The codeine sent him

Into Alice in Wonder

Land,

Land.  Still, he coughed

His head off, had to grab

Hold of anything

Within

Reach as his head spun

Round and

Round, spinning,

Spun,

Avoiding collapsing,

Shaking off all

Experiences

Of the past which

Came rushing into

His brain and draining

Him from reality –

Former, now dead girl

Friend, now dead

Wife walking

The beach

So many years

Ago —

But unfortunately

A cough away

A hacking cough

away

From the

Way it is –

Reality.

Is this, then

Reality? He

Looks around

Shaking his

Head, breathes

Deeply and waits

For, apprehensively

The

Gurgle.

Breathe in deeply

The ER physician requests.

Hold it.  Okay, exhale.

Easier said than done.

The patient pushes air

Past various obstacles

Which have taken up

Residence in his lungs –

Blockades, what seem like

Concrete barriers and

Through mazes more

Complicated than that

In Alice in Wonderland.

This is no wonderland.

This is the land of the

Hacking cough, gurgling,

Rattling, suffocating

Bronchitis.

He takes an antibiotic,

Inhales a puff of Albuterol

And prays that the

Elephant on his chest

Will get up and go

Back to the Serengeti

Where he belongs.

Appetite is gone.

Exercise is out of the question.

It’s a tough way to

Lose weight, the nurse

Says. Right now he

Doesn’t care. He just

Sits up in the chair,

Stares blankly at

The old Numbers reruns

On the TV and sips his

Bourbon which the nurse

Told him not to do while

Taking cough medicine

With codeine. He’s at

Home, not driving heavy

Machinery.  Say goodnight,

Patient.  Goodnight, Patient.

Nineteen years

later

and counting,

he still doesn’t

like

the holidays.

Even before, they had lost

their holiness

for him, which was

all he had cared

about over and

against his

late wife and

children’s

objections. They

called him Scrooge.

Now, with grief

pretty much

under control, abated

even, he

hears the

ubiquitous carols,

and doesn’t even

have the energy to

fight against the

secularization of

Christmas. He chooses

not to listen. He

just doesn’t care

anymore.

Instead, he thinks

about how it isn’t

the most wonderful

time of the year along

with

the pressure to be

happy. It feels like

being confronted

by

someone (maybe the

one)

who says,

“Come on. Come on.

Let’s have a little smile

there. Come on. Hey,

it’s Christmas so

cheer up.”

Right.

Perhaps if there

were two things for

him to like

about the holidays,

it’s listening to “Have

Yourself a Merry Little

Christmas,” one of

the saddest songs

ever written.

It’s the only song

that comforts him

in the other-wise sacred

season

and he bets the

lyricist knew loss,

too.

Fatigue hangs around like the next door

Cat ready to pounce, in the act of pouncing,

Pouncing.

Fatigue hangs in the air like millions of

Tiny dumb bells falling on one’s back.

Fatigue surrounds bones, muscles and

Joints, seeping like bone chilling

Dampness into and through the muscles,

Into the bones and the nervous

System causing the muscles attached to

The bones to shiver.  It all weakens the

Body politic till it can think only about

Bed, sleep and the dream of a day off,

Way off, so far off, it might never come.

And now, sweet, sweet rest and then

A Tiger Wood’s fist pump.

On Monday, the remainder

of the turkey is boiled

until the meat, fat, skin,

sinew, cartilage fall from

the carcass and drop

to the bottom

of the pot.

The bleached bones are

scooped from the pot

and picked clean.

The meat is cleaned from

the bones like panning

for gold. Thumb

and index finger massage

the stringy turkey and tiny

bones

are tossed aside. “Can I

help?” she asks. “Sure.

Check one more time

for bones?”

Carrots, celery, sweet and red

onions chopped, garlic

minced, dried Fresno

and Habanero pepper

bits and big chunks

of white and dark

turkey meat are

plopped into the pot.

He turns up

the heat.

They wipe the grease

from their hands

with paper towels,

wink at each other

and kiss.

They sit in a circle of

Uber earnestness,

Of profound,

Profundity.

They offer ever polite,

Knowing humor in

The chuckles as they

Raise an index finger

To their lips with

Understated certitude.

Young,

Newly minted

Doctors of philosophy

In English

And Masters of Fine

Arts in poetry from

A plethora of places

Doting the academic

Landscape, regional

Schools priding

Themselves as institutions

To be offering semi-esoteric

degrees in the arts.

The young academics

Who teach at evangelical,

Christian colleges, with

An emphasis on Christian

Rather than as a school

Of significant academic

Excellence in the historic

Christian tradition

Assume a sophomoric

Stance toward their

Own verses as gospel

Truth, read each other’s

Droll to nearly hilarious,

Free verse

Of breakfast with

Their uber smart

Infants and kindergartners

Pointing to this fairly

Boring, mostly mundane

Morning experience as

A metaphor

Of epiphanal significance.

They look at each other

And nod knowingly,

Go home and recommend

Each other’s smart as a

Whip writing to small,

Evangelical Christian

Publications seeking

To appear esoterically

Sophisticated by

Publishing short,

Smart but obviously

Profound

Verse by newly

Minted Ph.D.s and

MFA’s.

The Zen student asked

the master,

“How do you see

so much?”

“I close my eyes.”

I sit in my easy chair

with my feet crossed

on the ottoman.

I close my eyes and

see and smell red,

white and jack pines.

I watch the trail for

hazardous, ancient roots

hidden under shiny,

slippery oak leaves.

I feel the cushion made

by seasons of pine

needles as I jog at a

slow, steady, comfortable

pace.

I see the dune ahead

and steel for the

climb knowing

that the prize of the

azure waters of Lake

Michigan

lap along the beach just

on the other

side.

I pick up the pace just a

bit and stare at the shoe

impressions made by

others in the damp,

firm sand.

I stop before returning

to the woods, rest

my hands on my knees,

catch my breath while

thinking about

the climb

back up soft sand

that gives way

under each step.

I look around.

For the moment

I am alone with

the forest, dunes,

beach, and inland

sea.

I can’t see across,

but I feel like

I can see

everything.

Even before Thanksgiving just past Halloween, I’m

thinking about how I love Christmas on the road.

For forty-two years I was locked into where I was and

responsible because I was the pastor, somewhere, any-

where, for the traditions. Last year, my wife Chris, our

Chocolate Lab Boomer and I spent Christmas Day on

the eighth day of our trip west in Bisbee, Arizona.  We

checked into the motel with  a great view of the

mountainous southlands, and  unlike Mary, Joseph and the

baby Jesus, we got in. With the dog still in the backseat,

we headed downtown and found the only place open, a bar.

Thank heavens it was on the first of at least three tiers of

downtown, which was actually the downtown part of uptown.

Parking  across the street from the bar, we wished our

dog Boomer, Merry Christmas, walked into the establish-

ment, cozied up to the bar, ordered drinks, bent an elbow and

hoisted glasses in praise of the birth of our Lord, sampled a

few of the well-beyond-prime-time-home-made-appetizers

(“Hey, Doll, I made those especially for tonight,” the gal at

the end of the bar shouted), at least the sauerkraut remained

hygienically sour, sang a ditty or two to Jesus with the

community of faith gathered for communion, mumbled the

Lord’s Prayer to ourselves, shouted “Hey, Ya’ll, Merry Christmas!”

and headed back to the  motel for the Silent Night.

When we stopped, Boomer jumped out of the backseat and

wagged his tail.  My wife slipped into the motel and I took

one more glance at the southwest mountain range just

north of the Mexican border as the sun exited stage left.

I just stood there in the cold, crisp desert air and hummed

“All is Well, All is Bright” as fast rising moonlight reflected

that gorgeous sight and the dog announced with a bark

that he wanted to go in, so we, too, slipped in for the night.

Oh my, he’s so embarrassed

To be an old, white man

Losing it in the new

Rainbow land

Like those hanging by their

Thumbs

With the old clan

And the General

Men’s womanizing plan,

The ones who eat cake,

Have it too and

And toss crumbs

To the forty-seven

Percenters too, who

They see as obstructing

The grand plan

To secede from the une-yan

And

Take along all the great alums

Who live right, act right,

Lean way right, are all white,

Stand and fight right

And take a grand stand

Against the gift givers and takers,

Free loaders, the Now Two-term,

Grand Poobah

Man –

The brown, black,

Yellow, rainbow coalition of

Gays and straights and oh, yeah,

The long-suffering Cub fan –

For sure those

Bleacher Bums with the

Red-blistered, white skin

And some

With a deep tan –

The long-suffering

Fan,

The Cubs and Sox

And all the jocks

who are all thumbs;

South-side and North-side

Young guys, of course,

And just think about it;

They are ones who don’t work,

Just sit all day waitin’ with

A mitt to catch a foul ball

Or home run, man,

“Mitt, my man, they called

You the flim-flam man,

But you be da man, my man,

so

just get a grip

Mitt, man, and help me

Find a way to

Just go away,

Old white man,

Please. They say

I have become

An embarrass-

Ment, to those in the grand

Stand,” he cries,

“Mitt Man, old, white

Man. I’m still

Tryin’ to get a grip here,

Man

Oh, man, so

Take me out to the

Ball game, Mitt man,

And let me sing along

With the Harry Carey clan;

Just don’t put me next

To the Church

Lady; she has a

Bat in one

Hand and mitt

On the other hand

And she’s an angry

Long-suffering Cub’s

Fan.  I hoped for

So much more,

Man.”

Writing is a struggle against silence.

—- Carlos Fuentes

The quote, taken from Word Press, is true especially regarding social struggles, but

silence can be so personal and very much like a secret, only to be shared

at the right time. The following addresses the question of timing:

They died out-of-order.

The husband died out-of-order.

He was young —

A young father;

His son was only fifteen.

Dad died out-of-order.

He isn’t talked about

By family years later.

He isn’t referred to;

He hides in the marrow

Of his son’s bones,

The crevasses of his

Brain and folds of

His heart.

The wife died out-of-order.

She was young —

A young mother;

Her son was twenty-five

And her daughter,

Twenty.

Mom died out-of-order.

She isn’t talked about

By family years later.

She isn’t referred to;

She hides in the

Marrow of her children’s

Bones,

The crevasses of their

Brains and the folds

Of their hearts.

A dad and a mom

Died out-of-order,

And as a result

In this culture,

They don’t get mentioned

Like grandma and

Grandpa get mentioned

In family talks with

Anecdotes and more

Anecdotes. Is that

Fair, just because

They died out-of-order?

Will their stories be told

In anecdotes and more

Anecdotes

To children and grandchildren

In the rightful place

Of family gatherings?