Author: Art DuBois

At a house party, decades ago,

many of us danced.

I inserted a cd of what was then a newer blues recording.

One of the women looked at me

and said,

“I like the blues alright,  but it’s all the same beat.”

Something in my head and heart snapped a little bit, 

but given that this was mainly a group of my fellow graduate social work students,

I knew I’d better keep my cool.

I merely responded, 

“I don’t understand your point”

So she reiterated, “It’s all the same beat!”

I then said, and I’d be happy today to even wear the T shirt — 

“But it’s the right beat!”

Last night during a wonderful movie about Mary Oliver there were comments about a frequent dismissive criticism of her work.

That was that once you’ve read one of her poems,  you’ve read them all. 

That is the message is all the same. 

Ok.

But it’s the right message.

Delusion departed with Dream, 

both grinning and beginning

an ominous groan 

that chilled me to the bone.

My dislocation developed 

from reaching out too far 

for that which was worth too little.

My poverty was that of the soul,

as if out my control.

I am left with me having to feel the next breeze,

warm or cold,

and having to watch the sun rise.

I am still here.

As we lay in bed after enjoying the wedding of my daughter’s dearest friend, my wife leaned over to me,

She whispered, “I can hear our daughter laughing in the distance.”

I teared up and said to my wife that she just said the most poetic thing she’s ever said to me,

moreover, that she had brought so much happiness to my heart.

She shifted and looked right at me and in still a nice voice, but a bit firm,

she said, “No, really. I can HEAR our daughter laughing in the distance. Can’t you?”

I do have mild hearing loss, but I concentrated.

Sure enough, I heard the wild and unbridled cackle from my beautiful daughter that she may have inherited from yours truly,

for which I have been so frequently blessed or blamed,

Apparently those from the wedding, who were so much younger than my wife and I,

had gathered on the patio.

They really were not all that close.

Two stories down and about two hundred yards away,

yet my daughter’s laughter filled our room,

and our hearts just as it has for all these years.

When she smiles, she doesn’t do so politely or snidely,

She smiles with her whole heart.

And her laughter is a whole body experience.

When she laughs, I swear I could hear it for miles,

Once I finally give in and get hearing aids.

Nevertheless, for now I can hear her laughter whenever I open my eyes,

And listen with my heart.

What I hear today is the Apolitical blahs,

Blah, blah, blah, blah!

The meanest blahs around.

The Chimes of Freedom are ringing,

But we just don’t want to talk,

I say we just don’t want to talk

About them now.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t change anyone’s mind anyway.

As if no one’s mind has ever been changed.

Like your views have been the same since you were born,

Or went to Kindergarten,

Or when you graduated high school,

Or read a new book,

Watched a new movie,

Made a new friend.

I don’t even care what side you’re on,

I mean that.

To sit idly by and watch what you think is immoral,

Heartless,

Dangerous,

Deadly

And saying nothing

Is anything but noble.

To think that your silence does any good at all might help you sleep better at night,

But sooner or later those bells will wake you up.

We will all answer for silence some day.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

You will ask,

For whom does that bell toll?

So just block your ears,

Shut your eyes,

And put on your bullet proof vests.

The bullets are flying

And you’re still not crying.

On Wednesday, July 15, 2026 at 04:26:38 PM EDT, dubois2257@aol.com <dubois2257@aol.com> wrote:

Apolitical Blahs

Lowell George started Apolitical Blues with “Well, my telephone is ringing,

And they told me it was Chairman Mao.”

1972. Before Nixon resignation.

And he called it the meanest blues around.

What I hear today is the Apolitical blahs,

Blah, blah, blah, blah!

I don’t say anything.

I can’t change anyone’s mind anyway.

Like no one’s mind has ever been changed.

Like your views have been the same since you were born,

Or went to Kindergarten,

Or when you graduated high school.

This tall, towering tree

rising well over the power lines.

Nearly all the limbs growing straight up and strong

But one solitary, equally strong limb protrudes sideways

sharply towards the right

only eight feet from the ground.

While I don’t need to, even I consider bending to avoid hitting my head.

I ponder what caused this unique turn of this particular branch.

Was it caused by a storm?

Was this result of some kind of haphazard pruning?

Did it somehow have a mind of its own?

Whatever the injury or accident, or flippant non-conformity,

This limb still caught up with its siblings. 

Despite a nearly six foot base on this right angle,

This diversion seemed to make it all the more determined to still reach for the heavens. 

Now it shades a road where there would be no shade,

Offering me some comfort along with my curiosity. 

I thank the branch for a break from the sun. 

I hear it whisper through the gently blowing leaves,

“You’re welcome!”

She told me if I didn’t stop

We’d have to sleep in different beds.

She said that we didn’t have to get divorced,

But if I wouldn’t give them up

Things would have to change.

She said that she couldn’t take it anymore,

And could not understand why I couldn’t just quit.

I tried to explain that it was just a habit of mine,

And they gave me abundant pleasure,

And I just couldn’t stop.

Her threats became more persistent,

And more serious and I could not pretend,

My long term love affair

With egg salad sandwiches,

Would just have to come to an end.

The future don’t care about you.

The future is in its own hands and decides

on a case by case basis, day by day,

Moment to moment, second to second,

Whether it wants to follow your guidance,

Accept your priorities,

Operate according to your principles,

Abide by your well-laid out plans.

The future will take you where it wants to go,

And determine for itself when it wants to get there.

And it is not inclined at all to offer so much as an apology.

The future will send weather in your direction

And ruin your vacation,

Make roads unpassable,

And ground your flight.

It will take away people you love

In more ways they you can even count,

Leaving you cursing yourself

For believing the future is SO full of hope

And leave you convinced that whoever said that is a Dope.

So how to accept what is and abandon our dreams

Of what CAN be?

Do we just sit in one place?

Sad, but stable; safe, but bored?

Without dreams?

Without love?

Don’t forget to dance, better things are on the way.

I read that broken crayons still color,

and I got the metaphor

only to begin to openly question to what extent it works.

The broken crayons can still splay color across the page,

but with the short grip available to hold the point

the ability to be precise may be impaired.

And, of course, forget about using the dull end.

But, this is to say that if the artist has vision,

something may emerge out of the artist’s own brokenness

that is still beautiful in unique and varied ways

even using repurposed imperfect tools.

We are only too happy to struggle to find beauty

in any and all ways possible. 

Because this is the perfect place to sit, 

I don’t care how long she browses in this throw back store.

Let her pick up every trinket,

Examine every t shirt,

Consider every jam,

Read every greeting card,

Reminisce about piece of penny candy in the display case

And feel a bit younger, 

While walking through a personal and individual museum of our childhoods.

I enjoy it nearly as much but not nearly as long.

She will recall more, celebrate, feel joy and sadness.

Meanwhile I will sit here as long as she needs to be in there.

Perhaps I will strike up a conversation with old townie sitting on the next bench.

Or watch the sparrow slipping in an out of top of the porch.

Or write a poem. 

In this

Perfect place of this moment. 

The athletic couple were each pedaling quickly enough to be serious, but their facial expressions still indicated enjoyment.

Bicyclists were everywhere 

As we drove on our way to Cooks Brook Beach.

This beach had me standing in bittersweet sorrow this year as it has for my nearly yearly trip for five decades.

I stared out at the seemingly endless patchwork of sandbars at low tide.

I tried to explain to my wife how this is like a weird emotional cemetery for me.

I repeated the stories of four different departed friends of time spent here as a kid.

As she’s done for years,

she was polite enough to listen as if she’d never heard them.

We left and drove back down the road.

I reminded her of the young teenagers we also saw moments ago.

They were riding bikes, too, but not at all seriously. 

They were talking to each other.

I swear I could almost hear them laughing. 

I thought for a minute that I was one of them. 

I dreamt I was riding with a friend.