who can listen to barber’s adagio for strings

and not experience again whatever pain

and suffering life brings?

i listen and see, without a glimmer of hope,

the passion and the finality of death

echoed in the final notes.

the sweep of good friday from beginning

to end sends thoughts rushing again

of my own suffering,

but there is the hesitancy and doubt

of saturday and eventually easter

and light throughout.

without those notes how would I get there?

without friday and saturday why

would i for others even dare

to enter into their lives and offer care

and, together, hope upon the light to stare?

When I see overly indulgent parents

pampering their children

who, in the store, cause strife,

I want to quote the Franciscan monk

and shout from the roof top, “Life

is not about you; you are about life.”

But said parents, who think the sun rises

and sets on the heads of their progeny

as well as their own backsides,

while the monk’s wise words fly by,

would tell me just to buzz off and

find a rock under which to hide.

And so, with less than charity,

I pray for lightening to strike

but my wise wife then says,

“Let’s just go for a nice hike,”

proving, once again, she’s right.

I have to confess that I, too, do think

I am the center of life.

Oh, how I wanted, at those folks, to holler

but discretion really is the better part of valor.

Perhaps, one day, I, too, shall avoid strife

and realize that life is not about me

but I am to be — about life.

An early memory, he recalls following,

after school, a friend from fourth grade

in a direction away from home – an ad-

venture around a small park with a canon

in the center. He remembers jumping up

on the base and patting the cold steel be-

fore jumping back down in the cool, aut-

umn air thinking he better head home. His

heart beat fast away from the safe, known

way home – the first thrill of adventure.

He recalls in seventh grade crossing Halsted

Street and heading to the creek and wanting

to be an Indian rather than a cowboy be-

cause he loved the stories and pictures of

Indians in birch bark canoes he read about

in books in his grandmother’s parlor while

the family sat around the kitchen table drink-

ing coffee. Decades upon decades and advent-

ures upon adventures later, he loves to jog

and hike along the trail, the winding path

through the forest, along the desert, by the

inland sea, across the sand dune, up the

mountain, back and back and back to his

roots, their roots, the roots.

The wet, cold wind

interloping

upon a much too short

summer flees

momentarily

leaving a dry, brisk breeze

and the ever-beckoned

sun

makes a surprise

visit on Sunday saving

the otherwise

lost weekend.

The two play and cavort

in the afternoon

ducking and hiding and

reappearing

among the blowing branches

of pine, oak, beech and poplar.

A couple hikes near

the Big Lake.

Their Chocolate Lab

sneezes in the breeze,

listens to trees

and then romps

down the trail

as the sun teasingly

begins to flee

and the breeze,

all alone, retreats

to the inland sea.

He flips through the

glossy pages of

emaciated boy-toys who,

the day before the shoot,

probably hung

around corners, but for

the shoot are

wearing gazillion dollar

pants, underpants,

shorts, shirts, suits, boots,

big, big boots, and

dress-like

things that hang off

skinny, bony shoulders

seemingly,

seductively alluring

elderly men who fondle

the slick, slippery pages

on a Sunday morning;

clunky, fat-soled

leather shoes in a circle

on the page ranging in price

from $495 to $1495 either

clockwise or counter clock-

wise; a big, strong,

beautiful, blond, woman

athlete

staring straight

out from the page

almost defiantly at

those same old men;

a story of black

market trade in

dead, taxidermied, all

gussied up, heading for

extinction, rare animal

species

who will find a home

on floors,

pedestals and

walls of dark paneled

rooms almost never

entered for fear

of discovery, except

once in a while,

by men who feel

sexual arousal in

the anticipation of

just turning the

door knob;

and then, right,

smack-dab

in the middle of all

the garishness and

tawdriness, which

cost a tree or

two their lives,

a lovely, little poem of

a family picnic on

a sunny, summer

afternoon.

It’s everywhere

today

not just yesterday,

local, tribal deities

proliferate

justifying

local, tribal wars

of hate.

St. Paul got the

big picture in

verse after verse

pointing to

an all connected

universe,

not just light

from above

but transcendent

and immanent

selfless love,

so though

wars and rumors

persist,

take heart,

keep faith,

do not evil resist,

follow Jesus, the

Buddha, Lao

Tzu,

other

messengers,

and poets

too,

care not

to survive

but in the love of

the Cosmic Christ

abide.

Sometimes he is so excited

to put pen to paper

and drop a thought on a line

before it’s just a vapor

and forget a thought so fine;

to the computer he does rush

before his brain is total mush

and types a relatively

coherent rhyme.

“Time after time

I tell myself that I’m

so lucky to be loving

you,” he hums and

sings loving the rhyme

and thinks

he’s a man,

out of time,

belonging to a

time

of sweet, romantic

jazz, lyrics one

can understand

and tears of mercy and

forgiveness and the

sweet, sweet love of

a wonderful

woman.

St. Paul took aim at Pax

Romana tickling Caesar

in the soft spot

below the breast-plate and

belt and just above the

mail protecting his member

and said to the Roman church,

Gird up your loins with

truth, (not Caesar’s, baby –

the un-truth of terror, but

the truth of self-sacrificial

love, the power of the

Cosmos)…take the breast-

plate of righteousness

(not just right livin’, baby,

but justice livin’,

not just about you

not misbehavin’

but about

you collectively livin’

justly with others)…put

on the shoes of peace (not

Caesar’s pox of no-peace

on people,

but the peace that passes

the

warring world’s under-

standing,

the kind the world doesn’t

get or want,

apparently,

the peace between me and

thee — the peace that

refuses to fight and turns

the other

cheek and says, “Go ahead;

hit me with your open fist,

sir, not the back of your hand

and show the world that

I’m your equal,”

and gives the coat,

and puts clothes on the naked,

visits the prisoners, feeds the

hungry, tends to the sick

and sings, “I ain’t gonna study

war no more.”)

…take the shield of faith

(that lets you lay down

your sword and shield of

steel down by the riverside

and open your heart

and arms, not that which

harms, in courage)…take

the helmet of salvation (not

Caesar’s salvation, which

subjects the subjects but

which lifts up life over

death

and destruction) and

pray, pray, pray not

slay, slay, slay.

And the Roman Church

shouted, “Jesus, the poverty

stricken, peace lovin’, itinerate

preacher, teacher,

healer is

our Lord and Savior,

not Caesar,”

who lay on

the ground still laughin’

from St. Paul’s ticklin’ stick

and he couldn’t get up

because of all

that heavy

armor.

Don’t yield,

don’t buckle,

don’t be goaded

by the sheep in wolves’

clothing, trying to

look and talk so

tough, the hawkish

chickens clucking all

around the senate floor

and on all the Sunday

morning news shows

leaving little white and

black sticky piles

behind.

Don’t inhale the

histoplasma

rising up

in the house. Out

fox the foxes who

want to invade

the hen-house

again, and again

and again and

again.

Don’t put your

cojones

on the chopping

block.

Don’t let the

foolish farmers

in the smelly

barn snip, clip and

singe you only

to have you

run back to

the litter and

get crushed

when the sow

rolls over on you.

Just

hang tough.

Don’t cross your

legs like limbs

on a bush.

Keep the peace.

Don’t be a pox

on the house

by seeking Pax

Romana, that

which shatters

life and limb

to pieces

and burns

down the

barn.