I am sitting on the porch, rocking slightly in a romantic dance with the wind, just as I have every day for years. So much has gone on since I first came to this house. The local humans have changed so much. I can still remember the days when I was new, fresh out of that little shop downtown where I was painstakingly carved by hand. The lady would rock on me for hours each day cuddling her newborn son. Come evening I would be abandoned to my loneliness without so much as a simple “thank you.” Some nights, they would bring one of the prisoners of the house out for a breath of fresh air and let us watch the sunset together while they sat side by side discussing absolutely nothing of relevance. A few years and two babies later came what I refer to as ‘the painful years.’ With the exception of those rare evening talks, I was ignored except for the awful abuse wrought by the children in those horrid years. Not understanding that I was a work of art, and not a toy, they climbed all over me, tipped me over, and once even assaulted me with a broom, badly scarring my intricate carvings and black varnish. And so, sitting there next to the back – high white railing I spent the next few years badly ignored, being left outside, even in the worst of storms. Throughout the duration of those years my lacquer faded and my parts began to warp. Although I failed to realize it at the time, I was beginning to get old. As I look out on the lush green empty lawn I feel myself begin to sadden. Although I prefer the serenity of these latter days, I miss the sound of children’s joyous laughter as they played in the lawn. But that stumpy old tree to the side, the one the children called the climbing tree, now stretches it’s fingers to the sky, giving thanks for his deliverance from those destructive children, now grown and gone. I look across the porch. Just on the other side of the stairs my companion sits. Like all good chairs, he is a rocker. Although his bright finish speaks of ignorance and immaturity, in reality he is older than I, having wrapped his giant arms around countless humans, and enduring more than I could even imagine. If you will stop to listen, my beautiful new companion will tell you of his trial by fire. He had been worn beyond recognition, seemingly fit for nothing but the trash. But a compassionate human had taken him in under his wing and nurtured him back to health. Although I am given to understand that the process was long and painful, my new friend was restored back to pristine condition. These years are quiet ones. The old humans are retired now, and they spend much of the day with us, rocking and talking, watching their world stand still like never before. Each day is exiting now that nothing happens. We are all happy. My friend and I are finally given the appreciation we deserve. When it rains outside, we are taken into the house. When the grandchildren visit, they are kept out of our way. This is the best life possible. Although my rockers are warn and warped, my finish is almost completely gone, and dents and scratches appear all over my body, I am finally content. My joints squeak with every motion, the floorboards I rest on groan as I rock. Retirement truly is the best time of life, but it takes a hard life to appreciate it.
the next few are things i composed while
in the Iraqi desert
An unspoken love
laced with understanding
and kindness
The gentle caress of friendship
brought to completion
by silence
A gentle realisation
subtly carved
with grace
The couds are loosly spun cotton-candy
Hung just out of reach
As though I could reach out and grab them
If I were only a bit taller
This poor excuse for a roof
doesn't even attempt to keep the rain off my head
so I'll turn and face the storm
and let it rage around me
all me couraragous
call me stupid
or a conniosour of pain
it doesn't matter anyway
it's just all I know to do
Cold and alone
I'm wrapped in a blanket of holes
letting your careless words in
like lawn darts of poison
but I sit here and take it all
because I love you and I have yet to understand
a single word you've said
Orange drink is the best ever.
an ode to the glory that is Orange Drink
ORANGE DRINK
in a world
of many drinks
you rank above number one
your orange taste
and orange appearance
are not like that of an orange
but rather something more tantillising
mystery surrounds your origin
all the tribes know of your greatness
you refresh them all at soccer games
and at VBS snacktimes
this constant feeling in my head
is like cotton candy and marshmellows
stopping up my brain
my thoughts are numb
there was a time when my intellect was sharp
and my thoughts wandered through a forest of wonder
but no more.
there are no thoughts
there is no creativity
there is no knowledge
there is no memory
facts fall out of my mindforming silvery puddles
on the fllor below
back
yeah...
the whole e-mal me thing....