There but for fortune, go you or I

V a g a b o n d     B r o t h e r

.                                                                                                   .

The times went by with the passing wind,
           days of rage, days of wonder, days on end.
We lived, loved and laughed with no thought given
           the gathering storm, lying low on a distant horizon  
at the far side of our misspent youth. .                                                                                                    .

Vagabond brother, your sea anchor's unstuck,
           and your ship's coming up fast on the reef.
The hourglass is tipped over and the compass deranged,
           spinning madly in vain search of true North,
while the merry madcap laughs up his sleeve. .                                                                                                     .

Defined by a generation, encapsulated in a time
            of consequence and turbulence we climbed
the peaks of despair, swam in the ocean of our discontent,
            searching diligently for the meaningful while
mistaking the ridiculous for the exquisitely sublime. .                                                                                                      .

Vagabond brother, your days are indelibly marked
            by the misery expressed in the lines on your face,
Happiness is a fading memory of those times past
            too quickly, squandered on cheap and tawdry pleasures,
gaily-colored mementos to decorate a dingy gray life. .                                                                                                       .

The times that were and the times to come dissolve
            into the ever-present now, sculpting the future
from wasted words and wasted time, until nothing is left,
            the masquerade is permanent, we stayed too long
at the dance, removing the mask no longer possible. .                                                                                                       .

Vagabond brother, you've cheated life of meaning,
            you pass anonymously by in plain sight,
Cast down and cast away on the shoals
            you once danced in defiance of, in merry
abandonment, now left abandoned on the street corner.

When words fail....

something I meant to say....
All those many times ago, when things still mattered,
I stood lost for words, in a battle I wasn't prepared to fight
Your anger like a force of nature robbed me of thought
and left me stranded on an alien shore without any hope
of rescue or relief, tossed aside with yesterday's newspaper.
.                                                                                            .             
When we first began our story, there wasn't time enough
for all the words of love we wanted so desperately to say
for the feelings that threatened like a summer storm
to burst forth from us, drenching us in a furious downpour
washing us away in a stream of turbulent emotions.
.                                                                                           .
Like all great loves, tomorrow was a destination never arrived ,
instead, only todays and tonights never lasting, always
long enough to satisfy the headlong plunge into reckless
abandon, laughing at the danger, screaming with joy,
making each day into our personal voyage of discovery.
.                                                                                           .
But times pass by so quickly, day following day in endless
succession, until they accumulate into years and years
into decades, the small and not so small injuries festering
until they become open wounds, eating away at the heart
and leaving only a shell where once stood a towering passion.
.                                                                                          .
Memories, like photographs in an album, pasted in place
to remind us of better times, of laughter and love and hope,
a now-forgotten memorial to possibilities only dreamt of
and hopes now dashed on the rocky reality we so tried to avoid,
a foolish attempt, made by love's fools everywhere, everywhen.
.                                                                                          .
In later days, we will attempt to recall where the road divided,
taking me one way and you another, vainly looking for answers
to explain the aching void that cannot be filled, that will not
leave us peace or comfort, when in the middle of the dark night,
we ask ourselves why and what could we have said different?
.                                                                                          .
All those many times ago, when love still mattered,
I stood lost for words, in a battle I had no heart for.
Your anger like a force of nature kept silent my voice,
caught between what was and what would never be again,
I knew at last it was only something I meant to say.

For a lost love

F l a t h e a d M e m o r i e s

Soft and warm, the morning light caressed your cheek's blush,

Until stirring slowly in your sleep, you moved as if to brush

petulantly away an impertinent dawn's creeping touch.

Green and hazy, sleepy eyes open, still not seeing much,

until, resting on me, they crinkle brightly, as a lazy smile

brings such a glowing tenderness to your face, while

lips that have pressed mine with such fierce passion part;

Love is awake, matching day for light, setting fire to my heart.

On the road again...

T h e   J o u r n e y   S o   F a r

This too human condition, of which all are dutiful subjects,
pushes, prods, pulls and rends the very fabric of our lives,
taking us first this way, then that and then yet another,
as we make our way along the paths of our individual desires,
until time and circumstance ultimately converge with finality.  

Oh, the course may be smooth or rough, whether long or not,
there may be no limit to our progress, or even no end to limits.
When first we begin, as babes we are unaware and unable.
 As we grow, whether by accident or by design, we do not change,
other than by the degrees measured in tears and sweat.  

Why have the fates challenged us with such unrelenting tedium,
and bedeviled us with temper, burdened us with needless vanity,
while placing the more desirable and admirable characteristics
heartbreakingly out of reach, of all except the near saintly,
or the unhappy few who exhibit a shocking lack of human frailty.  

These times that try our limited patience and test our souls,
are no different than times past nor the times yet to come.
The trappings, costumes and vocabulary we use may to us appear
to be all our own,  we believe, unique in our specific time and place,
but, after all,  they are only one more link in the chain of history.  

Even as we rail and struggle against a tide of outrageous misfortune,
we merely add our voices to the song that first began, so long ago,
when man crawled, naked and scared, out of the primordial ooze,
beginning the eternal search for meaning and comprehension,
for a better standard of existence in the then and future world.  

The search goes on and ever onward, even though the seekers
have long since forgotten the reason for their unending quest.
We continue to flounder, lame, blind and helpless in a shadow dance
only dimly reflecting the origins of the questions that still inspire
our actions and reactions, actions and inactions, actions and distractions.

Art For AnyWall beginnings

All of these are from the late 70's, just samples of stuff I have always liked.   

1)    A Happy Face  From 1977, a study in color-filled squiggly lines.

2)    How Are Ya Doin'?  From 1976, after an extended stay in the hospital, a valid question.

3)    Only A Passing Hippie, In His World An update of an earlier piece, done in 1975, that I xeroxed and added to in 1978, as an update of what had happened to Our Hero.  It is the oldest and youngest piece in here, by virtue of its provenance.

4)    Peace Now From 1978, a flag for a generation in full flower.

5)    Ready to Break Out  From 1977, a statement of purpose, the star was going to explode.

6)    The Star Is Born  From 1978, the star begins to emerge.

7)    What Stuff Is This Madness?  From 1977, originally a phone number doodle, this got the full treatment, to see where it would lead.

Thoughts on mortality

When I Was Young

When I was young, I thought everything would work out, every wrong would be righted, every lack would be met, every broken heart mended. It didn’t take long for Life to demolish those and all the similar misguided notions I, like so many others before me, held dear. That harsh reality probably comes as no surprise to most, if not all, but it truly gave me pause when I became a parent. I thought I could right all the mistakes my parents had made in raising me and my siblings; oh, I had a long list of evils I would avoid. Imagine my surprise then when I found myself telling my children, “You, too, will someday tell your children these very things, deny them the same things I deny you, enforce the same kinds of rules I insist on, and, someday, find yourself saying these same words to your children.”

In a perfect world, we wouldn’t have to worry, but the world is becoming less perfect with each passing day, and a diligence is ever more a parental responsibility. The more dangers one identifies and deals with, the more crop up, seemingly out of nowhere. I am reminded of the Norse myth of Baldur, the blind son of Odin and Freya, whom everyone loved for his beauty, talent and charming manner. One day, though, Freya received a warning that someone wished Baldur evil; wishing to forestall any attempt to harm her son, Freya went around to all the various elements that might be used to harm him, extracting a solemn promise from stone, poisons and wood that they would not participate in any threat to Baldur's safety. She overlooked only the lowly mistletoe, a menial plant that posed no danger in her mind.

Baldur, on learning of this protection, thought it amusing to allow others to shoot at him with arrows or throw stones, while he played his lyre and sang songs, in the sunlit meadow near his home. All thought it a wonderful amusement, harmless and great fun, as they did their best to use some article to hurt Baldur, but he only laughed it all off, unscathed. Loki, the troublemaker, always jealous and willing to cause unrest, found out about the mistletoe; he came to the meadow where all were gathered one fine afternoon, and asked might he have a shot at the great Baldur, with his tiny bow and single arrow. All agreed it would be great sport to see this, since no harm could come of it anyway. Loki stepped forward, pulled out his arrow and affixed the mistletoe to his arrow, then pulled back and let it fly. The arrow sped straight toward Baldur, carrying his doom. The lesson from this story amply illustrates our inability to account for everything; no amulet or saving grace will protect us or our loved ones from every peril in the world. Of course, it didn't help that Baldur, like so many young people, revelled in his immortality, laughing in the face of danger, daring it even. We've all done it, some of us continue to do so, but eventually, we all come to the same conclusion, the same understanding, if we are lucky enough to escape the consequences. The sure knowledge that it is only a matter of time, and how much time is up to us, after all.

Lasting Thoughts

Lasting thoughts

As I grow older and eventually gray,

looking back on my life, I want to say,

that I loved you more with each passing day.

When at last I come to the eternal rest,

lying there awaiting that final test,

I only want to hear you say I loved you best.

Before I close my eyes at the very last,

hold me tight and remember all the times past,

those wonder-filled times gone by so fast.