“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.
Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.
“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.
According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.
I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…
A frantic knock on our door startled me up.
Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.
My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.
Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”
The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.
After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.
Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.
The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.
Daily my father rose early And put on his clothes in the dark. He’d make his way to the kitchen As I slept sound in my room. Waking to the sound of the brew, I was greeted by the rousing aroma. A series of crinkles would follow As he thumbed through the Sun-Times. Entering, pattering across the floor, I would approach with quiet respect. His smile mirrored the half doughnut, Artfully placed on his plate.
We passed him along Clark Street, The family out for an evening treat. He sat huddled against a wall Bracing against the chill of fall. In a ragged suit, with one lame foot, He was covered in grime and soot. When I paused to look, eyes fixed, My stomach began to twitch. “Hey, what’s wrong with that man? The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’” “Now, don’t you get too near. It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” “But, it’s damp and cold today. We can’t just walk away!” “Okay, Kenny here take a dime. But, quick, we’ve got little time.” As I rushed back, coin in hand, A smile broke out on the man. Not enough, and only a start, This enkindled a very young heart.
Portrayed through actions dark forces conceal, A striking tale unfolds, its truth so real. Probing humanity with candor unbound, It was for young Me a viewing profound. The pic’s canvas portrays a foreign land, Where culture clashes are quick to command, With people estranged, in turbulent seas, It reveals a saga that aims for peace. Amidst bustling streets of a foul regime, A diplomat arrives in this strange scheme, Presence peculiar to native view, Holding our country’s biases as true. Though the title bestowed shouts out deceit, Beneath its veil, hints of empathy beat. In “The Ugly American” we see A puerile desire to change destiny. Conflict he addresses with reckless care, Neglecting effects and burdens they bear. Acting with impatience and disdain, He naively puts all on the same plain. Only the truths he learns at the flick’s end Brutally make him at last awaken: His work there only serves to complicate, Any chance for redemption may be too late. In this intense tale, a mirror we find Questions about our country’s state of mind. I was aware of the cold war contest But saw no side caring for the poorest. If leaders had watched it and understood, This work could have does us all good.
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
Though for a budding fan of eleven, The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven; That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
In ’64, marvels filled a New York site, A famous world’s fair dazzling day and night At Flushing Meadows, technological might Envisioned our Tomorrow, a thrilling sight. The Unisphere’s imposing globe welcomed all Sign of universality standing tall. Pavilions showcased nations near and far, Tapestry of cultures, a global bazaar. The Pietà in marble, a sacred grace, Offered the busy fair a reverent space. Belgian waffles were servedcrisp and divine, A tasteful bite of Europe despite the line. Next was Futurama, a far-sighted scene, Representation of cities, clean and green. The monorail gave a sleek and modern ride, An ultra-modern design, a source of pride. The Ford Mustang, a sleek and muscular car, Symbolized freedom and prosperity’s star. Men with jet packs took off in vertical flight, Propelled by their exhaust blasting to great height. IBM computers, a wizardly feat, Promised productivity gains ever so neat. The RCA color TV, bright and clear, Served as window to a wide world drawing near. Along with the Picturephone, it then foretold A communication age soon to unfold. But are these great wonders too good to be true, Or true signs of human progress breaking through?
I have to admit that it was a gift that rescued us from Chicago’s day after day, night after night pitiless summer heat and humidity, the endless series of restless sleep, and dozens of sweat-soaked shirts.
My parents were very proud that they could afford that box, noisy and rattling as it was, placed in the dining room window the stream of cool, dry, restful comfort, it even relieved mold and allergies.
But I had just sat in science class on our costs of making energy; so as I left home the next day I saw the box that gave us pleasure when multiplied millions of times would sure lead to a future of hurt.
He rose like an owl from its nest from behind his Physics lab desk. Out for a night’s session stargazing, Jerry and I had just been returning. With 10-inch telescope in tow, I mustered a very astonished hello. “What are you doing, Mr. Connelly, down here in science laboratory?” “Making sure our new IBM 1130 will stay safe under lock and key.” “IBM 1130? What do you mean?” “It’s a type of computing machine. And once it’s set up and running, it’ll be for science class programing.” Back then I thought this some joke, But it turned out to be a masterstroke; For it helped launched me on the path To a stable and fulfilling aftermath.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
Yesterday the morning came, a smile upon my face— Girl friend’s doorstep, with Yes tickets, Chris Squire’s driving bass. She just freed from a grounding, begged her father’s grace. But our plans we had to alter, being forced to race.
His limits imposed on us just told us where we were. Wary, leery, restless watchdog, showed us where we were. Lost in temper, rankling, fluster, our minds very far, Lost in losing circumstances, that’s just where we were.
Yesterday the ev’ning came, a frown upon my face— Prog Rock music, sampled glory, too short to gain pace, In a Plymouth car to suburbs, leaving concert place, If then someone asked my feelings, mine was just, If then someone saw my visage, mine was just… Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face.
Dad defying, firmly determined to shatter a norm, Sliding on up to straddle, her boldness, her defiance in gear.
Yesterday the late night came, big grin upon this face— The back alley, rousing glory, hot lover’s, hot lover’s embrace, On a rocket ship to heaven, lifting into space! If matched to Tom Jones’s ventures, mine was no… Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace.
Dénouement
Upon her return, her dad was fast asleep; Still due to her moods, our bond did not keep. So as a result, I hold slight regret That I could not hear more of Yes’s set.
C’est une histoire from time immemorial Boy meets girl dans La Ville Lumière. “Tes yeux pétillent vraiment.”* La métropole beamed avec un grand sourire.
We drilled our leçons de grammaire, Surveyed bouquinistes au Boule-Miche, Split une baguette au saucisson et beurre … Scooched sur le bancs du Jardin du Luxembourg.
We lost our way dans le labyrinthe du Métro, Strolled les galleries du Louvre, Sipped espresso au Café de la Rotonde … Squeezed hands le long de la Seine.
We dodged crazed drivers dans les rues, Snickered at Le Baiser de Rodin, Shrieked at un plat du steak tartare … Snuggled on the steps of Sacré-Cœur.
We paddled the Bois de Boulougne, Savored Signoret et Montand au cinema, Shared brie avec du Chardonnay … Smooched under Le Pont Marie.
We lit candles in Notre-Dame, et puis Swapped blushes on La Dame de fer … “We’re not going to … , are we?” “Bien sûr que non !”
When I listened to le savant professor, When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx, When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form, When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out, How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé, Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench, I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.
For chocolate I never need excuse, But this proclivity once cooked my goose. Strolling with a new friend on vacation, We passed a shop replete with temptation. She brought up her passion for chocolat; I followed that I too had a soft spot. She dreamed of sitting in a creamy bain With the lush brown sauce pouring from a pan. Said that her birthday was fast approaching, A hint so clear I needed no coaching. Thus, I bought a fudge cake to celebrate And made sure we would not to be out late. Once back at the hotel after our meal, All encumbrances we soon did unpeel. When our activity raised up the heat, I then got up to retrieve the sweet treat. She motioned with appreciative eyes When my eagerness I could not disguise. After putting a digit in the topping, I grazed her rosy cheek with some frosting. Next there erupted an ear-splitting yell, Way louder than a banchee out of hell. The strum und drang caused such a disturbance; It brought a check by management service. Something that I did not anticipate Had served to seal my fate with that date. So unless you enjoy egg on your face, Make sure to have a consensus in place.
I was born in Chicago, 1952 I was born in Chicago in 1952 Well, my old friends told me “Son, you’d better get outta town”
Well, my first cuz went down When I was 17 years old Oh, my first friend went down When I was 17 years old Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy Too young to go
Well, my second cuz went down When I was 18 years of age Oh, my second friend went down When I was 18 years of age Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy He gave us joy
Well, a close friend went down When I was 21 years of age Oh, my second friend went down When I was 21 years of age Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy He was no dud
Well, now rules are all right If there’s someone left to play the game Well, now rules are all right If there’s someone left to play the game All the young are gone now Everything’s just don’t seem the same Oh, things just don’t seem the same, oh no
I came to Paris to flee the war gods, and their cynical words and cruelty, each day viewing a decade of destruction in the news from distant rice fields.
Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai, napalm and carpet bombing, a naked child’s run down a road, there were no good reasons for their lies.
As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange, some ask why so many have to die while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.
Today began cold, wet, and gloomy as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.
First Madame Binh approaches dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai, then comes South Vietnam’s Lam followed closely by the North’s Trinh.
Last in the solemn procession is Secretary of State Rogers hissed and jeered at by protestors as his car warily nears.
There comes the signal of completion followed by a rousing round of cheers signaling that the fighting is over, a futile conflict with nothing but loss.
But observing such a ruckus, I feel alone at the curbside only now fully realizing the extent of my country’s defeat.
Is it greedy presidential hacks Or those barbaric Pentagon rats? My Uncle Sam proclaims he wants me But what really chases me up this tree? IRS comes knocking for some tax I comply for fear of seeming lax: Vietnam, Chicago still on fire But I stay at home with no desire Newspapers decry crime on the streets As nightly I hide beneath my sheets Midnight specials for Russian roulette It seems there is no other outlet I quietly sit sipping my tea While Tricky Dick spouts shit on TV But when I cry “Civic Robbery” I see that I stole myself from me.
Ut dictum est Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi Parvus pendetur fur, magnus abire videtur Vulpes pilum mutat, non mores Hinc fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt Damnant quod non intellegunt Sed adversus solem ne loquitor Astra inclinant, sed non obligant Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare De omnibus dubitandum et nunquam obliviscar Qui totum vult totum perdit Nemo est supra legem Sic semper tyrannis Actum est tandem carmen, plaudite Nunc est bibendum Vale
Tyrant
It is said that What is permitted to Jove is not permitted to an ox, and The petty thief is hanged, while the ringleader gets off, while the fox changes his fur, but not his habits. Hence men often believe what they want to, And some people condemn what they do not understand. But do not speak of what is obviously incorrect. The stars incline us, they do not bind us. Times are changing, and we change in them. Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his flaws. Doubt everything, and never forget. Whoever wants all, loses all. Nobody is above the law. This always is the fate tyrants. The poem is finally done, applaud! Now is the time to drink! Farewell
enter first seems better but patience is wetter completing too quickly makes the moment sticky start with brushing the bush next onto that sweet tush give a moist flick and lick but do not be too slick peck keenly bit by bit until reaching orbit now exchange role as host by switching to the post since it’s largely for you offer guidance on queue and to make yourself writhe praises you should not hide imbibe is thought yucky so say you feel lucky then when again ready you’ll have the longevity for both a lot more fun affirmed second to none should last at least an hour followed with a shower
I met Jawdat just as I entered by way of the Damascus Gate. “Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City. Are you looking for a guide?” he asked. A quick glance discomfited me, For he looked no older than I myself. But he expertly continued, “This Gate is The Center of the World. It is an excellent type of Islamic building, and do you know what its sign means? There is no God but God and Muhammed is His Prophet.” What convenient luck for me, I thought, as he offered to guide me for the next few days. “There is the immovable ladder of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Someone put it against that wall, and no one dares disturb the status quo.” “Make sure you cover your elbows when tucking prayers in the Wailing Wall.” “Remember remove shoes in al-Aqsa, so you can see the wonderful decorations.” He offered little personal insights To spice up our series of walks. “Let me treat you to some Turkish coffee along with a delicious slice of kanafa.” “The sabbath, the busiest day of the week, is when Arabs and Israeli teens eye the miniskirts.” And “Someday I will go to your country to study and get an American wife.” Also, “My family is originally from Jaffa but was thrown out the Day of the Nakba.” Once when we dined late after curfew, he vanished after helping me enter my hostel. For four days there was no sign of him, though I enquired from shop to shop. At the market there was a wary silence until my last day his familiar figure re-emerged. Jawdat approached and pulled up his shirt to show me the IDF’s purple marks.
To stroll the walls of the Old City is to walk a line surrounding history. Outside is modern life, bustling streets lined with hotels and tourist shops. Inside is rich tradition, much older and long the vortex of many faiths. Many pilgrims fill the lanes to visit the temples, mosques, and churches. Tiny gardens behind homes of stone are shaded by ancient trees. Their branches reach out and, in some places, cover the city walls like curtains. Narrow lanes open into wider streets with busy shops and open stalls. Men sit sipping coffee, fingering their prayer beads or just talking. Women crouch in the shade of inner courtyards, sorting beans and legumes—and talking. How is it that some call this place, the world’s biggest thorn in the side?
Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid, a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel, along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz, there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle, I churn out human language, a comforting sonata with my clatter, conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys getting into the flow on a Zen roll, but also making so many mistakes that my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute, 1000 words double-spaced, for days, weeks, months, and years, he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys, if we could just switch roles, I know I could write better than he.
Ich muss Deutsch üben, I have to practice my German, Aber gut Ding will Weile haben. But good things take time. Man kann die Natur nicht ändern, One cannot change nature, Also sich nicht um ungelegte Eier kümmern, So you shouldn’t cross a bridge before coming to it, Die Ochsen hinter den Wagen spannen, Don’t put that cart before the horse, Und das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten. And don’t toss the baby with the bath water. Es heißt, dass wer nicht hören will, muss fühlen. It is said that he who won’t listen will regret it. Er will den Bock melken. You cannot milk a buck. Wärme bringt Leben, Kälte Tod; Warmth brings life, coldness death; Und Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. And time is really the most precious gem. Geduld bringt rosen, Patience brings roses, Erst denken, dann lenken. So look before you leap. Obwohl sicher ist sicher. But though it’s better to be safe than sorry, Was Gutes kommt wieder. Good works will reap rewards. Wie es heißt, jedes Warum hat seinen Darum. Every why has a wherefore. Gesundheit ist besser als Reichthum. Good health ranks above wealth. Geld macht nicht glücklich, Money can’t buy happiness, Denn keinen Objekt ist unersetzlich. For no thing is indispensable. Wähle von zwei Übeln das Kleinste. Choose the lesser of two evils. Der gerade Weg ist immer der beste. The straight path is always the best. Das Bessere ist der Feind des guten, Better is the enemy of the good, Ehrlich währt am längsten. Being honest gets the most mileage. Sorge macht vor Zeiten grau, Fretting makes one gray before one’s time, Aber zu nacht sind alle Katzen grau. But, at night, all cats are gray. Wiederholung ist die Mutter der Weisheit, Repetition is the mother of knowledge, Trotzdem alles zu seiner Zeit. Still everything comes in its time. Taten sagen mehr als Wörter, Actions are worth more than words, Somit ein paar Sätze macht noch keinen Redner. So a few phrases will not make you an orator.
Tu es dans ta première soirée en France et que tu rencontres une personne avec qui tu discutes beaucoup, avec qui tu ries, avec qui tu t’amuses vraiment !
À un moment donné, tu peux avoir envie de lui dire qu’elle est géniale et super sympa. Du coup, tu lui dis :
“Je t’aime !”
“Oh ! euh… merci…”
Tu es surpris de sa réaction et là tu te rends compte que tu as peut-être fait une petite erreur !
Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast Sit dried, cold, and Neglected As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag Framing the President on Time While the radio drowns the room in static Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s Scrambled eggs No shoes, no socks, gritty feet An old watch, slow by ten minutes Quarter to three A muted haze drawn from the embers Two used packs of Cigarettes Dozing off, pen drooping from hand Cuffs soaking up a lake of Nescafé Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping Words fade like Wilted flowers Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse And destroys Civilizations!
Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés, Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux. A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus. Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre, Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée. Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse, Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours— L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde, Rien ne va, tout va exploser. Et si Liberté semble divine, Mais même la liberté a son heure. Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour, Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent. Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent, Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur. Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants, Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste, Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements. Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce, Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer. Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin, Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.
Les Français, they say, have minds refined, But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign. With each remarque, they make a frown As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass, For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp. In cafés small, with heads held low, They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde, Nothing is right, it’ll all explode. And while Liberté sounds divine, But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art, Of dreams that fade and hearts that part. Les rues de Paris grown with gloom, As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise To welcome the world with leery eyes, To speak in sighs, in rueful tones, And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce, A kind of beauté none can replace— For through their doubts, their endless strain, They teach us new ways to complain.
en la serena noche de luna cuando las rosas concentran su aroma cruza en silencio una figura desnuda a oscuras me recuerda los hermosos días cuando frotan dos almas en un combate amoroso y todo acaba y es eterno esperando la aurora para volver a comenzar no sé cómo buscarte dentro de mí en medio de la noche me despierta tu sueño distante y ya no tan próxima mi pasado se convierta en el su futuro te alza en brazos, se acerca tu abrazo en otro abrazo ¿qué pasó? ¿qué hora es?
In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here” With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom The bus to city’s center arrives Twenty people now converge on one point Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.” There goes today’s shoeshine A playful driver, a screeching halt A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter In a seat below, two children sit They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
No, the ensuing hookup was not my first; but to handle it, I was not well rehearsed. I had arrived from the northern chills to attend university in the blazing Sonoran hills. And after weathering a swirling sandstorm, I finally settled into my new school’s dorm. Next, I determined to explore my new town, to relax and cool myself off after sundown. Venturing out, I heard a bystander hawk, “Hey, I just love the way you walk!” The compliment got me to turn around to learn where came that flattering sound. Had someone noticed my personal stride, which unwittingly attested my Chi-town pride? The alluring voice had directed my attention to a nubile youth of dark, creamy complexion, She was a bubbly, mysterious ebony sprite who sported a shear summer dress ever so tight. We quickly struck up a rather raucous caucus that carried on ardently to the mall of campus. Obviously, my whole attention she stole, our conversation ranging from silly to droll. She snickered and queried if I had ever been with anyone who wore her same type of skin. Dumbstruck, I responded that I truly had not; something I expressed wish to learn more about. “Well, would you like to touch my curly hair?” My answer to her was, “How do I dare?” “Go right ahead. It’s no big deal; I don’t mind if you want to give it a feel.” Thereupon, I reached out timidly to touch; she then offered her hand for me to clutch. My head and parts perceived a quick rush; Our close interaction had made me blush. We tittered about things we had in common, and about what in free time we did for fun. But when we raised that specific topic, her talk became more and more myopic. She coyly quizzed if I liked to get buzzed, just as everyone she proffered at the college does. Alas, before me sat an artful temptress, who by now had put my feelings under stress. When pressed, she revealed she was underage, and that for her social drinking was the rage. She waited evenings for a wide-eyed score who could buy her hooch at the liquor store. So, instead of an intriguing new friend, I sadly had encountered a dipso Siren. Ergo, I declined politely getting some beers, and begged leave as she shed crocodile tears.
Oh, Darling boy, your love, your love is bursting. From root it springs from out your presence strong. The heat is on, and all the juices flowing; It’s your, it’s your sure fire that she does long.
So, come ye More when passion’s in its highest, Or when her roommate’s zoned or does not show; It’s she’ll be there in daylight or in darkness. Oh, Darling boy, oh Darling boy, she wants you so!
Phone that disc jockey on the radio waves not to play any more of those sappy tunes. Instead, let us drink under the bright moon and ignore them, savoring this moment as we lean against the railing and croon of times past and opportunities lost bellowing into the night soulful sagas embellished by the power of the brew.
What forged you? What special event? Have you been shaped in adversity? The failures, losses? Setbacks, defeats? Is suffering a tool in this earthly school? Has the rug been pulled from under you? Done something Wrong in a past life? Is it all part of the web of things? Wonder why you are here? Or do you have the joy of surviving and relish the question: If you had the chance, would you do it all over again?
Furtive eyes kindle interest; Sweet murmurs sanction quest. Enticing orbs firm as apples Peek and perk, ripe for sample. Digits dance about light as pixies; Canvassing circles, graceful teases, Determined forays, tactful retreats Crisscross a sweet delectable treat. Playful venture down buttery vines, Bare touch spurs them to untwine. Rising up from lush forested home, Ardent sparks broadcast welcome. Venus awakened unlocks her code, Only to him permission bestowed. Thirstful desire endorsed in course, Invitee sips at the ebullient source. Ambrosia freely beginning to flow, Buoyant delight proceeds to grow. Enthralled in blissful blindness, Sport swells to brazen boldness. Willful plunge, exclusive ingress, Lovers reach their rapturous finish.
The four-hour drive from his home was unremarkable. It was a quick jaunt that barely stirred up an appetite for lunch especially after his mom’s hardy-as-usual breakfast. The Rand McNally map proved accurate, guiding his route to the small college town and then further to the university’s main graduate residence hall without the slightest course deviation. The residence, which would be his home for coming year on campus, loomed 14 stories high over a nearly full parking lot. He had arrived a bit late in the morning. Obviously, a good number of incoming students had beaten him there. After locating a free spot, he jumped out and eagerly walked toward the entrance. The university’s East Asian Studies department, which featured several renowned scholars, had offered him sufficient financial support to embark on a study Chinese philosophy and literature, with the goal of obtaining a Ph.D. and eventually becoming a professor.
As he exited the lot, he passed near to someone standing on the side smoking a cigarette. He noticed that this fellow appeared to be of Asian descent. He interpreted this as a good omen considering his future academic intentions and decided to approach to say hello. The fellow returned the greeting in a heavy Japanese accent.
Kazufu was there to attend graduate school. He had come from Tokyo to pursue doctoral studies in English literature. He had left his wife and child behind, but they would come over to join him sometime in the new year.
What good fortune. he was aware that he would need to add minor in another East Asian language for his doctoral studies. Japanese could absolutely fit that bill, especially since the Japanese have been studying China for centuries and would therefore offer interesting perspectives on Chinese philosophy and literature.
At the end of the short conversation, Kazufu invited him for some tea at 8 pm in the residence’s ninth-floor lounge – quite a nice way to enhance his language and academic objectives.
Buoyed by this encounter, he waltzed into the lobby to register and receive his room assignment and key. After grabbing his things from the car, he ascended to his eleventh-floor room to settle in and wait for dinner. Later, he was pleasantly surprised to encounter two fellow undergrad alums in the food line down in the hall cafeteria. They too had come to the university for graduate studies, Dave for French and Dan for Spanish. The great day had continued.
While they were eating, he mentioned that he had seen an ad in the local paper for a French movie showing at a downtown cinema. The film was at 10. They all decided to go; and since he had his car, he would drive. Dave and Tom finished their meals and returned to their rooms. They would all rendezvous in the hall lobby at around 9.
He went to grab some coffee and a couple cookies. When he returned, he noticed a cute blond girl sitting over at the next table and asked whether he could join her. She obliged. A native Hoosier from Indianapolis, Gail intended to do a master’s degree in library science. They had a pleasant conversation. Though she was not necessarily his type of girl, she did seem congenial, so he took the opportunity to invite her to join him and his friends for the movie later in the evening. She agreed. He would come get her at around 8. He wanted to allow enough time to drop in at the ninth-floor lounge for that tea invitation.
At 8 he knocked on Gail’s door on the tenth floor. She was already set to go when he mentioned the tea invitation. Gail seemed reluctant to go. This was a bit of a quandary for him, and her reaction made him hesitate a moment. No, he conjured a different calculation: Which was more important, go out on a group date with this cute but not quite interesting lady or take advantage of an opportunity to further his connection with a native language informant. He voted for Japanese.
They descended to the ninth floor. Sure enough, Kazufu was there standing in the lobby with a kettle pouring hot water into a Japanese-style teacup. He hailed them over to join. At least three other people were sitting, talking, and drinking tea. One was a beautiful and intriguing young woman. He could not make out her ethnicity. Dark caramel skin, Asian of sort, perhaps Filipina.
He introduced himself, and when she replied he detected another foreign accent – French. Asking her name and where she hailed from, he was blown away by her reply. Wow! She was the first person he had ever met from that distant island country. Accordingly, he continued en français. She seemed pleasantly surprised and asked where he had learned French. He told her he had recently lived in Paris and had attended classes at the Sorbonne. She had an amazing smile. He also told her that he knew where her country was located, that it was a former French colony, that a number of very exotic and unique animals lived there, and of course that he looked forward to hearing more about it. And by the way what is your room number?
She in turn said that she had arrived a week earlier in Bloomington. Flying in a puddle jumper from Chicago over the vast corn fields of Indiana, she felt that she was going to be studying in some rural hinterland. She told him that he was the first person she had met since her arrival who knew anything about her home country. He dared not mention how he knew where the country was located – through playing a popular strategy board game. Her island is often one of the last places left on the board to acquire.
Gail stood there quietly making a long face. Evidently, she was not comfortable with this conversation done in a foreign language. He quickly got the message, turn to thank Kazufu, and bid all goodbye as he led Gail out of the lounge to meet Dave and Dan in the lobby. The group proceeded to his car and then drove to the theater.
La nuit américaine (English title: Day for Night) is a romantic comedy-drama set in a story about the making of a movie. It had won the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film that year. The film was quite good, but what caught most of his attention most was the male lead, Pierre Léaud. As the film kept running, he came to realize that he resembled the famed French actor especially in facial appearance. In addition, the first name of the main actor’s girlfriend happened to be the same as that of the exotic lady whom he had just encountered. Interesting.
The film ended, and the group shuffled back to the car. He returned everyone safely to the residence hall and bid all good night as each exited elevator to their respective floors, including Gail. She was a pleasant girl, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The following evening after dinner, he knocked on the door of room 931.
A surprised, but beaming exotic lady opened the door. She invited him to enter, and a long conservation ensued. They had a long conversation about her home country, the reason for coming to the US – receiving a Fulbright for a Ph.D. in American studies, and so on. After a while, he suggested that they continue with a walk on the campus.
They walked and talked and walked and talked on into the warm late summer evening, going past sunset. They continued all the way up to within view of the university basketball stadium. Suddenly she became aware that she had left the dorm in night slippers. The long walk the sidewalk and street pavement had worn through the sole of one of her slippers. They laughed.
From that day on, they were a constant item in the residence and often on campus.
But Gail obviously did not forget that movie night. She began to act in a bizarre fashion. Whenever she encountered them in the residence or on campus – in a corridor, at the cafeteria, at the nearby convenience store, and so on. She would make strange faces or scowl or just glare. It was weird and at times even bothersome. He could never understand how going out to see a movie for just one night, and on a group date to boot, could generate such a reaction.
This odd behavior continued for about three to four months. Then one day when they were each doing their own laundry down in the basement, he noticed that Gail and another person were also in the room. Just as they had, the two had just put their clothes into the dryers and were exiting the room to wait elsewhere for the laundry to dry. All four then entered the elevator at the same time.
Upon entry Gail immediately turned toward the man, threw her arms around the very rotund fellow and squeezed him, almost to death. When the elevator reached their floor, they immediately tumbled out and rolled onto the floor laughing as the elevator door closed. They had realized that Gail had at last found her man. That was the end of the end of stalking.
A year later Kazufu’s wife and child arrived from Japan, and he invited them again for some tea to celebrate. When they had all gathered at Kazufu’s apartment, he told them that the tea invitation the previous year was done on purpose. As the senior Japanese person in his dorm room, he felt obliged to try hooking up his bachelor roommate with a female friend. However, as is custom in Japan, he also felt the need to test first how well his proposed candidate would do in a social setting before introducing her to his suitemate and fellow countryman. Well, the exotic lady sure had passed part of the test. They all then burst into laughter about that memorable day.
The matchmaking magic at that moment had been mighty, just misdirected!
It was 4:50 PM. The five clustered in the kitchen of their Lincoln Avenue rental. Two sat at the table, two were standing, and one perched himself on the counter. They were all facing the phone attached by the rear door. You would need an ax to cut the anticipation. Tick, tick, tick, time beat on almost suspended as if dragging an invisible weight. They were waiting for The Call.
They were expecting a ring from his mom. Everyone knew her to be very predictable and were familiar with her set-your-atomic-clock-to punctuality. He had often told the others that his mother got off work at 4:00 PM, having set the end of her shift early to avoid the evening traffic. She would hitch a ride from a colleague and arrive home nearly every day by 4:45 PM. She would then enter the house through the driveway side door and proceed by 5:00 PM to front of the house to check the daily mail…
That year on Memorial Day weekend, he had traveled with his girlfriend so she could meet his parents. The visit went way better than he had expected, especially since it was the first time he had brought home a brown-skinned girlfriend. Over the last few years, he had had several discussions, some very heated, with his mother over race and racial relations. She distrusted and often maligned people of other races and ethnic groups, even people of subgroups closely related to her own. She tolerated her on dating people from other ethnic groups, but really wanted him to meet one from their own ethnic group.
He had expected a cool, even chilly encounter; but, to the contrary, things seemed to go well. It certainly helped that his friend was fluent in English. His mother was all smiles, open, and very kind during the whole visit. My father was his bon-vivant self. This reception also allayed the apprehension his friend had expressed before leaving the university town for his home.
By the end of their first year in grad school in June, he had cajoled his girlfriend to join him with his best friend David and David’s newly minted wife, Diane, as housemates. (BTW, he and Diane were once more than friends) They would rent an old three-bedroom house on Lincoln Avenue about four blocks north of campus. The four would be joined by John, an older undergrad, who had been a student in David’s first-year French class. His girlfriend asked him when he proposed the rental plan, “We wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room, right?” He had replied, “No, of course not;” and so, she agreed to the arrangement.
His girlfriend moved into the first-floor bedroom; upstairs David and Diane would have one room and John the other. Meanwhile, he would sleep in a south-facing room that had once served as an attached greenhouse. After moving into the house, he and his girlfriend would trade off rooms in order to perform their lovers’ duties; but they, as he had promised, would not sleep over together through night in either bedroom. (They did, however, sleep over night together when they surreptitiously visited his hometown in late June)
At first, the conditions in his room were comfortable, even in the summer months of June, July, and August, because a neighbor’s tree had grown full and high enough to partially shade the room. However, that year September brought an unusual seasonal chill to the night, and the greenhouse room of course had a considerable amount of number of glass panes. It was getting cool, and quite cold by morning. The heat in the house had been turned on during several nights of chill, but the air flow from the closest duct barely whiffed through his open room door. He tried multiple blankets and tolerated the cold for several days; but all the glass, no insulation. It was darn cold, freezing.
He decided to make a unilateral decision – move over to her room. That night he picked up his pillow and marched out of his room through the living room and opened her door. “Sorry, it’s too cold over there.”
This changed the equation. His girlfriend at first seemed miffed but was generous in allowing him to stay. The increased time for intimacy fostered further exploration and discussion about their relationship. He had from the first time that they met known that he would like her to be the one. It would require, he thought, for her to come to the same realization. In this circumstance, he began to see her even more as the One. So, one late afternoon while they were lounging on the bed, he just blurted it out, “Do you want to get married.” She said simply, “Yes.”
He could have telephoned his mother to make the announcement, but a call home was a long-distance charge and too expensive if the conversation was long. Given his mother’s disposition and predictable negative reaction, he decided that a simple phone would not do. He wanted to inform her of his decision and explain how much he loved his future wife and at the same time express his love for his mother in the hope that in the end she would understand. He would mail the handwritten letter early Monday morning. It would arrive at his parent’s home by Wednesday afternoon.
They were all sitting and standing on the edge, their hearts racing as they anxiously waited for the phone to ring. They had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the silent phone with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.
As the wall clock ticked toward Five, his girlfriend glanced nervously at the time piece, her hands fidgeting uncontrollably in her lap. David tapped his foot impatiently against the bottom cabinet, his eyes darting back and forth between the clock and the phone. Diane chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on the phone as if dreading the ring. John stood there in complete bewilderment as what to expect. He alone knew what could happen.
With each passing second, the tension in the room grew thicker, the silence becoming almost unbearable. Finally, as the countdown reached its last few seconds, they all held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison.
And then, as the clock struck zero, the phone suddenly sprang to life, its shrill ring echoing through the room. David, Diane, and John all jumped up, their eyes wide with anticipation, as he advanced to grab the phone. And no one took notice in the excitement that John’s elbow had suddenly knocked a metal mug from off the counter. It crashed with a bang. That was not the center of attention.
“Hello, mom.” Of course, he knew it was her.
“How could you do this to me?” his mother through the line.
“Do what, Mom?” A big gulp.
“Want to marry HER! I knew it, I knew it when you brought her here.”
“Mom, mom, hold on. Well, no, Mom. I only just proposed. I love her.” Searing silence exuded from the other end. “I hope, I hope you understand. I really do love her.” He didn’t think she was listening.
“This is terrible. How could you?” A longer moment of silence then, “Why couldn’t you marry a Chinese?”
“Chinese?” That was a response he had not anticipated.
“I love you, Mom. Please understand.”
“I will NOT come.”
His mother then hung up.
It took a few moments for him to gather himself after the call. In a way he half expected his mother’s ire. He reflected that his mother’s odd suggestion did have a twisted logical since he was enrolled in grad school to study Chinese literature, and Chinese people are more light-skinned than his girlfriend. In proposing Chinese, she was saying marry anyone else but her.
His housemates remained respectfully mum waiting for his reaction. He addressed his girlfriend first to quell her understandable concern.
“Don’t worry love, it doesn’t matter. She’ll come around. She will.”
John chimed in with encouragement. “Yeah, it will work out.”
David and Diane chimed in a hearty, “Yeah, they will. Congratulations!”
He knew better, at least for some time to come…
Once the others had cleared the kitchen, he telephoned his mother’s younger sister whom he considered his favorite aunt. He thought Aunt Jeanne could calm his mother down and get her to reconsider. But his aunt was a big disappointment. She told him, “No way. You shouldn’t have done this. You’ll hurt your mom.” Well so much for a “loving” aunt.
That was that. He and his now fiancée would go on with setting up the wedding, aided by their friends.
His mother obstinately stuck to her word and did not attend the wedding. His father and sister did attend, along with one of his cousins and many of their friends and colleagues. His future mother-in-law even traveled 11,000 miles for the occasion. They all had a splendid time.
For three full years his mother did not see him, mail him, or even talk to him over the phone.
It was a relief, actually. He had at last become an adult.
(1975-1976)
Epilogue
Three years after the wedding, his mother-in-law returned for a visit. The couple traveled to the big city to pick her up at O’Hare International Airport. They got a motel room near the airport which also happened to be close to his parents’ home.
He dialed his father, “Dad, we’ve arrived in town and were at the Days Inn in Niles. We’ve picked up my mother-in-law who has just flown in.”
His father replied, “Oh? Well, okay, Hold on for a minute.” Then silence on the line. It was a fairly long silence, and he couldn’t make out what was going on. His father returned, “Okay, we’ll order some Chinese food and bring it over to you. What room are you in.”
“27.”
“We’ll” his father said. Now that was something different.
A half hour later a knock came at the door. Chinese take-out. The ice had broken.
Outside the gate I regretfully stand Late at the Andersonville marble field As the setting sun breaks through the gentle Georgia rain Petal by petal fall the mournful tears of mothers and children The wails and cries, the blood and guts The Sacred bones of young men lying a century long Are scattered as peach blossoms on a field of stones Reminders of what should never have been Iron now blocks me from my brothers I can only turn and go my way
Road turns to path Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets The valley heat diminishes I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade A pagoda clings to mountainside A happy scent of apple blossom In the distance a soft figure stands I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory The forest ends, the sky opens I glance out, my spirit soars Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs
With moonlight for guide Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon The goddess of night seductively beckons Her company cordially declined
She ascends to her heavenly lair The black veil lifted The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.
The hills and valleys seem to wait for The moon to approach on still waters. A lone goose flies in the darkening sky While a dog barks down the lane. As for me, with no greater plan, I fear that I’m just marking time. A foreign guest in a foreign land, I return home in my dreams.
As bright clouds loom far away, Startled birds rise from the sand. On fragrant grass along the levee Butterflies ceaselessly dance, While fish frolic mid the lotus pads Through light reflected in the ripples. A hermit’s life is a floating reverie. There’s nothing more to say.
My day first seemed dreary, now I feel reborn Watching my daughter about to perform. Her feat’s a treat sweeter than candy corn; You’d thrill with her ease in the breeze.
Well, most children are cute and thought darling, And their parents I presume are pleased. But no one could not enthrall one quarter as well As young Tiana* upon the schoolyard trapeze.
She flies through the air with the greatest of ease, My daring young Tiana* on the schoolyard trapeze. Her actions are graceful, all eyes she does please; And her joy just sweeps you away.
Born with the specter of mushroom clouds, As the world raced toward Armageddon. We were children of the Atomic dawn, When siren wails filled all with alarm.
The playground echoed a hidden dread, Innocence and evil grimly interbred. We played hopscotch on the brink of fate, Counting squares like numbered days.
The blowing winds tasted of the uncertain, As if each breath held an ominous toxin. Laughter was suppressed by distant tests, Man-made sunrises in desert Southwest.
Bedtime tales struggled to allay fears— Duck-and-cover drills and radiation suits. As somber refrains foretold destruction, Sunday prayers begged divine intervention.
I grew up in this Twilight Zone of paradox, Picnics on lakes, building of bomb shelters, An upbringing straddling hope and horror, Synchronized to ticks of a Geiger counter.
Yet I managed to cope with this outlook, Trading baseball cards and comic books, Imagination soaring on cosmic plumes, Dreaming of a world beyond the gloom.
But now though with Cold War unfrozen, A restiveness still lingers—a silent fallout. Thus, at times when I regard the horizon, I half-expect a bright flash to burst out.
Some days I recall you, my pupils, Whose habits gave the Principal chills. Enlisted was I to rouse you and teach, A goal considered difficult to reach.
You’d display confusion, faces of dispassion, With the spelling words you could not fashion. You’d shout, explode, cry, and frown, And shun my words with eyes turned down. And, you’d approach our lessons in grammar As if trying to repair china with a hammer.
So how does one open a 4th grader’s mind, While including all the matter assigned — To coax and motivate with probes and pokes, To make a difference in these small folks?
Allow meek Dedek to create a math lesson To instruct our class at his own discretion. Urge shy Alicia and Sue to challenge at HORSE The boys on the court of the school concourse. And let rowdy Dan and Sacha write the content Of the year-end school play for classmates to present.
So, you, my class, taught me something sweet: That real learning is not a one-way street. Worlds of wonder and progress can be shared When capabilities and incentives are paired.
Andry has worked for 10 years as a bus driver. He was 22 when he started this endeavor. Every morning he wakes up at 5:00. How long has Andry been alive?
Andry has a one-hour lunch break at noon. He works until 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. He starts work 2 hours after he awakes each day, How many hours will he work today?
This morning, Andry had 7 adult male passengers, 13 adult female passengers and the rest were teenagers. There were altogether 30 passengers, And 6 of them were female teenagers. What fraction of the passengers were teenagers? Are there more female teenagers or male teenagers?
2. 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. is 9 hours. But 9 hours less 1-hour lunch break is 8 hours. So, Andry’s workday is 8 hours.
3. 30 – 7 – 13 = 10. 10/30 or 1/3 of the passengers were teenagers. 6 out of 10 teens were female; there were only 4 male teenagers. So, there were more female teenagers than male teenagers on the bus.
Although I am a very Blue democrat who often stridently disagrees with many of your positions, I have always retained a deep affection for you and your experience. I also commend your staff. For while we may disagree on direction, I know that you and your staff work very hard for the state of Arizona and the country. In early Fall 2007, I extended an invitation to you and your wife to share a dinner with us at our modest Bay Area home to obtain a more personal impression of your views on a number of national issues. Perhaps if you had followed up on my invitation, a different portrait may now be hanging at an address on Pennsylvania Avenue.
It is difficult for me to understand your position on the ACA. There have been several flip-flops over your political career. The latest major flip-flop is your decision to vote ‘yes’ to carry on debate over the ACA. You know continuing to oppose the ACA will severely affect the lives of millions of you fellow citizens. You claimed that you wanted a return to “regular” order, but this “yes” vote means just the opposite. Healthcare for millions is complicated and requires careful discussion and analysis. For a short example, there is no discussion on how to reign in soaring health delivery costs when healthcare executives are seeing record salaries. What exactly did your sacrifice in Vietnam mean that you would instill pain upon your fellow citizens? Arguments about the burden of the individual mandate are really superficial – the burden of some hundreds or even thousands of extra dollars a year versus the tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands medical procedures cost. A single IVIG treatment can cost $20,000. Your recent surgery, if paid out without adequate insurance, would soon bankrupt most families. Please be a patriot again. Finish on the top side, the good side, of your legacy.
Under the specter of a world now still, A grandfather’s voice and granddaughter’s will Yearn to bridge a chasm, very steep and vast— Amid the pandemic, a love steadfast. Through windows, their smiles meet within sight, Distantly tethered with all their might. His stories, a balm, pass through the screen; Her laughter, so dear, brightens the scene. Where hands would clasp, now gestures make do, Hugs postponed, held in memory’s glue. His gentle touch is a whisper of the past, Hers, an evanescence, though the feelings last. In the moment, they share their hearts’ refrain Of hopes and dreams, despite the clear strain. “Soon,” he promises, “we’ll cross this divide And meet face-to-face, sit here side-by-side.”
Blue herons hail their mates On islands in the stream. Tender waterlilies, You pluck from left and right. Calling for all to hear He combs every path. Day for night not reaching, On couch he rolls and turns. So when will ever peace arrive, Modest Maid, for our Prince?
I’ve been paining, I’ve been straining To allay the sting of the day. I’ve been yearning, I’ve been learning Praying to somehow find a way. For there’s been too many a morning When it seemed my dreams were calling, Wondering whether this could be the one. But my soul sings out a warning To my heart when it starts falling For all the beginnings left undone.
Crunch of mulberry leaves Lei Zu sips hot tea Cocoon falls Garden covered in silk
She spins the reel Fine filaments threaded in loom Shimmering prism of colors Yellow Emperor surpassed!
*Inspired by a famous dress designer of Oakland, California. This poem briefly recounts the story of Lei Zu, a legendary Chinese empress and wife of the Yellow Emperor. While the Yellow Emperor was the purported founder of the central state in China, Lei Zu became a folk goddess for her alleged discovery that silkworms make silk and her attributed inventions of the silk reel and loom. She is affectionately called, 蠶奶奶 (Tsán năinai – Silkworm Grandma).
You never falter, but stand your ground, Though storm clouds may hover above us. An infinite force I dare not impede, Such undying beauty conquers the sun. Your love is a cascade of joy in the dark, Stirring a restless desire that engulfs me.
The castle is where a princess dwells, From there she casts her wondrous spells. From loft high to reception below, She was ever seeking her true beau.
Its powerful walls kept suitors at bay. They made her safe from day to day. Her bounds fixed, she toiled with zeal On formal gowns that she makes ideal.
But one fine morn she left her castle keep, To visit an inn after she arose from sleep. There she came upon a knight errant, Whose soul soon proved very transparent.
Then each of them in that destined place Came to reveal their soul’s inner space. With words of mirth and solitude both, The two proclaimed a solemn oath.
We shall live as all lovers should Side by side forever it is understood. The castle now echoes the sound of joy, A love eternal they will ever enjoy.
Two souls converged with certitude, Thinking each could take a booth. But the host would not give latitude, Nor accept any contrary attitude; Since one person per booth is uncouth.
One sat first in turn, as is fair, While the other came within his gaze; For then he witnessed a scene so rare, An exquisite beauty standing there Who set his interest all ablaze.
When she landed one table away, His ears were treated to a sweet sound. Oh, what a song to fill the day! Not knowing how she came that way, His curiosity became unbound.
I’m from an isle of dance and blue sky, A land of coconuts and balmy sea breezes. It is found on a route less traveled by; And if you go, you will testify: Like me, it’s a paradise that never ceases.
Destiny smiled when a booth was denied, A fact that cannot be unmade. Their attention grew deep and magnified, Something they could not long hide. This is how the path to love was laid!
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for many years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the pump brings out another tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old sparkle has come alive. Spurred by your Muse, you dance to a new song.
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for sixty years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the Water Nymph sings out another kind of tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old part has come alive. Supported by a new leg, you stride toward Resurrection.
One day cleaning out my garage I dug out some old clubs that sparked memories of my folks. Dad worked for Allied Golf and crafted that ladies set with hickory wood shafts and hardwood and iron cast heads, arranging them in a skillfully sown, canvas and leather stovepipe bag. Since Mom rarely played, and though clouds loomed, he’d say, “It never rains on a golf course,” as he snuck out to smoke and play cards with the boys. The two lived out a long life together, not always tenderly but steadily. Yes, there were tiffs and stormy nights, and we kids feared a bigger rift. But all in all, they weathered it all, even when mom went silent with age and for ten years Dad still pined. Deeper and longer than that of the cranes, their love was stronger than titanium steel.
Two great philosophers crossed paths in a menacing Philippine jungle, both serving in the Leyte campaign, each not perceiving of the other. Before an attack on a strategic ridge, a company chaplain assured one that God guides our bullets at the Japs, while steering theirs from us. The other saw troopers jump from above, and armed with only a 90mm AA gun, he cried for them while he aimed, their body parts raining from heaven. One dropped his religion and devised “A Theory of Justice.” The other never had it, but taught me to respect and be fair to all.
You said you were self-reliant, Like a bird ever meant to be free. You vowed to be always defiant And never bow to uncertainty.
Each day you went with the feeling Working 24/7 you could avoid strife. But the greatest risk is to risk nothing, And end up with a less fulfilled life.
I too stayed a course that could not stay And held a conviction too set in stone. I dreamed a dream that faded away, And the life I lived left me alone.
I kept trying to convince you Of my sincerity about what might be. If you could leap, I would be true. Only through risk can one be really free.
Happy we didn’t follow our fears And keep things only our own way, We can now enjoy the coming years Because we joined one auspicious day.
When night goes knock, knock at our house door, It’s time to take my toys from the floor. Although sometimes I make a deep frown, I soon agree to wind myself down. Next I get ready to eat my food To make sure I am in a good mood. Up the stairs, there are my teeth to brush; Then comes a warm bath with little rush. This is followed by comfy bedclothes That in winter may cover my toes. Up really close to Mom I huddle, So I get a very good cuddle. As she reads with me now under sheet, Her voice becomes soft and very sweet. She whispers and bellows as the wind, And buzz, buzz, buzzes like bees that spin. One time growling, she’s a big, big bear, She then purrs like a cat with no care. Dragons yodel and a castle floats, With dancing grandpas and smarty goats. Soon my eyes begin to grow bleary, And my head gets heavy and weary. Drifting off gently in my Mom’s arms, I dream of rainbows and pretty charms.
One thing no one’s wealth can buy The gift of time no gold can weigh. You are always spending it away With the risk of being forever alone.
Continual work gives time its wings, While busy one heeds not its flight. Will you be too busy for me And allow this moment to zoom by?
But for those who love, time is eternity. If I have a task to do, now’s the time! If I could bottle the time I have, I would give you all to wedge me in.
Will you then look on me with kind eyes, And say he doubtless did his best to bring The change that could come to you and me So that we may grow old together instead?
If you find yourself in the shower naked in the frothy mist, peering vaguely through the worn plastic curtain, you are not king of the moment, especially with a stolen towel. Raise neither your voice nor curl your toes in the suds, instead scrub remarks from your lips and beg her for forgiveness or she’ll leave you to your demise.
I came across a band of folks As they dashed along Orinda Way And I asked them, “Where are you going?” And this they told me We’re going to Café Teatro We’re gonna form a Holiday chorus We’re gonna sit with no rush We’re gonna sip some fresh brewed caffeine
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
“Then can I come drink with you? I have come to lose some brain fog And I need to make sure my mind keeps on going” “Well, maybe it is just the right season Or maybe it’s what’s in the air We don’t know what it is But you know, it’s time for sharing”
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
After arriving at the Café We were a couple dozen strong And all around, there were toasts and joyous singing And I dreamed I saw the Grinders Gauging EVs on the road And sparring over Joe’s, Donald’s, ‘n Ron’s True situation
We are honest Near hundred-year carbons We are olden Riding on a Java high And we’re joining together With all our good friends
I tried to revive old visions, But failed despite earnest tries; So, I was left to wrap myself In a web of oh-woes and solitude.
But then my children told me to desist, Shed my dreary ways and not be glum; Thus when a breakfast break dawned, Something jumped out to spark my life.
It came to me a wonder to view A sprightful presence that crossed the floor, A fresh spirit bathed in vibrant confidence, A true kaleidoscope of color and life.
And what at last resolved my quandary? Only she who shines bright and cheery, providing me just the perfect cure: Her enchanting glance and radiant smile.
The other day, at an evening soiree, I met a rather mellow fellow Which sparked a conversational colloquy With more than the usual mutual commonalities: How we knew the Hosts and Guests of Honor, And that we shared the same Golden Age. After fleeing the city of Broad Shoulders, We both had entered the grinding Rat Race, And later barely escaped the desiccating Valley of Silicon, While finally attaining the Grand Order of the Grinder. He muttered of some shuttered venture But then beamed about country rides with his Lynne. In turn, I brought up a personal project About which he became truly intrigued: Penning poetic paeans to folks famed and friendly For their life-long gift of service and joy. But that was that; the event had ended, No time to learn more before a quick so long. Now the news leaves me no means to make A portrait of such a worthy and dear human being. Rick, I’m riled. That was not the deal! I was about to write your “On the Road” Or was that “Born to be Mild”?
It was meant for you and your loved ones to view. Rick, we demand a redo!
‘TWAS fortune brought me to my “shithole” state, Taught my socialist soul to contemplate That Don’s a con, that he’s no Savior, too, A conviction I maintain and hold true. You see my Soros tribe with scornful eye, Say, “Antifa’s a diabolic lie.” But heed, MAGAs, this pinko, marked as Cain, Will never consent to a traitor’s reign.
Beautiful dreamer, dear to my heart Let your troubles quickly depart List while I lull thee with soft melody Beautiful dreamer, sleep there for me
Beautiful dreamer, darling to see Crickets are chirping in rich harmony All around fireflies dance in the dark Waiting to fade out at dawn’s first spark
Beautiful dreamer, precious to me Starlight and dewdrops now glisten for thee Sounds of the wide world heard in the day Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away
Beautiful dreamer, princess of night Gone be thy cares, rest well tonight May this sweet slumber fill thee with glee Beautiful Malala, good night to thee
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ my ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All my friends know that there is something to blame I admit to shunning old strife
Don’t know the reason Stayed there all season Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, I don’t give two darns
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All I know now that there’s nothing more to blame I submit, this is my new life
Yes, some people may claim That I should have some shame All I know, it’s a damn good life
College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:
1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.
There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.
Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!
Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.
Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!
2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.
Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.
I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?
Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”
It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.
“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.
“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.
I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.
“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.
We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why?”
“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”
We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.
Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.
3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.
As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.
In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.
“What’s going on with Knight?”
“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”
“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”
Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.
The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?
******
Dear Hoosierland,
I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.
BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!
In Ameryka, a Polish soul resides, Yearning to find roots, yet bound by divides– Longing to walk lanes of ancestral past, To explore origins, reach them at last.
He pictures faces of his long-lost kin, Ones who left Poland, those who stayed within. He desires to walk the towns where they grew, To learn how they lived, to feel what they knew.
Birthplace of Copernicus and Curie Kociuszko, Chopin and Sobieski, He dreams of a country, green and serene, Of castles and churches, old and pristine.
Cold War shadows lingered, foiling sojourn To the land of forbears, their tales to learn. Opportunities missed, plans put on hold, Power politics made mistrust unfold.
Old hostilities, the scars that remain Kept a Pole by genes from breaking the chain. Yet deep in his heart, a flame still burns bright, Pining to connect, thirsty for insight.
From communist to budding fascist People willing but unable to resist Despite setbacks and challenges ahead Their spirit persisted, was never dead.
But since elections brought freedom restored, The call for a visit can’t be ignored. He’ll relish pierogis and kielbasa, Listen to polsku as voiced by Busia.
He looks forward to a new kinship built So he may enjoy himself to the hilt With plenty of occasions to explore Poland’s wonders he’d been denied before.
Fearless high roller, cash in her mitts, She plays slots looking for the right hits. With a spin and a cheer, Payoff resounds so dear. Winning big, her luck knows no limits!
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to her august stature. Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs, that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul— fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain. His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes, falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge her from predetermined scheme. She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace, feigning boredom while her attendant croons his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion, soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation. And as day wanes and dark fills the room, she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of her solitude and the clumsy affection of the human heart. In that certain moment, when she so deems it, she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so, as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace, and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all. Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist: a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of her immutable indifference.
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
In California’s warm embrace, Where golden sunshine paints winter space, A fond five-year-old with eyes so bright, Takes in wonders of a special night.
Her tiny hands, fluttering with glee, Hang glazed ornaments on the tree, While laughter bubbles out through the air, Love and joy sparkle everywhere.
With tinsel glinting, a star on top, She twirls around and can’t help but hop To the smell of cookies, sweet and warm, With cocoa steaming, a cozy charm.
Not a snowflake falls, but hearts are light. Family gathers, a loving sight. They share old stories filled with good cheer. Thus, in the Bay, they bring themselves near.
Outside, darkness begins to hold sway; Inside, season’s magic leads the way. With every hug, every song, She hopes the wait will not be too long.
As night descends, lights full agleam, She closes her eyes, begins to dream Of reindeer flying in starlit skies And what surprise may come at sunrise.
With her hopes high and thoughts so deep, That there’s no snow, who cares a peep? While it’s not a “traditional” sight, The season’s spirit still shines just right.
Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
