Author Archives: John S

Perspective on a hill

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The view from the window is a hill I won’t die on.

Framed on all sides by brick and concrete or old pine trim, it is a portal of a shelter built with a single perspective.

This limited view of the world, covered in dull charcoal – interwoven to attract our focus and screen out flies – mutes the light of new vision and also things to the left and right of the sight line.

Though I do see the changes of a season through it. When the orange and reds arrive, and I see leaves falling – I want to see more. More than this view offers.

And I peek around the edges of the frame to see the wind move through and the rainclouds form. This, rather than wait for darkness to enclose the hill outside my window, is a better view.

Even more so to step outside to feel the wind and hear the leaves. To watch as the rain arrives, then departs. The uneven steps and grassy plots to the pinnacle -where I can see more horizons.

Beyond the window, the hill is even more beautiful when I’m out upon it and living the terrain. This is a hill I will die on.

Fishing Is Many Things

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It is an effort, to awaken before the dawn, when the water is like glass

and fog clings to the cat tails in the quiet moving hours.

It is faith, to set your mind on a place you believe to be a “lucky spot.”

It is diligence, to prepare your gear for the casting. Untangling lines, selecting a lure or bait, the weight to place it at the depth of optimization.

It is serenity, following the sailing line to the splashdown.

and then – patience – the wait, the weight of time on your mind – but with no unsettling burden.

With all the effort and often no reward, having to throw back something too small, or catching the boot of a tall tale from long ago, or dredging up someone’s garbage.

The fishing is more about the process, rather than the end result. If you designed the process well, then a catch was inevitable – though not always a fish. It is no wonder you excelled in the preparation of tasks such as this.

It was skill that walked the halls, teaching others the high loft of a cast to the horizon or how to bait for walleye – wriggling worms – versus musky, with big colorful spinners or spoons.

It was your laboratory to assess, and we were neophytes to the process,

Teaching is what it was. Fishing was teaching.

From your spot on some empyreal bank, you can see the slack line of your recent cast, then begin to reel it in from the lake

and we, your family of friends, see the ripple of water left in your wake.

*******

A poem written to honor a good person who was taken from us way too soon.

A little blues philosophy

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It’s a part of the tune that doesn’t last long.

When I need a deep breath after things have gone wrong,

it’s a fishhook to bring me up from the depths. 

I find myself seeking a felicitous sound

and listening for the turnaround.

It’s a movement that’s made, whether in blues or in jazz

to keep a song interesting -some razzmatazz –

about one chords to sevens and other such stuff,

I won’t pretend to knowingly expound,

just listen for the turnaround.

It’s the first bud of spring coming out of the frost

and the very first lightnin’ bug of past summers lost,

It’s the yellow and red sneaking out of the green,

The first floating snowflake that lights on the ground

all transitions worthy of a turnaround.

The best we can do is to move on our own,

but walk among others so we won’t be alone.

It’s the time and the place of the new moon and stars,

As we are feet first. with our souls earthbound,

The last call will sound like a turnaround. 

Close your eyes

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Close your eyes and count to ten.
Wishes won't come true 'til then.
Considerations blink and mar your thoughts.
Up to two you've tied a dream in knots.

In this moment, circumspect
reaction might cause you neglect.
The delay in what your heart is wishing for -
not long - succinct - a brief six-seconds more.

Close your eyes, accumulate -
(your mind digresses while you wait).
Make a list of salient bullet-points 
to greet the sunrise when you wake your voice.

And in the moment just before
you reach the end count's opening door,
in heroic fashion speak your truth and due
and banish all the hardness once beshrewed.



The Best Medicine

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It’s a sound welling up from a guttural wheeze,

Brought forth in the presence of an obvious need.

Clusters of friendship, opening a door

for giggles and snorts and guffaws galore.

Nature’s convergence is there to create,

though few evident species can cachinnate.

The turtle, the emu, the rabbit or shrew

None of these chortle or cackle or spew

forth the boisterous emission of laughter,

the kind leaving you breathless and heaving thereafter.

And from the next room, while I search the thesaurus,

sniggling and outbursts blend into a chorus.

I’ve captured a moment, but not twinkling insight

to laughter, the remedy cure-all tonight.

*****

It has been quite a while since I have had the inspiration to write a poem. The last half of 2023 has been a difficult time. My wife was diagnosed with breast cancer in late summer and is currently undergoing chemotherapy. This evening, she was having a Zoom gathering with four of her best friends, and the laughter emanating from their conversations was infectious. Try as I may, I can’t reproduce their joy. But perhaps I shouldn’t worry about that, the joy is medicine for her. Thanks for reading. :)

Opening

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A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point.
The day might be too long.
Cardinals perch in boxwood sacs, 
reminding me of those now gone.

I've skirted 'round an earthen hole,
peering to the bottom.  
Dirt and pebbles slip from my steps
and down into the dark and glum.

Choristers pause, holding a note
that pierces incense smoke.
The carillons ring out the hour
and half a prayer's invoked.

Is this how changes snap and tear
when events go awry?
a grinding crevice in the ground? 
a ripped seam in the sky?

Careful plots, with no solid facts
are awfully mistook,
our hero left with no recourse
but to rely upon a hook.

A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point.
The day might be too long.
Cardinals perch, reminding me 
of people that are gone.

When a song isn’t “just a song”

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Music speaks to our inner being in many ways. Melody and rhythm can get our body moving, increase our pulse, or help us relax. Music with lyrics can do the same thing, but the added dimension of words with the music impacts our thoughts and feelings on a different level. What poetry does without music; song lyrics achieve in combination with it. It is much like poetry in this way, with music stated rather than implied. Countless stories exist about songs that opened doors for people or affected them in some way.

I like the Beatles. Their music and lyrics always provide me with a feeling or thought I didn’t have the last time. It is particularly uplifting to me. Others may feel differently, or other artists may provide that same feeling to them. Yet, for me – I always return to the Beatles for inspiration or comfort.

My parents have both recently passed away. My father in 2019, and my mother last December. Both parents wished to be cremated, so my brother, sister and I abided by their wishes. When my father passed, we made no arrangements to inter his ashes, as we had to quickly make plans to relocate my mother closer to me as a primary care giver. My Dad’s ashes traveled with us approximately 800 miles from their home and sat on my mother’s bedside table. My mother, despite my best efforts, did not take especially well to the relocation. Then the COVID pandemic interrupted our lives. Far from her “home”, she was not her happiest self and tended to sleep a lot. This continued after restrictions to visitation were lifted. Ultimately, she passed peacefully in her sleep, a manner that I am confident was her deepest desire.

We held a brief family-centered service so that the immediate family could all say their goodbyes. But after her cremation we were faced with what to do with her ashes and my father’s ashes. After a bit of reflection, I thought it would be a good idea to bring them back to the community that had been their home and inter them in the church that had been their extended family. I made contact with the church, and after several months of discussions, planning and delayed communications, we finally arranged a memorial and interment service for my parents. It is actually today, as I write this, in approximately 3 hours.

As I prepared to make the 800-mile drive from my house to our destination, I was going over the mental checklist, setting the GPS, and turned on the radio in my car. I often listen to a certain satellite radio service that carries “The Beatles Channel” (18). They have a regular feature entitled, “My Fab Four,” that features fans or other musicians, actors, etc. listing and deejaying their personal list of four favorite Beatles songs. This feature was just beginning, as I pulled out of my driveway onto my street. The featured deejay talked about the first song in his list being on the first Beatles album he had heard. The song was “Two of Us” from the Let it Be album.

Two of Us, by Paul McCartney/John Lennon

Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone’s hard-earned pay
You and me, Sunday driving
Not arriving, on our way back home

We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters on my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches, on our way back home

We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

You and I have memories
Longer than the road
That stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo in the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home

We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

You and I have memories
Longer than the road
That stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo in the sun
You and me, chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home

We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

We’re going home

You better believe it
Goodbye

The lyrics spoke to me in that moment. Two of us….On our way home…We’re going home. Now, granted this is The Beatles channel and chances are good that I would have heard the song sometime during the day. Yet, hearing it the MOMENT I left my house on a journey returning my parents to their resting place and their home. There was something otherworldly about it. Neither of my parents cared much for the Beatles, but they were musicians and understood the messages that music can convey. I believe that I was being spoken to by spiritual forces conveying their approval at what I was doing. Fast forward to the end of my trip. I stopped at a town 20 miles from my hotel destination to grab a fast-food dinner. I received my order at the drive-thru and was returning to the interstate – I switched on the radio to the Beatles Channel. “Two of Us” was just starting to play…again, the timing of that moment was simply supernatural.

Sometimes a song isn’t just a song. Sometimes it is a moment of revelation or confirmation. To me, this was as if my parents spoke to me, telling me this was what they wanted. They are home.

Music is the universal language of mankind. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thanks for reading.

Opalescence

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A jellyfish cloud drifted in the sky

propelling itself hither and nigh.

The type of motions that mesmerize,

whilst I woolgather time in the ocean wide.

A rabbit perched upon some pillow fluff,

awaiting a moment to jump, and not to muff-

then disappear inside a hole in a huff.

(All this I’ll imagine soon enough.)

And later, the sky I watched was flattened and grey.

A canvas without texture on a humid summer’s day

settled in to remove my imaginative display.

And the daydreams diverted down and away.

The shades of green caught now in my sight,

Jagged lines on the edge of the canvas’ chalk-white.

whispering connections to the last vestiges of light.

And the opalescence of dreams settled in for the night.

Torte, with my father

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Chocolate dense as darkness.

The flourless cake, its heaviness derived of bittersweet.

A china cup , a black pool swirled with an opaque liqueur.

The taste of each as contribution –

rancor offset by the affable.

I sit across the from the empty seat you once used.

My memories are heavy with the affection of your company

and controverted by your absence.

Each bite with a following sip a battle of emotions.

How it lingers, the memory of your sudden death

followed by the overtones of your prescience.

The night we talked late, and you said “the parent becomes the child”

Yet, I still want to ask you for advice and you never quite accepted mine.

The sound of my fork clinks and the resonant ding of the cup

as I set it down upon a saucer

all I hear in reply.

*****A memory of my father on this Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Driving into Lascassas after midnight

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Driving into Lascassas after midnight, when only the ghosts walk.

The glint of streetlights launches from the pavement,

a blank page to capture dreams

and past countenances in the moonlight.

The words you speak echo in the night and pass through blinking traffic lights;

As poems create themselves in flight.

Not like arriving at LaGuardia on a Sunday afternoon,

with its hallways filled with a thousand stories at every turn.

There is a rush and jumble to this world,

only small pockets of stillness swirl

to float a verse into the air.

Most often colliding in the face of a hurried elsewhere.

Almost never staying free and clear,

like driving through Lascassas after midnight

with soundless ghosts and streetlight glare.