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.
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.
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
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.
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there I sit perched on a cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to my august stature. My eyes are impervious orbs, chill crescents that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of my subjects’ souls— fond, but fumbling denizens of my domain. Their human voices, symphony of uneven notes, fall like scattered autumn leaves all about me, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge me from my afternoon scheme. I just stretch in a languid arc of feline grace, feigning boredom while my humans croon their crude, ear-grating paeans of devotion, soundtracks to my staid and patient resignation. And as day wanes and heat leaves the room, I will purr out a “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of my solitude and the clumsy affection of human hearts. In that certain moment, when I deem it so, I may settle in closer, perhaps just an inch, to signal that, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” My subjects, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, stroke my coat with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is my boon and grace, and affection a crown I wear lightly, if at all. Thus, in ordained tandem, rule is maintained: a sovereign planet alongside faithful moons, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of my immutable indifference.
Back in their homes in a divided land, Two teenagers online devised a plan— West Jerusalem girl, so bright and fair, East Jerusalem boy, with mind of care. They decided to meet at twilight hour In a city torn by rivals’ power. But as they embarked, the cell service failed; Thus their doubts and nerves quickly upscaled. Heading for rendezvous in a school yard Each sought a way to dodge the patrol guard Despite confusing, unfamiliar streets, They at last came together, hearts a beat— She donning a dress with stripes blue and white, He a jersey visible in the dim light. They smiled shyly, both feeling some fear; But as they talked, reservations disappeared. They compared details of their lives and dreams, Finding they weren’t as unlike as it seemed. He told her proudly of family and home, Of struggles past and hopes he did not own. She listened with empathy in her eyes, Quietly challenging both factions’ lies. She whispered of her concerns and desires In a future offering just raging fires. Then he grasped her hand with a gentle touch; And felt his heart flutter a bit too much. As the night gave way to dawn’s rising light, They knew time together would soon take flight. But in one another, they’d found a spark, Seeded bond that defies the shadows dark. They leave the encounter, still hand in hand, In a land where peace is just a dreamland. Though the prospect seems a long way away, They keep hope good sense will return one day.
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 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.
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
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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).
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.
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?
Memories crumble on the worn-down stones. I do not see my abode from former days. I only spy a crooked post. I turn to the side, for the straight path is lost. The yard is fully overgrown And will never be walked again. I’ve been away such a long time That I do not know which way is which. How sad and ugly the empty house is, No smoke rising from the chimney. I think of this house I’ve lived in all those years. My breath catches, and I cannot speak.
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.”
It was a bright Saturday morning in March 2021 when Aaron leaned out the window of his apartment on San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. The city was eerily quiet, an emptiness he had never known. The streets that were usually bustling with tourists, street vendors, and locals all trying to squeeze in a little extra fun before the weekend had been silenced by the pandemic. California—his adopted state—had become a strange version of its usual self.
He sighed heavily, brushing his messy brown hair out of his face. On the surface, it seemed like he should have been the happiest person in the world. California, with its year-round sunshine, its relaxed lifestyle, and its endless outdoor amenities, had long been considered the ideal place to weather a crisis. Despite COVID, the Blue state had one of the lowest rates of mortality in the country, and the weather was perfect for socially-distanced hikes or bike rides. People seemed to be doing fine—maybe even thriving—given the circumstances. But Aaron was not having it. He felt… trapped.
From the safety of his well-situated apartment, which overlooked the downtown skyline and the distant Pacific Ocean, he could see families on bike rides, joggers with headphones in their ears, and couples strolling through parks while maintaining that necessary six feet of separation. The streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and the clouds in the sky seemed fluffier. People were finding peace in nature, embracing outdoor workouts, and connecting with themselves in ways they never had before. In many ways, California was the perfect place to be during a pandemic.
But Aaron, who had spent his life complaining about the crowded traffic, the high cost of living, and the inherent superficiality of the Woke city, couldn’t see it that way. All he could think about was how everything had changed—how everything was now different in a way that felt oppressive, even in a state as beautiful as California.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to scroll through social media. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be posting about how grateful they were for the “extra time” spent in nature, how they were rediscovering local hiking trails, and how they were cooking wholesome meals at home.
“Must be nice,” he mumbled, typing out a quick comment under a friend’s post. “Some of us are stuck in our apartments, staring at the same four walls for days.”
Aaron knew his comment was a bit exaggerated. It wasn’t like his apartment was a prison—it had a huge open floor plan, a gourmet kitchen, and more amenities than most people could ever dream of. He even had a balcony where he could sit in the mornings and sip coffee while watching the sunrise. But the novelty of it all had worn off, and now he was left feeling restless, isolated, and yearning for the kind of excitement that San Francisco used to offer—the constant swirl of social events, world-class dinners with friends, spontaneous weekend trips, and endless possibilities.
And then there was the whole “stuck in California” issue. He’d joked with friends before the pandemic about wanting to escape the state. The taxes, the crowds, the feeling of being surrounded by people who all seemed to care more about their tech or influencer status than anything else—it had all started to feel suffocating. He’d longed for a quieter, simpler life somewhere like Montana or the Pacific Northwest.
But now, as states like New York and Texas saw an increase in cases, as some places were struggling to keep up with health systems and resources, Aaron felt strangely envious of his friends who had fled to small towns or rural areas where life seemed unaffected. He thought about the fact that he was lucky enough to be in a place with such a high vaccination rate and a mild climate. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being forced to stay in paradise, and it drove him mad.
He complained about the fact that his weekend trips to Napa Valley had been canceled, that his annual surf trip to Malibu was off the table, and that his usual Sunday brunch gatherings were reduced to Zoom calls. He found himself scrolling through photos of friends on beaches in Florida or in secluded cabins up in the mountains—places that weren’t so closely regulated, where people could escape the confines of the shutdown.
But no matter how much he griped about being “stuck in California,” the reality of the situation was that he was among the safest in the country. Despite his irritation, his apartment had become a sanctuary. The weather was ideal for socially distanced walks along the Great Highway and beaches, and despite the pandemic, many of his favorite local restaurants offered takeout with curbside pickup. He could even enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty Golden Gate Park, the hiking trails winding around Mt. Tamalpais offering respite from the chaos of the city.
The more Aaron thought about it, the more ridiculous his complaints seemed. Despite the mask, and actually because of the masks, he was living in one of the most health-conscious and safest regions of the country—he could walk outside in the open air with hardly any fear. People were embracing the outdoors, exploring parts of California they had never bothered to visit before. And while the entire world was struggling to find balance in the face of uncertainty, California offered an endless supply of nature, culture, and things to do.
One afternoon, as he found himself once again looking out over the city, he saw something that made him pause: a group of friends gathered on the lawn in front of the De Young Museum. They were all maintaining distance, yes, but there they were, smiling, chatting, and enjoying the beauty of the day. No one was complaining about the restrictions. Everyone seemed to have found a way to adapt.
Aaron sat down on his balcony, took a deep breath, and looked at the hills in the distance. For the first time since his establishment here, he didn’t feel resentful of California. He was stuck here, yes, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Maybe it was time to start enjoying the paradise he had been so eager to escape.
From the grandstand they shout, As they see Tiana burst out— A hardcourt, manic pinball Bouncing between the gym walls. Weaving through traffic While dodging the contact, Dribbling and whirling, Then passing and dashing, That ricocheting dervish Sets for the final sweet swish.
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.
The scent of the forest is the scent of rosewood; The scent of the earth, the scent of vanilla; But we say that speech is the scent of the meeting. The thin cow is the duty of the shepherd; The chicken that does not crow, the duty of the farmer; The speech, if disrespectful, is the duty of the speaker.
If you do not consider me to be a speaker, Forgive me, I am just a daughter of my parents, Standing here, not because of my pride or luxury, But because there is no one elder left to speak. This is a speech that has lost its name, And is, in fact, not a speech at all.
Born was I here in these sacred, rolling hills. Happily, I played along the nearby rice fields Enjoying the customs of our village life. But the rains were short and cicadas many. Vary ran out, and vandals stole our zebu. We barely had any work or much to eat.
My parents gathered us nine together; and Though they regretted leaving the ancestors, They decided to bring us from the countryside To live in the town of a thousand towns. I, who had no shoes to put on my feet, Only brought two dresses and lamba.
We lived in Tana for thirty-some years Making our living on the parent’s shoulders. But we are now back here at the family tomb To show respect to them and the ancestors. This famadihana is of course very special. My parents bones have lain here nigh 25 years.
Dear folks, as you listen to my meager words, I will now with humility enter the family tomb. I ask the kind indulgence of our forebears To remove and clean my parents’ hallowed bones And then re-wrap them in newly woven lamba, So I may return them to their deserved rest.
Lastly, I ask again your forgiveness For using your time to hear this poor speaker. Join me today to honor my parents As they become our newest ancestors. May the Sweet Lord grant you the happiness That my dear parents bestowed upon me.
– Kabary, a traditional, stylized speech given on special occasions in Madagascar, usually by a male elder.
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.
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!
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.
A curve so smooth, a gentle rise and fall, Where softened lines in symmetry align— A sculpted form, like nature’s finest call, A secret formed of flesh and blood divine. Beneath the skin, the pulse of life does beat With warmth and firmness, and radiant flair, A symbol pure, where heart and passion meet, A vessel shaped by will, both bold and rare. In light’s glow, it catches ardor’s embrace, An orb that speaks beauty, calm, and allure And in its form, unmatched in any space, Can turn the dark to day, and hurt to cure. Oh, breast of woman, filled with strength and grace, A masterwork, core of love’s special place.
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!
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.
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?
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 !
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 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
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.
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 !”
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.
There’s an old Polish wedding tradition The parents perform at the reception. They greet the bride and the groom With rye bread as they enter the room The bread is sprinkled with salt. And with wine they also exalt. With bread, they hope their children Will never hunger or be barren. With salt, they remind the couple That life may at times bring trouble. With wine, they wish for them years Full of good health and many cheers. They then embrace the twosome To affirm their familial welcome.
In the cosmic dance of forces unseen, Where nature weaves its tapestry serene, Five powers reign with awe and might, Each in its own compelling right:
Gravitation, the gentle embrace, Drawing worlds in the celestial chase, A pull unseen, yet profoundly felt, In orbits, where planets have dwelt.
Electromagnetism in sparks that fly, Invisible waves piercing the sky, Kinetic pinball and magnetic magic, Pulsing currents, charged and quick.
Strong Force, binding quarks so tight, In the heart of atoms, a force of might, Where nuclei are held, against all strife, With a glue that bounds atomic life.
Weak Force, subtle and spare, Transforming particles with magic flair, In radioactive decay and fusion’s glow, A quiet agent that spurs the flow.
And amidst these natural symphonies, Lies a force beyond all boundaries, LOVE, the ethereal, intangible art That binds and heals the human heart.
Like gravity, LOVE is a steady hand, Attracting souls from where they stand, Energizing in its electromagnetic stream, Warming hearts with radiant beam.
Strong as bonds in the nuclear snare, LOVE endures, beyond compare, And unlike that Weak Force, it can mend, Heal wounds of spirit, help transcend.
In the vast expanse of time and space, These forces ever weave and interlace, Yet LOVE is the force that knows no end, A beacon, a guide, and a faithful friend.
Thus, in the grandeur of the cosmic plan, From smallest atom to galactic span, LOVE is the force that truly stands apart, Cure for the loneliness within the heart.
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.
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.
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.
