Monthly Archives: July 2017

Quiet Desperation

It’s more than just a writer’s block that has stopped me.

This malaise has reached into every aspect of my life,

Work, hobbies, relationships

All halted for the time.

What is left is a narration

to describe where I am without artifice.

 

Artifice, malaise, labored word choices

Hiding the frustration.

Used to mask the transition from mid-life to…

Change in hair styles, earring, trip to a place of my youth,

Hitchhiking, climbing mountains, performing again.

 

All of these things cannot hide the fact

that my life

to this point

has been unexceptional.

 

I wanted to be so much more

by this time

in my life.

 

Friends would say,

You have done a lot

You are teaching and helping to mold future generations,

You have a good job, a car, a dog

You’re contributing to society.

You have great kids

You’re a wonderful, caring father.

Consider yourself lucky!

 

And I thank them for their kind

And generally truthful words

But is that what I really wanted

Or are these situations that I have fallen into

And did well because I do things well?

 

Is it time to make a break?

But what do I break from?

What do I break to?

 

I stop myself.

There’s fifteen years left on my mortgage.

And three years of car payments.

 

I sit at the coffee shop,

Quietly, desperately drinking my

Iced coffee, no sugar syrup, soy milk,

Watching the other patrons

Fiercely living their unexceptional lives.

 

Teenage girls debating whose parent is worse.

The business person conducting deals while surfing the internet.

The gym junkie with Yahweh tattooed on his arm.

Did he even read the bible?

The old testament forbids tattoos.

Is he taunting the god of the ancient Hebrews or praising him?

Why is this even a question that I am concerned with?

 

I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs,

“Wake up people, time is fleeting, and your days have almost passed.

If you do not hurry, you will soon find yourself,

Rudderless,

Drifting on the angry sea with no hope of salvation!”

 

I stop myself. The words sound stupid.

My thoughts sound stupid as soon as they are formed.

Besides those words seem more for me than them.

 

My head hurts.

Face falling hopelessly into my hands.

Good catch, again and again.

 

I rub my temples

I close my eyes.

But my helplessness does not go away.

It remains although I cannot see the people.

I still hear them.

Hearing the music that is supposed to be hip.

The clamor of the too, too caffeinated child not much out of diapers

But who is frequently offered too much sugar,

As a bribe for his silence,

By overweight caregivers

Who consume too much sugar and too much caffeine.

 

But who am I to disparage these people?

Maybe somewhere is this confusion

There are the seeds of exceptionality.

Maybe thirty, forty years ago

I was sitting in a bar, or restaurant, or park,

And I was given the magic beans.

I did not see the value of them.

And I tossed them away.

Tossed them away without a moment’s thought.

Which in an instant condemned me to this coffee shop.

 

How many seeds did I throw away?

How many chances have I missed?

How many chances do I have left?

 

The shop has quieted down.

The preacher trying to save

The Yahweh boy sits quietly

As his student uses the bathroom.

An old woman waits for her husband to bring their tea

Lost in a bitter sweet moment that they once shared.

The barista stares at a syrup dispenser.

The rush has ended and his mind is drifting

Only for a moment

Before his shift comes from the back

And he snaps to attention again.

 

My headache has receded for the moment

The voices have grown softer.

They never go away.

They are the ghosts of the dreams

I once had.

Reminding me of the greats things

I planned to accomplish.

Reminding, chiding, taunting.

Never letting me forget.

I have more things to do.

I get up to go

Walk over to the condiment bar

To throw away my cup.

 

I stop

On the counter

Are three coffee beans

Three seeds.

 

I smile

Maybe there is still time.

Maybe.

I pick them up and put them in my pocket.

 


The Leprechaun II 070517

We don’t believe in leprechauns anymore,

And that is sad for them.

We all need to be believed in.

 

No one to bother them as they ply their trade,

Cobbling their shoes for fairies feet.

But every once in a while,

I bet they look over their shoulder,

Thinking that they heard a person,

Creeping, sneaking up to catch them,

And demand their treasure.

After a moment,

The feeling passes.

They let out a mournful sigh,

Continuing their lonely work,

Undesired and unloved.

 

We don’t believe in leprechauns anymore,

And that is sad for us.

We all need something magical to believe in.

 

Instead, we Google our magic away,

Replacing hope and desire,

With meaningless symbols,

On lighted screens.

We have leprechauns dancing

On our souvenir shot glasses,

Which we fill to forget,

The magic we once believed in.

 

Was there a time

When we ventured

Into the dark forest alone

To capture the elusive sprite

And bring back the pot of gold

To our unbelieving parents?

 

There must have been a time

When the world was full of enchantments.

And every tree, and every leaf, and every stone

Was filled with wonder,

Waiting to be picked up

And studied as they slowly reveal

Their mysteries to us.

 

We don’t believe in leprechauns anymore,

And that is sad, so sad.

Without these lessons in

Faith and Hope and Desire,

Is it possible to truly love?


Cafe Americano

She asked me if I found what I was looking for on those lonely green hills of Ireland. I smiled one of those sad smiles I’ve grown accustomed to wearing in recent years.

No, I said, it was never there to be found.

I looked into her kind face that used to smile more freely.  She turned away.

I turned away as well, directing my attention to my Cafe Americano, a thin band of foam clinging desperately to the rim of the now empty cup.

So you didn’t find yourself? She asked smiling, sensing it was safe to return, gently chiding my empty reasons for returning to the emerald isles.

I was never there either, not completely.  An empty shell, wandering, looking, hoping.  Eventually disappointed in my quest and in myself.  Returning to the old ways without epiphany.

Epiphanies usually take longer than a week.

The build up, yes. The preparation could take a lifetime.  The actual moment, instantaneous. Like seeing your true love’s face, her smile.

She turned away from me again.  Her smile no longer mine. And I turned back to my Cafe Americano.  The thin band of foam, now dried, encrusted, fossilized in its desire to return to a happier past, a completion no longer its own, a warm, creamy, bitter cup of coffee.