Author: Art DuBois

A poet friend has inferred,

more times than I could count,

 that our country will unravel in its current form.

That is that the republic, 

as we’ve dubbed it,

will fragment into pieces of various types that won’t ever fit together again. 

He has cited historical precedents

As well as what seemed to be the obvious current day trends.

He began talking like this decades ago.

He didn’t sound silly to me in his intellectual argument

nor his prodigious and persistent pessimism at all,

but I was able to dismiss it as a “not in my time” kind of thing.

But now, the stray threads are being pulling apart,

And it seems that what held us together is being ruthlessly

Separating us apart at our very seams,

And it seems that maybe our great societies will fade into the past,

And all that we know will become something else,

And we can only hope and pray that we will see a day,

A new way,

Of doing better. 

Sometimes without much thought at all

I move my rearview mirror so that I can see my right eye while I drive.

I don’t know why I don’t this

Because when I do my reflection seems to speak to me.

I can see words coming out of my reflection’s left eye

Staring right into my right eye

Saying “What the hell are you thinking now?

Are you thinking about your last argument?

The job you lost a long time ago?

Being picked last in kick ball in damned third grade?”

And I sheepishly readjust the mirror to its proper place.

I glance quickly at what is behind me

And I fix my eyes to what is ahead of me

And return to what is a measurably more sensible activity.

I believe in a God,

that I can no longer define

nor feel the need to define.

If you don’t believe in a god

but do believe in Love,

you are still my people.

Love supreme

If you believe in God, 

but not in Love,

I just can’t understand you.

I walk on this beautiful path almost every week,

I notice that over the three plus miles,

One part of my body hurts,

Then another,

And another,

And another.

I’ve been told I may benefit by arch support inserts.

I turn to photograph a beautiful red cardinal

And upon making a pivot

I notice a little glitch in my hip.

With just a bit of pain,

I complete my turn and return to the path.

I think, “Gee, maybe I do need arch support inserts.”

I walk for a few minutes and I am struck by the magnificence

Of the sun just beginning to peek over the edge of the horizon.

I snap a photo but when I turn it feels like I snapped by knee off.

Soon enough I am able to begin walking again.

As I return to the path,

I think, “Gee, maybe I do need arch support inserts.”

The deer rush out of the brush,

A mother and two babies.

I stopped quickly to take a picture and the side of my foot twists

And my ankle feels like it would swell,

But I regain my balance and finish this beautiful walk,

I get in the car and think,

“Gee, maybe I do need arch support inserts.”

I get home and pour a cup of coffee,

I turn on the news and take a bite out of a chocolate croissant.

I reflect on my beautiful morning

And that I know one thing for sure,

There ain’t no way I am getting arch support inserts.

I am an Americana fan,

That music that is often centered around an acoustic guitar, frequently a Martin.

Elements of country, bluegrass, blues, folk, celtic all blend together.

Augmented by any conceivable combination of

steel guitar,

dobro,

piano,

accordion,

Hammond B3,

kazoo,

banjo,

mandolin,

electric bass,

stand-up bass,

tuba,

trombone,

trumpet,

saxophone,

drums,

congas,

and/or a washboard.

I love it,

But when I listen to it, part of me can lean into it thinking,

“I could be doing that.

Why didn’t I apply myself?

I am lazy,

I was afraid to fail.

Oh well,

At least these folks know how to play!”

And I lean in and just try to enjoy this music that I love.

And then there are all the tales of loss

Of love,

Of People,

Damages from the storms and wild fires,

And of injustices everywhere,

And I feel all that pain on a personal and universal level.

Sometimes I switch over to the jazz station.

The range is wide.

The Count, Coltrane, Chick Corea and Jaco.

I know that I could never have learned enough to touch this stuff.

Oddly, I feel free.

I leave my self-critical self at the door of this world of sound.

I feel no pain.

I just enjoy it for what it is.

It has nothing to do with me,

But everything to do with me.

It transports away from myself

and frees me.

I look at the autumn leaves but don’t envy them for their beauty.

I don’t ask them to wipe out all the pain in my life or the world.

I just enjoy them.

It is not all about me,

But it is all there for me to enjoy.

My frustrations grow.

Quickly I make one furtive movement after the next.

New ways of searching for what is apparently an impossible result.

Damn I can’t find the butterflies.

I know that I have dozens and dozens of them.

I know that some are camouflaged in the bushes,

While others are in plain sight.

They were many variations of color and size

And each with their own distinct personalities

Are scattered among the hundreds of photo files on my computer

And I don’t know if I will ever find them again

And that I may have to rest with my memories

And let go of the butterflies of my past.

I heard she died in
“her chair”!

I thought how that is how I always said I want to go

with the faintest memory of the last nice thing I did

still floating in the air of the receiver of my smile

or my cackle.

But knowing that was only fitting for her

for being the ray of sunshine for so many

and knowing that a good day for me

was an ordinary day for everyone who knew her

and knowing she will be missed in ways she would never have expected

but that her missing smile cannot be unfelt.

Sadness still visits me as I visit my special place.

But sadness brings different qualities here.

Gentleness

And exuding compassion.

Shining brightly,

Sadness loves me here.

I don’t believe it’s all for nothing

But I don’t know what the something is.

I feel, but do not know, that love is all there is or ever was.

I am not interested in proving it

Or completely buying into anyone else’s account

Or historical take on words or events.

I have read already words that resonate for me.

I have come to believe that the returning to my essence

Is all about loving better.

I believe that when I go I will take all of my love with me

And

Leave all of my love behind.

My goal is to leave little else behind

that would shade the love that should shine.

My Love is eternal.

My love we will outlive me.

My delusions walk right past my fantasies.

They don’t say hello,

don’t nod,

no eye contact.

It’s as if they’ve forgotten they are related.

Siblings or cousins?

Certainly not more distant than that.

Sharing blood,

shedding tears,

sweating bullets,

fighting fears,

holding hopes,

tugging ropes,

standing across from each other on tops of mountains,

teetering on ledges,

Screaming out echoing cries,

Yet reaching for the skies.