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Soulful Eyes

There are times I look into the eyes of a person I’ve just encountered.

Maybe I was introduced by a mutual friend.
Maybe I just happened to be standing behind them in the line for  a snow cone.

It is when I am standing in line for a snow cone, 

that I am even more likely to think that it is such an odd coincidence,

given that I very seldom get a snow cone.

After all it is just a scoopful of ice with sugary syrup.

In those instances, I really let myself think that it must be some kind of truly cosmic,

truly transcendent,

magical,

spiritual moment.

In the brief moment allotted to me, our eyes meet.

I feel my vision travel at warp speed deep,

deep into this the snow coner’s  heart,

then circling and resting for a split second that feels like an hour 

into the sweet comfort of that person’s very soul.

I feel that person’s humanity,

And that person’s love for life,

The person’s energy bursts forth and informs my vision that this indeed is a very,

very special person.

I see the same old faces in the same old places in this little old town.

That is a true statement.

Not that I have never left, but never for all that long,

I have, since the age of  7, always had an address here.

There are people I have known since my Dad and Step-mom married.

I have lost some along the way, and have grieved the loss of their grandparents and parents.

I have seen the wrinkles emerge ever slowly etching onto the baby faces of their youth.

I have seen the hair turning gray or falling out or both.

I know of the triumphs.

The wins that came long after their playing days were over.

I’ve seen heartaches, the job losses, the tragedies.

I’ve seen the toughest kid on the block reduced to tears,

And the prom queen maintain a regal presence even when society’s bias would say that she somehow lost her beauty.

I’ve seen the running back walking slowly with help of a cane,

While holding the hand of his six year-old grandchild saying, “Here’s the NEXT big star, just you wait!”

I’ve heard the class comic say the same joke for fifty years straight,

And he’s gotten so very old, but the joke still makes me laugh.

And his own cackle has deepened to a rumbling, bumbling growl but it still brings a smile to my face,

I could leave but there is just something about this place.

Meditation in the sunlight makes the act of shutting one’s eyes ineffective.

The light will get in under the eyelids,

and a blanket of darkness will be at least streamed with dashes of yellow.

And if it is warm day, the rays will warm the top of the head,

and add yet another dimension.

This will be a silent period,

but it will not be quiet.

What the sun can do is now part of the experience.

It will be different.

It will be felt.

It will still be meditation.

Let the light lighten and enlighten you.

Let the warmth set you at ease.

Feel all that is there.

Right there.

There is one kind of person whom I have never met,

A perpetually sad person who owns a pet.

It is not as if they’ve never been sad,

But the joy of having a pet made it not so bad.

I am not even sure if it matters what kind of pet,

Even an even tempered turtle could help you forget,

all the problems you have and worries you entertain,

Get a pet, nothing to lose and lots and lots to gain.

I love my dog because she licks my face,

And follows me all around the place,

And listens so intently and even tilts her head,

I know that she will miss me when I’m dead.

She’ll look all around because she’ll want to play,

but she’ll stop looking every single day,

She’ll hope I’ll return and wonder how,

How, how, she’s going to  get fed now.

The tickle in my throat gives way to sniffles in my nose,

leading to intermittent sneezing,

which responds to no attempts at controlling the frequency or volume.

So, standing here at any moment, I could sneeze. 

I could be in the middle of the most profound sentence I’ve ever written,

and it could be interrupted by a spontaneous and jarring explosion.

And many of you, will kindly utter, “God Bless You,” or some other well-intended, supportive phrase.

And then, moments later, I would again, sneeze.

One or two of you will repeat words of support.

Sincerely.

A few more might say the words again, but with less sincerity and maybe a bit of annoyance.

A few of you may chuckle, and maybe notice your fellow chucklers and glance at each other knowingly.

And then the series of sneezes would follow. 

More chuckles and less blessings.

Soon the laughter would erupt.

Slowly at first. Chuckles, and finally unmistakable giggling.

And I would look at you. 

I would admonish you all.

I would say,

“You make think it’s funny, but it’s SNOT!”

I started writing a poem with the line,

“If you just walk like you have nowhere to go, you’ll get there”.

I stopped right in my tracks and realized that was way too much like

John Lennon’s “Nowhere Man”.

La, la, la. la.

And I would never want to write a poem with a line like

La, la, la, la.

But then I pondered, ” Can I go my whole life,

without ever having written.

“La, la, la, la.”?

George rewrote Nowhere Man,

in his own way,

“And if you don’t know where you’re goin’,

Any road will take you there”

All he had to do is add,

“La, la, la, la.”

He sang it so well the first time.

If you just walk like you have nowhere to go, you’ll get there.

Then, there in the void you will be left to decide if your stubborn lack of purpose,

Got you what you were not at all interested in seeking.

In my dream you looked pretty damn good.

You assured me that you were feeling much better

And that you were going to work at a new convenience store

And that you weren’t at all sure if you liked your new boss all that much better than the previous one.

We were in your apartment and it sparkled.

I looked at the kitchen table and there was a plate of toll house chocolate chip cookies,

A recipe you tucked in your pocket book when Ma passed away.

I asked you where you hid it, and you laughed.

A mean but loving laugh.

I said that I was sorry that I was going away,

Though in real life, I never left.

But you did.

In the dream

• I know it was a dream

I said that I will call you often,

And it would be like I was still right there with you.

Though the circumstances are reversed,

I think I will still call you.

After all, I still have your number in my phone.

Maybe you’ll tell me the recipe.

I’m striving for mediocrity.

Yes, in some areas, I will need to significantly up my game.

But I am also willing to let the quality of my efforts wane in many other areas.

You know, stop being such a freakin’ show off.

Stop meeting so many deadlines.

Stop returning so many texts, emails, phone calls.

Stop trying to write the perfect poem, and write something totally worthless.

Like this.

Really, all this striving is getting in the way of surviving,

It’s time to pour a tall one of the wonder of this life

and start imbibing.

Mediocrity is not that hard a pill to swallow.

I call myself a limited water enthusiast.

Not that I am enthusiastic about limited water or limiting water.

My enthusiasm for water, itself is limited,

to me at least, in interesting ways.

I love walking near the ocean, bayside or ocean side.

Sandbars for miles and sand dunes or frollicking or angry waves.

I don’t discriminate.

I love hiking along a lakeshore,

And even gazing at the small frog pond near my house.

I love the sound of the rush of the current of a raging river.

It can’t surprise you that I feel a special affinity with any babbling brook.

Anywhere, any old time.

Water!

I fear it in more ways than most.

To the point of embarrassment.

I don’t ride the rapids.

Paddle the canoe or act koo koo in a kayak or

Even cast a line from the shore.

I can be a passenger on a boat, preferably not too small and with a motor.

But I will never be your captain.

I swim as much as we can say a chicken flies.

If I needed to use a life jacket, I am fairly certain the life jacket would survive.

I have a better chance of walking on water.

Jamoke Walk

The walk used to be so slow.

The two Jamokes with me would literally drag feet,

And rub knees,

And walk that pace that persons must have said,

“Those men up ahead. I don’t think they’re moving at all!”

A simple 2.5 mile walk would take an hour and fifteen minutes.

And they would talk.

And talk.

And talk.

And talk themselves out of breath.

Sometimes coughing would be involved.

I would walk up ahead to try to hasten the pace.

They would act like they didn’t notice or didn’t care.

But I enjoyed their company.

And then they stopped coming,

Mostly because of my insistence on leaving for the one hour drive

Before roosters even woke up.

Now I walk alone and we meet for breakfast.

Now I take even more photos.

I zero in on the bee eating breakfast, sipping nectar and nibbling pollen.

I follow the ambling of the buck as he chomps on berries and leaves.

I marvel at the finicky finches whose sporadic flight must somehow be intentional.

I hardly talk to the passersby on the trail, but our greetings are warm and chummy.

My mind wanders and I talk to myself in different voices.

I miss my pals, but I still love the walk.

A simple 2.5 mile walk still takes an hour and fifteen minutes, more or less.

I drag my feet and rub my knees.

And I just can’t shut up.