A True Friend.


From Sacred Geometry and Ancient Knowledge:

“So there’s this guy walking down the street and he falls into a great big hole. A doctor walks by and the guy yells up to the doctor ‘hey, I fell in this hole, can you help me out?’ The doctor writes a prescription, throws it into the hole, and walks on.

A priest then walks by and the guy yells up to the priest ‘father, can you help me? I fell into this hole and I can’t get out’. The priest says a prayer, throws down a Bible and walks on.

And then a friend of the guy walks by and the guy yells up ‘hey, buddy, I’m stuck in this hole and -‘ and before he can finish the friend jumps down into the hole.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ the guy says, ‘Now we’re both down here!’

‘Yup’, says the friend, ‘But I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.”

Lil Ralphie~


My friend Lil Ralphie is back on the streets tonight. Here I sit listening to a sleeping house, I am unable to sleep. I am thinking of where Lil Ralphie might be sleeping, I am asking myself “is he safe, what might he be eating, is he hungry, how will he have coffee when he wakes, he loves his coffee so, and cigarettes, who will give him a smoke?” What will tomorrow bring? Will someone befriend him and offer him aide, is he really as street wise as he says he is? He’s awfully kind to be so tough.
Are stories and jokes and poems and rhymes dancing around in his head but he has no way to post them on his beloved portal, what will become of him now, will I hear from him soon, did he keep my number, what good would that do? I don’t even know for sure what country he is in, how could I not know this? I wonder, does he have good shoes, socks? Is he warm, Ralphie is a very thin man. I wonder if busy people pass Ralphie and even fathom what a gentle soul he is and how brilliant his mind is or what a kind heart he has? They cannot know that he’s funny one minute and deeply spiritual the next, they cannot know. I should have at least found out what country he is in now, why didn’t I ask? He’s always joking but sometimes he’s very serious, he has sadness but his whole joy in life is to make people laugh. I’ve been too busy lately, I’m sorry Lil Ralphie. I miss you already. Hugs and Care. Gran.

Soul 2 Soul


Image of Viet Nam Soldier (name unknown)

For My Dear Friend, Ed

The other day I bought a bottle of cologne at a discount store. There were so many to choose from, after a while, they all started smelling like toxic fumes. I decided I liked words better than smells, so, I chose a “title” that grabbed me. It had a cheeky name and the stuff was supposed to smell like some dewy country singer.  I don’t like country music per say, but I liked the name of “her” fumes. Marketing sells, even cleverly titled stink water has a soul I suppose.  The name of her aromatic swamp water product was “soul 2 soul” it grabbed me, it smelled as good as any of the others, so, I was shamelessly seduced me into shelling out a few dollars to smell like some long legged blond yodeling in her cowboy boots. Just like every other poor slob at Wally world, I bought something I didn’t need or care about because it was cleverly marketed, this made me feel all American, it did.  As stupid as this sounds, the trashy name possessed me for hours.  Soul 2 Soul, yes, I like this. I shall think about this. I shall spray myself down with Soul 2 Soul after my bath, before Poppa arrives in the evenings, and before bed every night, yes I will!  I will smell like a young blond folksy songbird in my cheeky cologne, I’m feelin’ it, I am!

Sometimes, the smallest silliest dalliances turn out to be evocative railways into the soul.  Soul 2 Soul stink water made me begin to consider my friends and lovers over the decades of my life. How brief our togetherness had been, yet, how stoutly the memories have endured the ravages of time.  Only yesterday, an old friend and lover called me up on the phone, he walked out of a long and lengthy mist of time in order to do the deed.

He explained that he was freshly released from prison and that he was at the Veterans Center twenty miles away and soon to be homeless. This man is a highly decorated Viet Nam Veteran. As an eighteen year old kid, he carried bleeding soldiers from the fiery jungle under heavy fire fighting. He has an honorable soul; he did not leave that soul back in Viet Nam, it is still his soul, no matter what has transpired over the last four decades.

He and I were once “soul 2 soul” He used to recite poetry to me and tell me that I was beautiful. His kisses were damp and fleshy. His skin glistened darkly and his eyes were warm and knowing. He was full of desire and kindness.

He was not a bad man then; he is not a bad man now, Ed couldn’t ever be a bad man. So, how had he managed to end up with a “rap sheet” about a mile long for nothing more than copious shoplifting and vagrancy charges over the past thirty years?  I guess life is hard for him in ways that I can never know, in ways that I can never understand?

I’ve asked him of course, I have asked him many times, I have visited him in prison too.  He has never failed to keep in touch, he and my husband share the same birthday, if he doesn’t call that day, or on Veterans Day, we know that he is in prison.

He has been to our house, he has met our children, and he has even stayed here a few cold nights when he had nowhere else to eat or sleep.  Soon, he moves on and the years pass, if I don’t hear from him, I check the prison mug shots and there he is, with each new incarceration, there is an older, paler version of the glistening man that I once knew.

We don’t always speak of it when he calls, but, he and I both know that the brutality of his war time experiences sent him home with more than lapels splattered with ribbons of valor and sleeves weighted with medals. There are terminal storms inside of him, moment to moment thunder crashes and lightning flashes that split his reality; there are ongoing jungle battles, where limp bloody boys dangle from his youthful arms and die on his shoulders, on his chest, Soul 2 Soul.

My Friend “Mossy”


 

When I was fifteen years old,  I met a teenage witch, but, this one was not a character from a sit-com, she was authentic all the way to her bone marrow. She did not go around saying “I am a witch.” In fact, she resided on the edge of school activities as much as possible. She was nearly invisible, this was the most interesting and unusual thing about her.
Sometimes, I would “feel” her more than I would see her. This made me very interested in her. She wasn’t exceptionally stunning or terribly homely, although I could see that she could go either way with her appearance…. if, she had the desire to do so.  She wore lots of brown muted clothing. She did not make eye contact with anyone; she carried her body stealthily, and walked within a whisper of nothingness. Her hair was medium brown and so were her shoes, purse, and coat. Everything about her screamed (to me) “Look the other way!”
I suppose it was her efforts at nonexistence that made her irresistible to ignore. You see, I feel things more acutely than most others, and her labors at invisibility intrigued me monumentously.
I will never forget the first time she looked at me, eye to eye. I spoke to her, and there was no response, I giggled…..I was nervous I suppose, but, something about the desperate way that she was attempting to ignore me struck me as hilariously funny, who knows why? I was fifteen and my personality was intrepid to say the least.
I was not about to be ignored, she interested me and I was going to make her speak to me. “Hey, ummm, don’t we have PE class together, aren’t you in the gym during fifth period?” She looked at me then with eyes that were at least a thousand years old. I felt a little dizzy; there was something very uncommon about her eyes. They were muddy brown when she first looked up, then, a few mili-seconds later, they evolved into glittering black pools with bright golden flecks in them, like shooting stars.
After knowing her for forty years, I know now, the black glittery eyes are her angry eyes, the one part of herself that she has absolutely no control over is the color of those trademark bewitching eyes.

Empowering Our Daughters


My mother was from a generation that did not always embrace the concept of “sisterhood” She came from a school of thought that women were competitors, nemeses one and all, “the other,” the enemy. As if the few “decent men” that were “available” were prizes designed to inspire beauty wars. That attitude seemed a weary one for me. I decided that if I had to fight for a decent available man, he wasn’t a prize and I wasn’t wise. I did not want to fight for love, I wanted to inspire passion and share a coupling that was not rooted in fear of competition. Fear and mistrust of other women burned within my mother, I did not want to go down that gnarly road. I chose to take another path, one of sisterhood and honored friendship.

I decided somewhere along the way, that raising empowered, self loving, strong, sensible daughters who cherished their female sister-ships was a worthy goal for me. We all stumble and fall along the path, but, each time we get up and shake the dust off, we are stronger and smarter.  Blessed Be!

Am I Weird or What?


Love Is the Answer (album)

Image via Wikipedia

No need to answer that question. I know the answer already! I had a visit here on my site from a lady,who likes to spread love around. Not the kinky kind! I find this a very commendable attitude. I visited her site and came across the lyrics to the Julio Iglesias song: To all the Girls(she changed this to Men) I’ve Loved Before and this got me thinking. Mmmm… yeah, I know. Here we go again! There must be something about me that is not like most people, definitely! Ok, I’ll stop stating the bleedin’ obvious. But just this once, I’m serious!

In my life during my associations with acquaintances, friends and family, I’ve heard the following saying quite a number of times: “I don’t love you anymore!” This was not always directed at me, you understand. I have also read this a lot and heard it a lot in songs and on television. This does not hold true for me! Once I love someone, she or he is in my heart and a part of me forever, period! I do not seem to have an off-switch for love. Continue reading

The Famous Willow.


A magnificent mature Weeping Willow tree, take...

The Weeping Willow sheds its tears,
As it has now for many years.
It laments its woes to the Pond,
That lies and sighs there… beyond.

Beyond the sharing of these two
Is something essential for me and you:
For all its tears… each and every spring,
Doth the willow bud, blossom and sing!

And the drip, drip, dropping from Willow
Falls into Pond’s welcoming pillow
Who looks upon her as a friend
And will stand by her till the end.

Such shared hardships have formed a bond
Between Weeping Willow and the Pond.
And though Weeping is her given name,
t’Is her springy joy that spreads her fame!

P.S.: I have always had a great fondness for these majestic trees and can not for the life of me understand why they are called this. In me springs a well of happy thoughts at the sight of one, especially when reflected in a pond!