He lie in bed
wondering about his head.
Is he this or
something else instead?
Is he the same inside
even though there
are changes to his hide?
Perhaps, he should find
some place to hide.
There used to be hair there
on that head.
Is he this or
something else instead?
He thinks he’s the same,
but he doesn’t look it
in the picture frame.
Relatives and friends
constantly take photos
with their phones.
He would rather be
left alone
to ponder with his
different-looking head,
if he is this or
something else
instead.
His faithful Chocolate Lab
loves sleeping with
his head under the bed;
the man thinks, perhaps
I should join the
dog and put my
head under the bed
while I wonder
if I am this of
something else
instead.
He climbed down
and joined the
dog head to head
and the dog’s
tail wagged
as if the dog
said,
“Whoever you are,
I’ll always love you
and your
hairless head.”

The sun shines, the temperature
is in the high seventies in late
October and the termites who have
lived in the sand outside the house
for millenia still fly up on the
window screens looking ever and
always for an invitation to dinner
on the wood in between the interior
walls. The barrier is there. “Sorry,
Charlie, you’re going to have to
try up the block or up the dune to
the high rent district overlooking
Lake Michigan. I hear they think
they are too good to be invaded.”

He lived through one tragic death
and, in time, thought that made
him a grief expert, except he
was only a teen when it happened

and he didn’t have a clue what
was happening to him. He thought
it informed his understanding and
compassion for those who went

into the dark night of the soul
in response to the death of a
loved one. Yes, by the grace of
God, he did the right things

while not really walking along
as a companion in the darkness
having been there, resurrected
and then willing to go there

again knowing that the darkness
couldn’t hold him as he held the
hand of the “hell bent” traveler.
That didn’t happen until his own

dark night came upon him in a
day and stayed and stayed and
stayed and wouldn’t go away,
staying much longer than those

around him could tolerate and
then gradually, slowly, he
began to emerge. It began when
he looked at Jesus on the cross

in his mind’s eye — Jesus knew
and Jesus was with him, holding
his hand as they both sat in
hell and then it was okay to be

in that darkness for then he
knew he wouldn’t stay and then
he knew that he could descend
on another day and that, too,

would be okay and he could
squeeze the hand of another
for whom the darkness would
not go away. And as he opened

his eyes he saw the assembly
line of all who had been hold-
ing his hand day after day
after day in the darkness

and it extended to the bright
light of heaven’s eternal day.

Arriving in 1945’s spring
I pinpointed my birth a week before FDR’s death, thus admired Eleanor & Dems.
Glad later not to join the overflowing ranks of Baby Boomers
Still in utero or merely a gleam in the future’s eye
Grew first months in home of paternal grands while father,
Stationed in England, finished WWII bombing of the enemy,
[stories retold so often that my four brothers-to-come assigned them numbers–
Dad was not of the ranks of silent survivors.]
Mother nursed me and jealousy over a bigger, better baby shower
His sister “threw” for her best friend
(Hers were at a distance, gas rationed– these facts I know)
Because when I reached 59 years and pressed, I learned of long-held bitter feelings,
Unwilling to breach into 60s hearing ‘You know what you’re like’ &
Parental looks comparable to passing Chicago dump or shellac making on then- Doty, that connector highway between Hegewisch and my homeland, Roseland.

Gertrude Stein nods knowingly: “We are always the same age inside.”.

Watching the waterfall and the
golden fish swim lazily, he looks
up at the ever so green birches,
maples and oaks.

He will leave before the inevit-
able and somewhat sad but ironic-
ally anticipated turn of the leaves
to brown, yellow, red, vermillion

with edges of black before dropping
to the pond. Soon the waterfall will
stop falling, a net will be stretched
over the pond to catch those leaves,

a bubbler will start and the fish
will cease swimming and eating and
hold themselves very still in stasis
and perfect equilibrium with the

water. It will be like this for months.
Leaves will fall into the net to be
lifted out all soggy and slippery in
the spring. Snow will fall, ice will

form on the pond and a hole will
bubble up in the ice for the sake of
the fish now in their tenth year in
the pond. He will miss all this, but

he sees it in his mind’s eye as the
fish swim to the edge of the pond
beckoning him to toss them some
food that soon they will not desire at all.

The Hollow Man loves veneer;
he loves the sculpted bodies
surgeons carved from head to toe —
everywhere;
he contorts his pate to have
some hair,
beautiful suits he does wear;
monogrammed shirts cover flabby skin
and body hair,
Dorothy’s hapless friend
with crows to scare,
had more going for him
than the Hollow Man, who
quips, “Who cares?”
At women’s bodies he does stare
and then probes and grabs and tears.
Happy when the Hollow Man’s
little friend stands at attention,
he offers, “Look at me, dear,
and show me some affection.”
The only thing that is up
is the jig, for it now has
become perfectly clear —
the Hollow Man is
only veneer;
there is nothing
to fear; under the
veneer
there is no one
there.

It’s October and the serious
campers are out in force for

what might be the last weekend
of the season — pop-ups, tents,

teardrops, some larger travel
trailers and fifth wheels,

hardly any motor homes. Those
behemoths, mastodons and dino-

saurs are winterized and put
away in storage or are on their

way at six miles per gallon to
Florida, Texas and Arizona.

Smoke billows from campfires
smelling aromatic with the last

of the seasoned wood. Folks
squint in the warmth of the

setting sun and shield the
mysteries they are reading

from the glare. They wave at
passers bye and mention that

there is a distinct chill in
the air hoping the rain will

hold off till Sunday noon when
they break camp for the last

time. They wear down vests,
jackets, parkas even waiting

for their breath to look smoky
like the fire. They know it

will be easy to put away their
little, weekend getaway homes,

but it will be sad like seeing
the last, red, maple leaf fall.

The good Father concluded
his meditation with “There
are no bad goats to expel,”

but, the man wondered, what
about the terrible goaty smell?

His wife overhearing his
rumination, stated, “That
goes for you, you old goat,
as well.”

“Perhaps, a shower is in order,”
she said with a smile,
“so I won’t have to beat you
and send you into exile.”

“But, dear,” he retorted,
“It has been my vocation
to spend time in reflection
and deep rumination.”

“While you are spending time
in your so-called ‘deep thinking,’
the dog and I agree something
is stinking.

“It’s not the dog who’s guilty,
for I give him baths dutifully.

Even he is covering his nose,
so take a shower before I get
the hose.”

“All right,” he muttered getting
up from prayer
while trying to avoid
the dog and wife’s stare.

“Sister Claire apparently didn’t mind
about Brother Francis’ noxious air,”
he muttered on the way to the shower.

“That’s because they didn’t have
any soap between the pair,”
stated his wife, who would not cower.

“Oh, all right, I guess all is fair,
in love and bad air,”
as he stepped into the shower.

“Dear, there’s no soap in the shower.
As much as I believe in prayer,
and while I think just water and prayer
have eternal cleansing power,
I don’t think you mean that kind of shower,

so if you don’t mind,
please pass the bar of Dove
and I will let it descend on my…
be…well, never mind.”

I found this quote by Fr. Richard Rohr to be particularly cogent in light of
our presidential scapegoating/race-baiting race:

If your ego is still in charge, you will find a disposable person or group on which to project your problems. People who haven’t come to at least a minimal awareness of their own dark side will always find someone else to hate or fear. Hatred holds a group together much more quickly and easily than love and inclusivity, I am sorry to say. — online meditation, Oct.13, 2016

As mercury spills out
of a broken thermometer
and runs all over in
tiny, slippery balls

impossible to retrieve,
let alone use again, so
too, some say, a fragile
republic when broken

bleeds democracy not
retrieved but away. Others
say, it is as elastic
and resilient as a bun-

gee-cord after ten thou-
sand jumps. Fragile,
resilient? The fabric
is being tested with

lack of civility, lying,
fighting, pushing, pull-
ing, straining, defaming,
obscenely reframing what

it means to be the U.S.
of A. today, pushing
people toward violence
and a dictatorial warlord

instead of a venerable
president — an executive
with legislators and
judges, a Constitutional

Trinity, framed as checks
and balances by Reformed
theology and Greek and
Roman political philo-

sophy, being tested now
with bombast, anger, frust-
ration, intemperance in-
stead of the old weapons

of civil war — will the
republic endure or will
the fabric tear, will the
test tube crack and will

the Bill of Rights run
down the proverbial,
political drain after a
mere two hundred-forty

years, a nanosecond of
civilization and fleeting
world fame?