The Box Sat On The Doorstep

The box sat on the doorstep;
it was Christmas. The kids
opened the box when they
heard the whining and
scratching. It was a puppy
— a little, brown fur ball.
Can we keep it? Where did
it come from? It has to go
to the dog pound. No, no,
please. Sorry. Placed in a
metal cage the puppy whined
and whined and scratched
and lived in his poop which
mixed with his food. And
one day the little fur ball
was heard from no more,
and it was assumed he was
put down and it was said
it was for the best because
there are too many dogs
anyway. Then one day the
now older children heard
scratching at the door and
when they opened it, there
sat a big, beautiful chocolate
lab; it was the little fur
ball only now a majestic
dog, the very presence of
the God of Dyslexia.

Sometimes Timing Is Everything.

Sometimes timing is everything.
I took a hiking stick to the car
along with a few other things
to be taken to the second-hand
store because I have a gazillion
hiking sticks, a few of which I
use for hikes and jogs in the
desert and on the trails along
the big lake back home. A
car was parked outside another
condo and the passenger side
door was open and the horn
was blaring. I stopped to see.
The owner of the condo was
trapped in the passenger seat
having fallen back in after
unloading some groceries.
She screamed, “Help me. I’m
trapped and can’t breathe.”
Well, wondering how on earth
this could have happened but
realizing something had to
be done and being no dummy, I
warned the particularly large
neighbor that in order to help
her I would have to put my
hands in places she wouldn’t
normally allow, she replied,
“I’m dying here already.
Just do it!” Just do it —
like the Nike advertisement
and being more athletic
than she, which isn’t saying
much, I did it and extricated
her from her dire predicament.
I asked her if she would like
to have a really nice, wood,
hiking stick to help her get
around. Catching her breath,
she said yes and I went and
got it out of the trunk
for her.

A Blaze of Gory

It has been a part of my life,
my whole life, well, for as

long as I can remember, be-
cause, as I remember, I am

part of the first T.V. gen-
eration and that means “shoot

‘em ups,” downs, sideways,
any old way you can look at

it from Lash Larue to Audie
Murphy at the end of WWII to

Hopalong Cassidy, too and
that is exactly what we

did and still do daily and
nightly as we stare at the

tube and You-tube and video
games and who’s to blame?

Wrong question. We’ve been
obsessed with death since

day two when Cain slew Abel
and asked, “Am I my brother’s

keeper,” which was rhetorical,
of course, even if he didn’t

know it, because, of course,
he was and we should be,

too, but unfortunately for
me and you, we still blast

them through and through
and through until we are

through, which begs the
question, “Are we through?”

which is rhetorical, too.
and this is the end of our

less than magnificent story:
Here Lies The Human Race,

Which Went Out In A Blaze
of Gory.

Volcanic Vicissitudes, A Poem by Vicki VanEck Hill

I needed a toaster
He sent new pillow; in summer: flannel winter sheets
When I needed comfort
Returns were at best bittersweet

Volcanic vicissitudes erupt
Or unseen, he’ll depart
Before a dear one’s funeral –
This re-broke my heart.

Had me wondering for years
Self-doubt, shedding tears
Because I could previously discuss,
Pull yarns from tangled muss

When I was ill, we’d eat wordless in same room
Left all day to myself I watched clouds reflect gloom
Till my body left little choice
Spirit discerned I had heard another’s–not God’s –voice

Isn’t it rich, as days stumble, months fly
All he’d not do then he now codifies?
If we women take French leave
Why do we worry? He’ll feel deceived, yet relieved!

August, 2016

Crossing the Bridge, a poem by Vicki VanEck Hill

“Burn the bridge” my brother said!
I’d only mentioned that we’d crossed it
Once we had infatuation, then love, I’d thought,
But through the years we’d lost it.

I told folks who quizzed that we’d crossed the Bridge,
Not burned it: “Big Mac” to be specific
Recent days God returned my joy and purpose
Really, I feel spirited, terrific.

Yet should I feel guilt, remorse losing stress:
Hundreds of miles to create a new home?
Each day departure sadness becomes less
I know he’ll never here roam!

For up farther north Mr. Wonderful
Now is host without guest, alone in huge house the while;
Friends repeated from the start:”Keep your cat, lose the man,”
Some few memories funny, dear: shaking off heartdust, I smile.

Jenison, Nov.29, 2016

They Sit And Stare Lovingly At Each Other

He sits and stares at
his chocolate lab as
his chocolate lab
stares back at him.
He wonders what it
would be like to be
big, brown, furry
with huge paws. He
doesn’t think his
lab wonders what it
would be like to be
a white, fairly hair-
less creature. The
dog just loves the
creature who could
be brown, black, red
or yellow for all
the dog cares and
that may be why some-
times God is visible
in dyslexic form
even with bad breath
or maybe because
of it.

The More Things Change the More They Remain the Same

Signs of the times — morning headlines:

President-elect’s choices for
cabinet positions are white,
Wall Street elites.

White police officer exonerated of
all charges in killing unarmed
black man, signaling again
defeat of the accrete.

Nothing is coming together;
it’s still all falling apart;
poor whites get betrayed
and blacks are told to depart.

It’s America’s creed —
fear, raw power and greed.

Of All The Nerve

300 some million auto-
reflective, auto-reflexive,
individualistic responses
sent into cyber space
at a rapid pace tell us
that community in any
meaningful way is going
away. She pulled into the
spot fast, fast tracked
into the post office,
barged her way past the
lengthy line without an
“excuse me,” went up to
the counter, said some-
thing while still on
the phone, turned, left
in a hurried pace, opened
the door of her big SUV
which just shouted “Look
out! I’m here,” and the
door bounced off the car
next to it. She didn’t
know there was an occupant.
The person in that car
blew the horn and told
her to be more careful.
She said, without apology,
there wasn’t much room
between the vehicles.
She was careless as Nick
told Gatsby that Tom and
Daisy were careless. In
their lack of community,
in their privilege, in their
elitism, they couldn’t care
less about the consequences
of their actions on others.
She pulled out of the space
almost hitting a car and
drove away while texting
something to some Miley
Cyrus look-alike about
some bitter, old bag/hag who
had the nerve to bother her.