own weaknesses, we can still find where our loyalties and beliefs lie or should lie.  It’s difficult to get to that part of ourselves because once we find it, we also find that we have to do something about it.  We have to draw the line in the sand, and we have to be willing to defend that line at all costs.

At all costs, we have to defend it.  Otherwise, it isn’t a line at all.  Otherwise we stand for nothing.  Otherwise we can and will be trampled upon and destroyed by the rest of the world, by the Balrog disguised and dressed in high fashion, toting politically correct laws that strike as hard as the whip on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

Drawing a line in the sand is not done lightly.  It is not done willy-nilly over every tiny choice that comes our way.  It is done over the bare basics and fundamental reasoning that make us who we are.  It is done when our core beliefs are threatened, when we are in danger of losing our souls.

By all means, draw a line in the sand.  But do not take that line lightly.  Once you draw it, you cannot undraw it.  If you do not defend it, you allow yourself to weaken.  If you do not stand by your word, no one else will stand with you.  So make sure that your line is a real line, a line you issue to defend your way of life, a line you are willing to uphold to the end.  This is not about stubbornness.  Remember:  When the line is drawn, all other choices and attempts at cooperation have already been extinguished.  The line is the final resort.

But by all means, do draw the line.

May 3, 2016 - Sunless Days

Some days I’m not really sure where the sky ends and the water begins, and even if I know, I’m not sure it matters.  The world is one big canvas of grey, and the trees haven’t leafed out yet, so it almost feels like another realm, a shadow world.  Staring out into the ocean, it’s easy to get lost in thoughts.

The sun is completely hidden.  If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was banished.  Maybe I don’t know better and it has been banished.  It’s not hidden behind a cloud that seems somewhat lighter while the rest of them are dark and forbidding.  It’s not struggling to break through layers and layers of mist.  There’s not a tiny patch of it shimmering through momentarily here and there.  You couldn’t point up to the sky and say, “There it is!  There!  I see it behind that mass of clouds!”

In between.

You couldn’t find its location anywhere no matter how long you stared at the sky.  It simply isn’t there.  It’s gone.  Where it has gone is anyone’s guess, but I do think that the struggle between the Sun King and the Lord of Winter is much more complex than we realize.  Each has his particular strength at his particular time, but there are strange things that happen in the ether on a day like this, and you can feel it.  Alliances are made and broken and made again, and sometimes barriers can be crossed when they shouldn’t.

What lights up the world when the sun is gone?  What makes that strange, grey, all-permeating glow up in the sky?  The one that seems almost fake, like turning on a fluorescent light?  Whatever it is, it doesn’t have the same energy as the sun.  Surely the sun, as powerful as it is, could still slip its energy to us through the thickest of clouds.  But on a day like this, the dial is set to zero.  The sun has been turned off.

But there are other things I can feel out there on a day like this, strange and odd energies.  They’re a part of us, though; we just don’t like to acknowledge them.  We can’t always bask in the light.  There is darkness, too, but most especially that great and yawning stretch of grey where anything is possible.  You can almost see shimmering here and there, on the edges, where the veil has worn thin, where the “field” is not as solid.

Be careful going there.  Things are not always what they seem.  Alliances are made to be broken, and sirens abound.  Then again, that might be just what is needed.  The balance requires embracing the opposite.

May 2, 2016 - Reminders

REMINDERS

Memories left here and there

small reminders

or not so small

old and tattered

falling apart

broken and patched

and broken again

to remind us

or better yet, haunt us

I was here

long before you ever existed

I was here

we thrived

there were many of us

you think you invented it all?

we came and conquered, too

bricks and stones and mortar

crumbling

the trees the same

perhaps moved a foot or two

but the same

the ducks and the river

everything the same

with a spattering of man.

May 1, 2016 - A Plain House

There’s a deep-seated need within mankind to create art.  Even those who say they couldn’t create art if their life depended on it, do it every day.  For some, it may just be the neat arranging of towels or a particular cleanliness or a chaotic mess, in which they know where every single thing is located.  Or it may just be the artful arranging of food on a dinner plate.  It’s true that some must try harder than others to invoke art and some are just “naturals,” but there is a real need for art in the human spirit.

Placed just so.

I haven’t got any oil paintings in my house.  There are no special display lights on the walls gently titled toward a masterpiece.  There are no frescoes.  There are no elegantly designed flower displays.  There are no pieces of special pottery or porcelain gracing specially made cabinets.  There are no sculptures with provocative recessed lighting casting the shadows just so.  It is a plain house for a plain woman.

But there is art everywhere.  You just have to know how to look for it.  It could be a curtain rolled and tied back a certain way.  It could be racks of spices ordered according to color instead of name or use.  It could be the soft flicker of oil lamps, which I prefer at night because the glare of electric lights hurts my eyes.  And candles arranged ever so discreetly . . .

Or wood.  It could be wood.  Mother Nature doesn’t need any help from me in decorating the world.  She does a fine job on her own, and the finite has no right to go about informing the infinite.  But when she turns her back, I find myself unable to resist a bit of whimsy.  It’s not designed to be noticed, per se, but to dry the wood effectively and then use it gratefully.  It is, after all, a plain house for a plain woman, but there are rumors about the eccentric occupant.