What more do we need to know that T.V.

is phony-baloney than the image of a

beautiful couple in bed,

waking, stretching, embracing,

open-mouth kissing and

talking face to face?

Excuse me, darling, while I grab

four Listerine breath strips —

two for me and two for you

before heading to the finals.

They were interviewed in their

kitchen. Actually, we were, too.

A reporter asked to interview us,

newly wedded widowers, seven-

teen years ago. We said sure. He

took a photo and the article appear-

ed in the human interest section

of the weekend edition of the

local paper. This, however, was

about a T.V. ad with incredibly

attractive actors trying to look like

ordinary, middle-age folk just hang-

ing out in their super cool kitchen

while being a bit disheveled, but

still really, enviably, cool looking

while extolling the virtues (Was

that a twinkle in his eye and a

smirky smile on his face?) of a

vitamin for the over fifty-five

crowd. I wondered if a film crew

would show up in our very contemp-

orary kitchen, much more contemp-

orary than the one in the photo seven-

teen years ago, to film me and my wife

if we started consuming these vitamins.

Um, probably not.  No, definitely, not,

but, hey, we had our day in the sun,

really, informally, disheveledly cool

for our little town.  I still have a

copy, somewhere. I think. Honey!

What is it with some

Animal shelter

People?

They seem so abrupt,

In a hurry and

Defensive,

On top of everything

They expect in

applications.

Are these the best

Society has to

Offer

To be caring for

Strays, and the

Abused?

They are rude if

You don’t hurry

Up

And do things

Their

Way.

Maybe, they are

War weary and

Have

Developed a hatred

Of the very

Species

That could offer

Safety and succour —

Homo sapiens.

Yes, the species that

Inflicted the damage

In

The first place. Maybe

Animal shelter

people

Are shell-shocked and

Strike at the ones who

Could

Help — maybe they are

The medics of the

Animal

Kingdom suspicious

Of the motives of

Those

Waving the white flag.

Maybe, they have

Been

At it too long and

Have seen too

Much

And suffer from post-

Traumatic doggie

Shock

Syndrome. I’ve been yelled

At by dog shelter

People

For not standing attention

And saluting –

And

All I wanted to do

Was rescue a

Dog.

I tried to tell them,

I’m not the bad

Guy,

Who did the damage,

But I’m so confused;

Maybe

It’s my past catching

up and it’s karma

again.

We all have some

Things in our

Past….

I’m so sorry; all

I wanted to do was

Adopt

A lonely dog. Maybe

They are saying,

“Wait,

Just a minute, Bub.

We know human

Nature.”

So, I yield and so

Do, you,

Too.

When we met for coffee, he was excited

to tell us of his daughter, the recent

high school grad, who had just finished

top of her basic training class.

He glowed as he described that military

graduation and especially the heart warming,

inspiring Protestant worship service. They

filed in, straight-backed, disciplined kids

marching to the beat of the only drummer

in town, sat, stood and sang hymns and

when the “Individual Salvation in Jesus

Christ” chaplain made the earnest, somber

altar call, “Every-head-bowed-every-eye-

closed-just-as-I-am-time” in the service,

the wet behind the ears, impressionable

kids so full of themselves but reverent and

humble and emotional in the moment hit

the sawdust trail. When the call was over

and they had committed to Jesus as they

had just previously committed to Caesar,

they marched back to their seats to shouts

of  “Ooowaah” from their previously sanctified

comrades and awkward, muted cheers from

some obstinate, hold-out comrades. Dad said

he was really, really touched.  I thought to my-

self, now they can go off to war to kill Muslims

in confidence of  eternity and perhaps be blown

to bits by an I.E.D. with the reward for their

efforts on behalf of Caesar, the Christian version

of paradise, that being for ever and ever with sweet

Jesus. The radical fringe jihadists, on the other hand,

promised seventy-two really great looking virgins

to keep their gullible kids occupied forever and ever.

I don’t know about his daughter, but for the nineteen-

year-old, gung-ho guys that might be a tough call.

I wanted to ask if the recessional hymn was “Onward

Christian Soldiers,” but my wife gave me the look

and I just sat there and kept quiet.

Sometimes something I

think newsworthy

comes my way,

and I break a rule

not to bother

e-mail friends

and so I send some-

thing their way

and nothing

comes my way

telling me to just

post a blog

and not bother

anyone that

way,

reaffirming why

I wrote what I

did that other

day.

Sometimes, when he thought

too much time had passed with-

out a poem appearing, he would

call and ask, “Are you all right?”

I would chuckle, tell him I was

fine, thank him for his concern

and tell him a poem would

appear soon. It was a catalyst.

Then one day I got a call and

knew I would never get another

call of his concern for me. He

had died, tragically, violently in

a moment of utter, personal despair.

I haven’t written much since he

died and it occurred to me that

if it were any other time, I might

expect a phone call of his concern

for me, a call which he won’t be

making ever again, but just the

thought of his calling was enough

for me to write this.

Someone said, “We have to fire him,”

but there was no one to take his place,

so they just shrug their shoulders

and continue their journey on

into the dark.

The small child hugs the abusive

parent’s leg and clings because

there is no one to take that parent’s

place, so they journey on

into the dark.

We are all frightened of the void,

of the dark, of the vacuum

seemingly sucking life from us

as we continue along the journey

into  the dark.

Plato’s Cave had light at the door

that the philosopher king saw

reflected in the shadows on the

wall as most sat staring

into the dark.

Paul said the true Bright Morning Star,

barely visible in the East, broke

down the dividing wall of hostility

and even Paul no longer stared

into the dark.

But it is scary to take that step into

the outstretched arms of the One who

stands at the edge of the dark asking

us to trust that it is the way

into the light.

“How do we deal with that?”

the interviewer asked the

short, brown-eyed Buddhist

Jewish grandmother,

“Anger that is….”

“Moderate it,” she responded.

“Don’t refuel it. Direct it toward

the social injustice that gave it

birth. Don’t fight with the

moment. Be attentive and do

what is kind to yourself and

model that for others,”

said the woman who had sat

at the feet of Hillel, Jesus and

the Buddha and perhaps Mother

Teresa, and who now has children

and grandchildren sitting at the

sandaled feet at the end of her short

legs covered with a long springtime

skirt – legs that almost don’t touch

the floor.  The two sat on the stage

of a community center in what has

been called the worst American

city and spoke of the pervasive

pain of life but not without

hope and amazement. The

grandmother did a “Reader’s

Digest” condensed version of

centering prayer with the

audience and as the camera

scanned the room when eyes

were opened, it revealed

animated, smiling faces.

The grandmother read a poem

she carries with her always by

Pablo Neruda, “Keeping Quiet”:

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about…

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with

death.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

Then the audience clapped, the

short Jewish grandmother laughed

a Buddha size laugh and took a

sip of water.

He exited this life

near the end of

his sixth decade.

He thought the door

locked at the

attempts made

to shake the open

door,  push and pull

with energy to fade

away from trying

any longer than he

could have stayed

and so he did

what everyone on

earth forbade.

He sat beside himself

without meds that

might have saved

him to think, but he

still couldn’t get in

so he made

the decision to leave

abruptly and adieu

he bade .

That’s the unnecessary and

tragic thing he

decided to do

and left so many to wonder

for years how to bid him

a very good adieu.

They sat along the seaside wall

at a bar with a really great view.

They gazed into the declining red ball

and thought they were into something new,

but what they felt and what they saw

were a part of the inner life

of the children as they did draw

upon their primordial, ancient strife

only to see it again with less of a flaw —

the sun, water, basics no matter how small,

the goodwill, the conviviality of it all,

They concluded that life was really good

after all.