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~ Finding, formulating and solving life's frustrations.

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Monthly Archives: April 2020

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

16 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

≈ 68 Comments

Tags

base, comfort, COVID19, magic, pandemic, poem, poetry, science, superstition, truth

baked cookies and glass of milk

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Sure, I get it. 

Fresh-baked from the oven: 

Momma’s chocolate chip cookies.

(Beloved of veterans and also rookies).

Whole, fresh milk to wash them down. 

You were safe. 

Safe with Mommy and Daddy. 

Sure, I get it. 

You had plans. 

Such Big plans. 

But then she moved away. 

Then the factory closed.

Then a politician lied.

And then your parents died. 

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And PRESTO!

A self-proclaimed business whiz appears!

He tells you that your spoiled plans 

Are God’s punishment for queers!

He tells you that he grabs pussies 

With impunity and gains more fans! 

You should hate all liberal wussies!

He tells you armies are massing on the border!

Not to worry! He’s issued another illegal order!

Tearing babes from mothers is all okay.

They shouldn’t have ever come this way.

grey steel grill

Photo by Cameron Casey on Pexels.com

Just you believe everything he’ll ever say;

He says he says the truth — every single day.

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Sure, I get it. 

So much easier when you get yourself bossed. 

No matter how many dollars and lives are lost. 

Don’t be worried! 

COVID’s no match at all

For the one you worship on pedestal. 

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But please feel hurried!

Get back to work really soon!

You’ll be safe ‘cause: Phase of Moon!

And Eye of Newt, Thread of Jute!

Eschew all science and listen instead

To the steady drone of an empty head. 

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He failed at business and blew all his cash, 

But it’s fun when he starts to insult and to bash! 

So why should we care if it’s Putin in charge?

Why should we care if his soul isn’t large? 

We get to pretend that we’re children once more!

He knows how to win by cheating galore!

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Original drawing by Pierce Morgan

If we fall down dead, it’s a small price to pay, 

When Trumputin at last wins that glorious day! 

Warm cookies and milk once more will be doled, 

Or, at least — that’s what you’ll be told:

The cheapest way yet to kill innocent folk,

Is simply do nothing while pounding his chest.

photo of clear mug beside plate with cookies

Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

“Responsibility — oh, that’s a joke! 

When it comes to credit? I’m the best!”

Enjoy the milk. Enjoy the cookies. If they ever actually come. 

Nostalgia is fun but the day is won by dealing with fact. 

You’ve fallen into a vat of gum; no wonder you’re glum! 

brown spider on spider web

Photo by Erik Karits on Pexels.com

You find yourself lost in a tesseract 

An endless web of lies and deceit. 

All he does is cheat! 

actor adult business cards

Photo by Nikolay Ivanov on Pexels.com

Sure, I get it: 

If you keep wearing the muzzle

And do his deadly bidding, 

Or, think he’s only kidding,

You’ll never solve the puzzle

Of how to: 

Change 

Your 

Mind

Rather than 

Stay blind

And let a million die. 

Find the key. 

burial cemetery countryside cross

Photo by Mike on Pexels.com

Or, this will be your legacy, your epitaph: 

RIP: 

“I saluted Der Fooler! 

And…

Never even got

My promised milk and cookies.” 

abstract blue clean container

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

————————————————

 Trumpism is a New Religion.

You Bet Your Life!

The Truth Train!

A Profound and Utter Failure 

Essays on America: Wednesday 

A Tale of Two Nannies

 

Donnie Gets a Hamster!

14 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, family, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

bully, childhood, crime, criminal mind, cruelty, Dictator, fiction, psychology, short story, sociopath, story, tyrant

hamster

Photo by Juris Freidenfelds on Pexels.com

“No, Donnie, I told you. You’re not getting a dog until you show me that you can handle more responsibility.”

“But Mommy! I’m ‘sponsible! Watch! Look! See! I’m not peeing my pants any more!”

She turned away from the sink and checked the front of Donnie’s pants. “I know, Donnie. That’s a good thing. Believe me, Fred and I are very proud of you for that. But neither one of us has time to take care of a dog. You have to help out around the house.”

“But, I don’t like housework, Mommy. It’s for bitches. Not for young men.” 

Mom sighed. She shook her head. “Do I have to wash your mouth out with soap? Don’t use that word!” 

Donnie pretended not to understand. “I’m not supposed to say, ‘housework’? How come?” 

Mom said, “Donnie, there’s nothing wrong with saying ‘housework.’ Or, doing it, for that matter. But don’t say ‘bitch.’ It’s not nice. If you talk like that no-one with an ounce of sense will make friends with you. It shows a lack of self-control.” 

“How about ‘son-of-a-bitch’ — is that okay, Mommy?” 

“Donnie, no. Just no. Can you dry the dishes for me? That’s something a ten year old should be able to do.”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO! I’m doing that! It’s for bitches! Sorry. I mean, it’s for pussies. Daddy never dries dishes.” 

abstract blue clean container

Photo by jamie he on Pexels.com

“Where did you get such a filthy mouth anyway? I don’t talk like that. Anyway, if you can’t even help me do the dishes, how do you expect me to think you’ll take care of a dog. I told you. It’s a lot of work.” 

Donnie smiled. Suddenly, he was afraid he was going to laugh. He stuck his fingernails into his palms to keep from laughing at how stupid his mommy was. “I do lots of work!” 

Mom put the last dish on the drying rack. She turned to look at her son. “Donnie, you don’t do any work. I asked you yesterday to rake leaves. You didn’t do that. On Monday, I asked you to weed the garden. You didn’t do either one. I’m not getting you a dog.”

“I’m not peeing my pants! And I did rake the leaves. I couldn’t weed the garden because my hands would get dirty! Then what?”

Mom took town a dish towel and begin drying the dishes. “Donnie, Junior raked the leaves. Not you.” 

photography of maple trees

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

“Is that what he told you? What a liar! He just told you that after I raked them! He’s a liar! Why do you let him get away with that? Why Mommy? Is it because no-one loves me?” 

She stopped drying the dishes. She wiped her hands and turned to look at her son. “Donnie, of course, we love you. We all love you. But you did not rake the leaves. Why do you say you did?” 

Donnie yelled, “HE LIED! HE LIED! I HATE FRED JUNIOR! HE LIES! HE TAKES CREDIT AFTER I RAKE THE LEAVES!” 

“Donnie. Do you see the picture window in front by the dining room table? I sat right there and polished the silverware and watched Junior rake the leaves. You went over — twice — and tried to wreck up the stack he was making. You did not help at all.” 

“That was me doing the raking, Mommy! I was the one who raked the leaves! Junior was trying to wreck up the stacks. Maybe we — I think we were wearing each other’s coats. That might have confused you. Did you have your glasses on?” 

She sighed. What the hell…? “Donnie, he’s a head taller than you. He wouldn’t even fit in your coat. I know what I saw.” 

Donnie saw it was time to shift gears again. “It may have been really foggy. I don’t know how you got confused. But you only know what you think you saw. I was there and I remember the leaves, but let’s not fight. I love you. I don’t want to upset you. I just want a dog. What do you think?” 

brown wolf

Photo by Steve on Pexels.com

“Donnie. No.” It was exhausting to deal with this kid. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try. Maybe a boarding school is the answer. Maybe a dog would teach him some responsibility. But it wouldn’t work. I’d just end up picking up the poop, feeding the dog…”I’ll tell you what, Donnie. I’ll talk to Dad and see what he thinks about getting you a hamster. If you take care of that for a year, on your own, then we can talk about getting a dog. How about that?”

Donnie thought about it. A hamster is better than nothing. Not as much fun as a dog. But maybe I could trade it for a dog. Susan might be that stupid. Or Lindsey. They’ll believe anything. Worth a try. “Oh, Mommy, that sounds great! Can we go now? Can we get it NOW! How about now!”

Mom was already beginning to regret her impulsive offer. “Donnie, I told you that I was going to discuss it with your father. If he’s okay with it, we can go to the pet store on Saturday morning. But I’m not taking care of it. You have to feed it and provide water and clean its cage. Understand?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy! I understand. I’ll do all the work. Or pay someone else to do it. I mean if I’m out of town or something.” 

—————————————

Sure enough, that Saturday, Donnie went to the pet store to get a hamster. It was teeny and pathetic. He could easily crush it with one hand. It hardly counted as a weapon of protection. But maybe if I take care of the hamster, he reasoned, they’ll get me an attack dog later. 

macro photography of mouse near brown wooden cage

Photo by Ellie Burgin on Pexels.com

It was a bright sunny day out, so he took the cage out. Junior and Maryanne were off with their friends. Mommy had said to stay in they yard, but she wouldn’t mind if he went next door to the vacant lot. There were some things he needed to check out about his hamster. Things he wanted to do in private. He didn’t even know yet whether it was a boy or a bitch. There was a nice little grassy spot in the sun on the other side of the fence. He put the cage down and stuck his hand inside. Stupid Hamster was easy to catch. At least, in the cage it was. Maybe “Stupid” is a good name for him. Or her, he reminded himself. The pet store people had said it was a male, but Donnie had his doubts. He didn’t notice anything hanging out down there. Well, this time, he’d get a good look, away from prying eyes. 

He pulled back the fur and looked everywhere. Nothing. If the Hamster did have a thingie it was even teenier than his own. That made Donnie feel good. And feeling good reminded him of tearing apart grasshoppers. And that made him wonder whether he could get the Hamster to eat a grasshopper. Now, that would be fun to watch. He scanned the nearby area but didn’t see any grasshoppers. He could look by the tall weeds, but that was too much work. All of a sudden, it hit Donnie that while a hamster was a lot less work than a dog, it was also a much stupider pet. Not only would it not protect him. It wouldn’t fetch. It wouldn’t go on walks. What good is a stupid hamster, with such a teeny thingie you couldn’t even see it. 

He wondered if it’s little paw fingers would break off like the grasshopper’s legs. That might be fun. But the grasshopper was hard. This hamster was soft like a snot rag. You couldn’t really break a snot rag. So…? It wouldn’t be that much fun. But people could break bones. So, maybe I could break hamster’s bones. It wouldn’t be as much fun as pulling its legs off, but it would be some fun. Then, he suddenly remembered his magnifying glass! The teacher had just had one of her boring science classes but one thing was cool. She had started a fire just by focusing the Sundays onto a piece of paper. And the paper had burned to a crisp when so many Sundays all came at once. Donnie could relate. Sundays were always boring. 

selective focus photo of magnifying glass

Photo by fotografierende on Pexels.com

Donnie decided it would be fun to see how the stupid hamster reacted if he set different parts of it on fire. He took the magnifying class out of his pants pocket. He grabbed the hamster and held it tightly in his left hand. Then he took his magnifying glass and played it back and forth to focus on the hamster’s nose. That would hurt! But the stupid hamster kept wiggling and wouldn’t hold still. “HOLD STILL you stupid bitch! OUCH!!” Donnie dropped the hamster onto the grass.

The hamster bit him! How dare he! I will burn that bitch to a crisp, he thought. 

“What, in God’s name are you doing?” 

Donnie jumped and screamed in sudden surprise at a voice so near. He jerked his head and saw Junior standing there with a frown. “Junior! Just in time to help me. My hamster jumped out of its cage and it ran away. Help me look. Help me find him! Look over there by the tall weeds. I’ll look this other direction. He can’t have gone far. Please! Help me! Mommy will kill us if I lose it the very first day!” 

Fred walked casually toward the tall weeds and asked, “Why were you yelling at it?” 

“Let’s find him and I’ll explain it all.” Donny ran off across the property line and leaped up the stairs to the back porch. He flung open the door. “Mommy! Mommy! Junior threw out my hamster! He’s lost! We can’t find him! Oh, Mommy. Mommy. Come help us look!” 

Mom was growing slightly more skeptical of Donnie’s claims, but her first instinct was to believe her own son. “Why would he do that, Donnie? Are you sure?”

“Come help me look! Quick Mommy or will never find him. Junior said he never had a hamster so why should I get one. And then…”  At this point, Donnie put both hands over his face and pushed it into a sad face. But it wouldn’t stay. He’d have to keep it covered, he decided. “Then, he took the top off. I thought he just wanted to pet my hamster. But no! He threw it in the bushes! I’m scared a wolf might eat it! Or, a bear!” 

They quickly strode out to the vacant lot. When they got there, they saw Junior hunkered down staring into the tall weeds. Mom yelled out, “Junior! Why did you let Donnie’s hamster out?” 

“I didn’t let his hamster out. He dropped it.” Unlike Mom, Junior was onto Donnie’s tricks, or at least some of them. 

Mom opened her mouth, but before her lips even parted, Donnie began his fake crying, “No, Mommy. No. That’s not true. I was petting it inside the cage but Junior said he would show me. And he took my hamster and threw it over there somewhere.” 

Junior looked at his mother and shook his head. “Why would I care if Donnie has a hamster? Really? Seriously? And why would I look for it if I threw it out. And if I did throw it over here and Donnie saw me then why did he go “looking” the other direction?” 

Mom looked questioningly at Donnie who smiled his biggest possible smile. “Mommy? Can I please have a dog now?”  

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—————————————

Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man! 

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Donnie Visits Granny!

 

Life is a Dance

13 Monday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 68 Comments

Tags

America, cheating, courage, cowardice, Democracy, fascism, globalism, poem, poetry, science, truth, USA

woman raising her hands

Photo by Marlon Schmeiski on Pexels.com

All life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

silhouette people on beach at sunset

Photo by Dana Tentis on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge:

Honor the Truth — or Live out the Lie.

blur close up focus ground

Photo by Gelgas on Pexels.com

You might fight for the right

And still end up dead. 

You could turn from the luminous light

You can slink and surrender instead. 

gray industrial machine during golden hour

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You can wrap a leash around your neck

And hand the lead to a feckless wreck.

Say, “Here you go; I’m your slave now.

Train me how to bow and kowtow.” 

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He’ll wink and nod and blink, the old sod. 

“I want you to do me a favor though.

You see those people; they look so odd.

I want you to shoot them row by row.”

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Having leashed your soul to the Worst of the Worst, 

You’ll kill more lives in an endless shift-show.

You’ll lie to yourself; be an elf on the shelf. 

Bow to the will of the First of the Cursed. 

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You’ll force a false-faced smarmy smile, 

As you shout out your shoddy sickening “Heil!” 

Millions may die but you care not a jot.

You’re already dead so you let the lot rot.  

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Life is a dance

On a thin razor’s edge

Of rigid and chance.

people dancing on dance floor

Photo by Prime Cinematics on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off the ledge: 

Honor the Truth — or, Live out the Lie.

time lapse photography of waterfalls during sunset

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You may fashion a last and desperate try

To derail the Failure that many see wrapped

In the “Finest of Finery” — armored with Lie,

Unable to move — in his own web trapped. 

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Think and link in a world-wide win.

Throw off the shackles of such shadowy sin.

Refuse to play for the Clown at the Helm 

Or his shadowy puppets all over the realm.

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They’ll stumble and fall and all turn to ash.

Their only bonds are their hatred and cash. 

You’ll join with others across this vast land;

You’ll sing together your fairness demand. 

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Those who shrugged and laughed at need?

Protections fall from those slaves of greed.

Even the cruelest of the cruel can bleed.

Fertile fields will fill with thorn and weed.

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If no-one will drive, none will survive. 

If no-one will pick — none left alive.

If no-one will cure, bake or douse fire?

Those cruelest are building their own Karma pyre. 

orange flame

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

Life is a dance

On that thin razor’s edge

‘Tween rigid and chance.

pile of stones

Photo by Mau00ebl BALLAND on Pexels.com

There are two ways to die

To fall off that ledge: 

Honor the Truth or Live out the Lie.

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The dealers of death want to close all the blinds

Shutter out light; squelch questioning minds. 

So, poke a small hole — let the light shine through!

The future of freedom? It’s all up to you. 

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And me. 

And you.

And you. 

And you.


Author Page on Amazon

Ripples: How Actions Today Determine Our Future

You Know: Do you Feed the Good Wolf or the Bad Wolf?

Rejecting Adulthood. It’s Easy to Pass on Responsibility 

The Truth Train: What went so Wrong? 

Citizen Soldiers (1)

Citizen Soldiers (2)

Citizen Soldiers (3)

SHRUGS: Super-Hyper Really Ultra Greedy Swindlers 

Impossible

A Tale of Karma

Winning by Cheating is Losing 

Beware of Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing

  

 

 

Happy Easter!

12 Sunday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, poetry, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

cooperation, Easter, forgiveness, love, pandemic, poem, poetry, psychology, teamwork

Hi. Happy Easter.

sakura tree

Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com

A message of hope is always a good thing. It doesn’t mean you don’t plan. It’s just that a hopeful attitude will be more likely to bring good results than a defeatists attitude AND you’ll feel better right up to the moment of success or failure. It’s true that you might be slightly more disappointed if you’ve been hopeful than if you’ve been despairing, but — so what? Hope takes some courage, but it’s much better than the only alternative.

And, to me, there is also another important message in the Easter story. Forgive your enemies. That doesn’t mean you don’t work to put appropriate people in appropriate places based on their actions. But don’t dwell too much on how bad they are; instead, model and rejoice in good behavior and there is — right now — a huge amount of that right now! It is just incredible! We see skill. We see courage. We see discipline. We see leadership. We see all the things on full display that make this nation and this world a wonderful place to live in. Yes, there is an undercurrent of evil, but celebrate and support the good things and the good people and the good leaders. Support the good. Throw your weight and your skill behind them. The forces of light always win over the forces of dark in the end. So, in that spirit, I’ll post this poem from 23 years ago.

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The Forgotten Leaf

(Featured poem in Soul to Soul e-zine, Sept., 1997)

Blinding brave and gutful breaking rage made hate!
Gigantic boulders heaped on enemies’ brainless heads!
Burly muscles slashed and brawny bones bursted;
Horses trample; raw flesh burn; crush the being’s being!

Spiteful, I curse and ravishing prate —
And see the forgotten leaf I laid on my desk.
Shaking hands gingerly hold the withered brown.
I’m calm. My hate was only half-seeing’s seeing.

snow capped mountain

Photo by Life of Wu on Pexels.com

A Wildly Webbed World

11 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, creativity, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

activity, computer, fun, Internet, knowledge, learning, poem, poetry, recreation, surfing, web

black cat holding persons arm

Photo by Ruca Souza on Pexels.com

I type —
Hey! Clatter-clatter keyboard of ascii: 
Chatter chatter; chat me up and down the great grey scales of my
Wide webbed world!
Hey clatter, clatter keyboard of ask me: 
Look at me and truly see I’m rainbow-swirled.
Share my image morphed; visualize my visage;
Stay and portray me; play me; slay me.
Vibrate my thought through the slick copper wire
Send my second self through the tiny fibers of fine desire
Do deadly dragons and flagons and flames and fire!

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I think —
Hey! Let me find and remind our larger mind
Of who we may yet — build to become:
A race of not so numb and not so dumb,
Plumbing instead to the very depths of distant stars,
And no less, the innermost realms of mirth and Mars,
Till the mystic magic oneness of math and rhyme
Manifests so patently, so patiently, so perfectly in mime.
Find the micro-time to sweep my musical spheres and spears
The tears and cares of play and work no longer clash;
Till micro-cash flows like water through all the all-time
Help-hungry waiting wings of the world-wide watersplash;
Till ripples trip tugboats of data, mined from far fields,
Crash breaker-wave upon analyses and syntheses and shields.

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I see —
Strangely dreaming wrecks of old preconceptions shatter,
Clatter to the floor, rearrange, derange themselves re-making,
Tattered by the shreds of cyberworlds waking, shaking
Our millenial group-sleep of not seeing all the wide over-tried
Over-tired, over-mired, over in the four-leaf field of clover spied
World around surround of miracle of sight and sound
From air to ground, and sea to land, and rainbow band and bound.

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I hear —
Instruments that sing as they soar, tinkle, roar and storm;
Slap each other silly, go dancing willy-nilly; form and reform
Glancing blows and prancing foes and smiling awhile,
Rising for a virtual ever-upward sky-high mile,
Suspended, then — falling for eternity below the lowest low,
Dropping stone-like into so slow, slow, no-go flow.

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Reloaded and rebooted, I readily roam —
Freely through city and pity and pious and pi,
Splash through wavelets and warrants and warriors and why,
Surf terrier and harrier and hairless and house
Matrices of miracles, at the merest touch of my magic mouse!

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Author Page on Amazon

Essays on America: The Temperature Gauge 

Essays on America: A Once-Baked Potato

Essays on America: Wednesday

Essays on America: Rejecting Adulthood

Essays on America: The Game

Essays on America: Ice

Myths of the Veritas: The Forgotten Fields

Donnie Visits Granny!! 

10 Friday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, health, politics, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

Conman, crime, death, fiction, greed, inheritance, life, psychopathy, sociopath, story

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Donnie looked from one gray green wall to another. Nothing to break the monotony but outlets, weird machines, some stupid hangers for charts. Also, it smelled bad.

Worse, Donnie was bored. There was nothing interesting in this entire room. Who the hell designed this? Certainly, nothing worth stealing. Well, not necessarily stealing, he thought to himself. Getting someone in trouble though? It didn’t really matter what the thing was worth; what’s most important is to make it bad for the other person but have no possible blame on me. Good Lord, I’m smart. But there’s nobody here to blame except Daddy and if he found out, he’d make me play “good dog/bad dog” for a week. If only Maryanne were here or, better, Fred Junior. He was supposed to come visit too. 

Granny was asleep and snoring. Dad, folded up his newspaper; arose and walked out, seeming to forget that his young son was there too. Donnie stood up; took one step; stopped; took another step. “Sir?” He enquired. 

Dad turned in surprise. Oh, of course, he thought. The dumb one. “Hey, Donnie, come on. Granny’s asleep. Let’s go grab a bite.” 

Soon, they were sitting at a small round table on uncomfortable chairs and eating off a chipped and badly cleaned red formica top — eating hospital hamburgers, cold greasy fries, and sipping ersatz coke. But Donnie didn’t care. This was more fun that sitting quietly in a room with the old lady. Daddy seemed to be in a good mood, so he chanced a question. 

tables and chairs outside an irish pub

Photo by ready made on Pexels.com

“Daddy, why do we come visit Granny? Don’t you — I mean — do you find it boring?” 

“Boring? Of Course, she’s boring. She’s a bag of bones. Not much mind there to begin with, but now? Just goes on and on or says nothing at all.”

“So why did we have to come visit?” 

“You think just because she’s useless that she doesn’t have value? Don’t be stupid. Don’t you know why we’re here? Can you really be that stupid?”

“Value? What do you mean? She doesn’t have any value that I can see.”

“Donnie, Donnie, Donnie! She’s worth a fortune! As soon as she dies, we’ll be rich. Richer. That’s why we’re here?”

“But Daddy. How much?”

pile of gold round coins

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

“That’s just it, Donnie. I don’t know. She may be useless, but one thing she can do is change her will. And cut us out. She won’t say what’s in it now. So, we have to pretend to be nice to her. When he gets so senile she cannot remember what’s happening, we’ll have her committed and we’ll take charge. I have the lawyers all lined up. But first, you know, we have to play nice. So don’t complain when you come see her. Wait till her will’s read. That’s when you find out how much she really values you.”

“Okay, Daddy, but can’t we just come see her right before she goes senile?” 

“Yes, but no-one can tell. She could have a stroke today. She could even conk off right now in her sleep. We won’t be that lucky though. She could stay ‘competent’, as they call it, for ten more years. Crap! I hope not. Or, she could fall and break her hip. Then, you know, half of ‘em die within a month.” 

“Hello, Father. Squirt.” It was Junior. 

Donnie hated being called ‘Squirt’ — it wasn’t his fault he’s been born later. But he had learned that saying: “Don’t call me that!” just made Fred more, not less likely to say it again. No, there were other ways. Other ways to get back.

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Junior said, “I just saw Granny. She wondered what became of you two.” 

Soon all three of them were crowded into her tiny semi-private cubby. Granny looked a them and shook her head. “What a sorry lot. Son, go somewhere else for awhile. I want to talk with my grandsons privately.” 

Fred grumbled but arose and headed back toward the cafeteria. It had already occurred to him on multiple occasions that it might be worth being her Angel of Death. But even the idiot cops knew where to look. If he slipped her something in her IV, they’d know he had means, opportunity, and motive. Screw it. He could deal with seeing her once a week. He had his newspaper, an endless source of items that say loud and clear: Hey here’s a possible sucker! This one’s husband just died, left her some dough, and she knows nothing about finance. Or, how about this one — this old lady dies, her husband has no cash, and she has to sell her house fast. That means cheap. Yeah, thank God for the newspaper. Lots of stupid people to screw over. 

Granny smiled and spoke in confidential tones to her grandsons. “Your Dad is a pain in my butt. He always was. Even as a kid. You boys seem pretty decent though. As it stands, I must tell you. I’m leaving it to you. And, if it were just a matter of how I feel, I would keep it that way. But your Dad is so thin-skinned. I realize it might actually kill him. I don’t want that. So how about if I do you each a third? How does that sound?”

Junior shrugged. “Anything’s fine, Granny.” 

Donnie thought that was a rather pathetic answer. “Granny, we love you and you’re going to be around for a very long many years! Don’t talk about giving stuff away. You are the one who should enjoy it!.” 

“Thanks, Donnie. Please don’t tell your dad. I want to keep him guessing for awhile. Now, how about you two help me get in my walker. I’m getting stronger every day. That damned flu about did me in though. Every day, I go a few more times around these halls. We can pass the time. I can tell you stories about when your dad was little.”

Junior shook his head slightly. Donnie thought that might be even more boring than sitting in her bare room and listening to her breathe. 

They got her on her feet. As a reward, Granny kept her promise and started droning on about how Fred was when he was only five and stole something or other and was so clever something or other and he got so scared something or ever and peed his pants and then something or other. Donnie felt he would actually die of boredom. Then, something echoed in his head: ‘peed his pants’ — hold on. Hold on! There could be use in that story after all. He could store that away and use it against Daddy if need be. 

“Granny! That was a good story! Tell me again!” 

red school blur factory

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Donnie took a new interest in Granny’s stories, now that he realized she knew things that might prove useful later. Round and round they went. Junior hardly said anything, but Donnie asked a few questions here and there. He could see that Granny was getting very tired. In fact, Donnie himself was tired. But if he kept encouraging, and kept asking questions, it just might work.  Round and round they went. Round and round. It wasn’t working! Donnie was growing impatient. Why wouldn’t she have a heart attack? Damned old bag of bones. Suddenly, something that Daddy had said echoed in his brain. He glanced over to Junior. He had to bite is lip — hard — to keep from laughing. A nurse and Daddy were talking at the entrance to Granny’s room. They were looking straight at each other and not paying any attention to the threesome down the hall. Now or never. Donnie shout: “No Fred, not so fast! NO! You’re hurting her. Here! Let me… FRED!! NO!!” 

Donnie’s heart was pounding. He hated to take this kind of risk, but it seemed to be working perfectly. Granny was tired and losing her balance after the first twist. Now, she only needed the slightest of nudges. Donnie did it with his hip. Over she went. The nurse was already half running in her tight white skirt and clacking workshoes toward the old bag of bones, but she would hit the ground long before anyone could reach her. “GRANNY! Here! I’ll get you! Junior! Junior! I can’t hold her!” 

Of course, Donnie wasn’t really trying to hold her. He was adding a push to her fall.

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After the medical team came and took care of Granny’s newly broken hip, and she was well-sedated, the trio got into the car and drove back home. Donny plunged ahead with his plan. It was good to strike first. 

He’d have to appear genuinely upset. He bit his tongue and stabbed his teeny fingers into his palms, not enough to bleed, but enough to help him into the pain zone. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. I tried to catch her but I wasn’t strong enough. I thought Junior… never mind.” 

Dad was hooked and asked, “‘Never mind’ — what?” 

Donnie said, “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to say anything. Tattling is wrong.”

Dad had not only bitten on the hook. He had swallowed it as well. “Donnie. Tell me what the hell is going on. Or, I’ll beat it out of you!”

Donnie put a pained look on his face and glanced at Junior. “I’m sorry brother. So sorry.” 

Donnie had developed his skill of laughing at other people’s idiocy while he appeared the whole time to be crying, wracked with pain or guilt. “Daddy, I don’t think Junior meant to have her fall. He was just … playing … right Junior. You didn’t mean to hurt her, right?”

Later that night, after Fred Senior finished beating Junior, he went into the kitchen and poured himself four fingers of Scotch. He liked that first buzz. He poured himself another one and downed that one as well. Suddenly, he recalled his casual comment earlier in the evening. He had mentioned that if his mom broke her hip, she might die. Could his dumb son be smart enough to have broken her hip to speed up his inheritance? Fred chuckled. No, he thought. That’s crazy. There’s no possible way. It was Junior…or was it? He poured himself another four fingers, downed it and staggered up to bed where he fell into a deep stupor. In the morning, the insightful clarity of the previous night had dissolved into the fog of a hangover. There was a remnant of dislike for both his sons; a sour aftertaste. He didn’t know why. Nor, did he care. 

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———————————

 Donnie Plays Bull-Dazzle Man!  

Donnie Plays Doctor Man!

Donnie Learns Golf!

Donnie Plays Soldier Man!

Author Page on Amazon

The Jewels of November

09 Thursday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, COVID-19, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

beauty, life, mindfulness, poem, poetry, seasons

{I wrote this poem in 1997 when it won third prize in the Chatfield National Poetry contest. It seems oddly apropos today.}

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Winter ripped into our neighborhood last night
Gale and pail of rain turned flake by morning
Gutters filled to overflowing; my basement flooded.
And the riot of yesterday’s autumn light
Gone as though it never burned its magic riots of red and gold.
All the tallest tulip trees and oaks stand naked now,
Black, bucking wet twigs against the steel gray sky.

Bundled in my leather hat, jacket and gloves,
I walk out to survey the carnage of fallen leaf and broken branch.
The wind still gusts to make my eyes smart and my cheeks burn
Low black clouds swim and swirl.
Somewhere a flag cord bangs against an empty pole.

So off I go through deserted streets of a condo Sunday morning
Into the drear of pale November.
The wind sings a shriller note when the leaves are gone,
The hush is replaced by a whistle.

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And, walking down the hill toward the main road
I see beneath the broken canopy the first Jewels of November —
Coral leaves laid in relief against the wet black woods
The amber leaves, the carmine leaves of shrubs
Protected by the barren trunks of their taller cousins.

Beside the road, a head of goldenrod casts against green grass.
A few lonely wood asters, white and an occasional blue.
Hanging from the dead vines, clusters of gold and red.
Before me, the sky breaks for a moment only
And a hawk wheels through a single shaft of sunlight
Rejoicing, so it seems, in the thick cold air,
His outstretched white wing fingers glowing white for a moment.

selective photography of flying black falcon

Photo by Nigam Machchhar on Pexels.com

And so I find, here in this gray and lifeless world
Treasures of color and texture and form — and music too
For the overflowing brooks are singing quiet giggles
Just as ten black crows careen and crackle through the trees.

I look down and see a broken piece of branch
Bedecked with lichens, the palest possible shade of blue-green.
I bend to pick it up and out of my jacket pocket coins tumble
Tinkling on the black macadam roadway, they splay themselves:
A shiny copper penny, dime, quarter, nickel and a dark penny.
How fine when I was a child to find a few coins like this! How rich!
I knew the different smell and taste of every coin,
My parents’ dire warnings not to put them in my mouth
Making the taste so much more exotic and exciting.
Now my money comes to me as a blue paper note
Claiming the check was deposited directly in my account.
How efficient, I note.

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Another shaft of sunlight strikes me from the briefly parting clouds
As I retrieve my coins one by one
And remember that today is the New York City marathon.
Phillipides, so the story goes, died after bringing the news
Of a Greek victory back, from exhaustion, so we suppose.
But I wonder: was it simply that his life¹s best work was done?
Or could it even be the sheer clear joy of the news delivered?
Or, the ecstasy of the swinging legs and arms, the hot heart,
The heaving chest — feeling so alive that pain itself is joy.

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The wind is at my back and I wonder what it would feel like
To run today that long race through the windy streets of New York.
But a walk through the woods is enough for me, enough today,
Stopping to watch the hundred precious scenes laid out before me.
I wonder where all these treasures were last week-end
When I walked this same path.
The answer is, of course, that they were drowned in a sea of color
The neon chaos of autumnal carnival showing off.

I turn back toward home now.
Lonely snowflakes hit and actually bounce once off the black road
Before settling down to melt their brief beauty on still warm tar.

The wind is fully furious in my face.
I dream what lunch I might fix once out of this blowing cold
A steaming chicken broth thick with onions, carrots, and peppers.
And I recall a time when I was a senior in college and had the flu;
The medicine the doctor gave me made me worse
And I ended up not eating for three days
But the at-last, ah-ah, taste of the clear broth I savored oh so slowly!
A feast from a magic bullion cube!

adult beard black jacket cup

Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

And I wonder as I begin the ascent up the long hill toward home,
Whether winter might not be the whirling earth’s greatest gift.
What would autumn, full summer, or the tender spring be
Without the deadly in-between, the waiting, the wail, the white.

In a land of endless plenty and eternal life, would we ever see
The Jewels of November?

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—————————–

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

Tall Trees; High Vines

08 Wednesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in health, politics, story, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

disease, empathy, ethics, fables, leadership, legends, myths, pandemic, tracking, Veritas

—————————————-

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It only made sense for Eagle Eyes to go first. Still, it made Shadow Walker uneasy in some way he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — define. It was true enough that Eagle Eyes could spot a trail from farther away than — than anyone Shadow Walker could think of. But this trail…! It was just as easy to follow as the first one laid down by The People Who Steal Children. Shadow Walker, and the rest of the party had excused the obviousness of the first trail as being due to the difficulty of trying to hide horse tracks, but this time, the foursome they were tracking were all on foot. 

Shadow Walker had been worried about waiting a day before beginning their tracking, but he was grateful that he had had that last day — and night — with Many Paths. He began to cast his mind back to those delicious moments…

Ahead of him, Shadow Walker saw Eagle Eyes put up her hand and crouch down. Shadow Walker dropped to his hands and knees and silently crawled up behind her. Then, she stood up and turned around. 

“Look at these tracks, Shadow.” 

Shadow Walker felt annoyed. First, she acted like there was danger. Now, she’s just talking out loud. But mainly, he realized, he was annoyed because she broke his pleasant revelry. He followed her pointing figure though.

“What is going on, Eagle Eyes?” 

Eagle Eyes shook her head. “I’m not sure. The only thing … it reminds me of … one time, Stone Chipper smoked some Jimsonweed and … after awhile, he staggered about talking nonsense. I haven’t seen any Jimsonweed along this path. Did you happen to notice any?” 

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“No, but … that’s a handprint. What…?” They followed the tracks down a steep hill. At the bottom, they found one of the Z-Lotz who had visited them lying face down on the ground, motionless. Shadow Walker knelt down and felt the neck. Cool, but not stone cold. Pulseless. He flipped the body over. Eagle Eyes and Shadow Walker both stared. The face was covered with red sores. 

Eagle Eyes pointed to a dry creek bed at the bottom of the hill. Shadow Walker nodded and they each took one leg and pulled the body to the bottom of the hill. In silence, they looked at each other. At last, Shadow Walker said, “What happened to his face?” 

Eagle Eyes answered, “I have no idea. But it isn’t just his face. Look at his ankles and hands.” 

Shadow Walker put down the two large rocks he had brought and he knelt down and explored the body more carefully. “You’re right Eagle Eyes. These red spots are everywhere. Is that what killed him? Was he poisoned?” 

Eagle Eyes shook her head slowly. “I don’t have any idea.” After a pause she added, “I can’t think of anything even in a story that’s like this. Should we go back and tell the others?” 

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Shadow Walker imagined that. They could make it back by nightfall, but then, the three they were still trailing would be two more days ahead. It was important information but… “Eagle  Eyes, I think it takes too much time. And, we don’t really know anything. Not for sure. We don’t know what happened to him. What is there to tell that is a known truth?” 

Eagle Eyes stared down at the body of a man she didn’t know, but still — the body of a man who was alive two days ago, now motionless. “Maybe we should search him for other clues as to what caused his death.” 

“Like what? What are we looking for, Eagle Eyes?” 

She slowly began to take the clothes off the man. “Come to think of it, these clothes might come in handy. We look like Veritas. Hopefully, we won’t be seen, but if we are seen, people will tend to ignore us if we look like Z-Lotz.” 

“Right. If only we could sound like them.” Eagle Eyes chuckled. “These will do for you. I will stay unseen.” 

After they had been piling rocks on the naked body for long enough that their arms began to tire, Eagle Eyes said, “I wonder whether they would have done the same if they came upon one of us dead upon the trail.” 

“I don’t really know. I don’t really know any Z-Lotz. The closest to it is NUT-PI and he may well be the worst. It seems as though the Z-Lotz, just like the Cupiditas choose the worst among them as leader.” 

Eagle Eyes mused, “It’s hard to imagine how they can be very effective at anything.” 

“And yet, you described a very large — many large buildings — and they have the killing sticks. So… and those things with the marks. And, they trained horses.”

Eagle Eyes thought about that for awhile. As they put the finishing touches on the burial cairn, she mused, “We learned how to train horses too. And I think the training was at the ROI. Why didn’t these visitors come on horses? Why would they have horses and yet not travel a fair distance on foot instead?” 

They finished respecting the dead man. Even if they seemed to be enemies and even if these four lied about several things during the gift exchange, neither Eagle Eyes nor Shadow Walker felt it right to dishonor the dead. They thanked the animals and plants they used for food, or must needs kill. Could they do less for a human cousin? After, they walked on in silence for a time along a broad path through the tall grass. 

Eagle Eyes pointed to some woods off to their right. Shadow Walker stared off in that direction but he couldn’t see what she was pointing to until they had gone many more paces. Along the topmost branches of a stand of tulip trees, there grew a vine with many trumpet-shaped flowers glowing with pink and gold. 

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Shadow Walker smiled, “You really earn your name. Those are beautiful.” 

“Those flowers are really high up, Shadow Walker.”

Shadow Walker nodded. “Yes. So they are.” 

Eagle Eyes grew more excited as they walked. “It occurs to my mind that they did not get that high on their own.”

Shadow Walker said, “What do you mean?” 

“Those colorful flowers grow on vines. They vines do not have the strength to grow more than a few inches. Yet we see them so high in the air. They are using the tulip tree. That’s how they get so high.” 

Shadow Walker nodded. “I never thought about it before, but I think you’re right.” 

On they walked. Shadow Walker stopped suddenly. “Are you saying — are you saying that’s what you think is going on with the Z-Lotz? They are using some — some other — the fruits of some other peoples — in order to have all these things. Maybe they didn’t really develop these killing sticks but stole them from someone else. That would explain how they could — “

Eagle Eyes stopped and stared at Shadow Walker, “No, that’s not what I was saying, but it does make sense. I think you may be right. As Many Paths would say, ‘it’s one possibility.’” 

nature forest trees fog

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Shadow Walker laughed, “That’s exactly what she’d say. And if that tall tulip tree were to be hit by lightning or die of disease…”

Eagle Eyes nodded, “The vine would fall too. It’s only showing its flowers so high right now because of using the height of the tree. Shh!!” Eagle Eyes dropped down and Shadow Walker did the same. He came up close behind her and whispered in her ear. 

“What do you see, Eagle Eyes?” The warm breath felt nice on her neck. Eagle Eyes turned back and whispered into the ears of Shadow Walker.

“Not what I see. What I hear!. Don’t you hear it?” 

Shadow Walker put his hands up behind his ears and turned his head until he heard humans talking … or singing … or … what were they saying? He nodded to Eagle Eyes. 

They crawled on their bellies very slowly toward the sound, being careful to move only when the wind moved the tall grass. As they drew closer, it became clear that what they were listening to was neither song nor reasoned dialogue. Two people were … talking at the same time but not reacting to each other. They came to the edge of a clearing. Within it, two men — the ones who had recently visited the Center Place of the Veritas — were thrashing about uselessly on the ground. 

Shadow Walker and Eagle Eyes looked at each other. They wanted to help, but where was the fourth of their late visitors? They drew very close and hastily made a plan. He would try to help the men and Eagle Eyes would stay hidden in case the fourth Z-Lotz emissary returned in a bad mood. 

Shadow Walker reached the nearest man who was barely moving. He also seemed covered in red dots. He tried to communicate using sign language, but the man’s eyes were rolling around in his head and he seemed completely unaware of Shadow Walker’s presence. He said aloud “He is burning with fever.” He said it loudly but seemingly to himself. The other man was in a similar state. He went back into the grass and crawled back to Eagle Eyes. 

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Still concerned that there was an unaccounted-for Z-Lotz somewhere, he whispered to Eagle Eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them. They are very hot. And they seem not to have their minds with them. I don’t know of a medicine for them. Should we take them to a creek to cool them off? And they are both covered with those red spots.” 

“I have been searching my memories but I haven’t heard of anything like this either. There’s no sign of the last Z-Lotz. Let’s see whether we can find his trail.” 

Eagle Eyes stood cautiously and scanned the immediate surroundings. “Let’s at least move them out of the sun and under the shade of that oak.” The two sick men made no real protest as they were dragged to sit up against the shady side of the tree. Eagle Eyes pointed to a thick branch. “Give me a boost. I’ll climb the tree while you check the periphery of the clearing.” 

worms eyeview of green trees

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

Shadow Walker stood with his back against the tree and knelt down while Eagle Eyes slid her pack and outer layer of clothing off. She put her left foot in his interlocked hands. She put her hands on his shoulders, feeling the corded muscles beneath the odd Z-Lotz tunic. Working as a team, she shifted her weight upwards so that she now towered over him. She reached her hands up farther onto the tree trunk and stepped up onto his shoulders. From there, she could touch the lowest branch, but not reach around it. Shadow Walker looked up and noticed many things, among them that he would have to boost her still farther. He put both hands next to the right side of his neck and instructed her to step on. She put her foot on his two hands and he pushed her up. At last, she hooked her arms over the tree branch and pulled herself up. He nodded, and noticed that he was breathing heavily. He watched Eagle Eyes continue climbing the tree. 

Shadow Walker sighed and stepped to the edge of the clearing and soon found evidence that all three Z-Lotz had entered the clearing; two of them had been staggering. At last, he found the trail of the remaining Z-Lotz. He stared up at the distant figure of Eagle Eyes. She had climbed up near the crown of the tree and was shading her eyes. He tried to catch her eye, but her attention was elsewhere. They had known each other all their lives and he genuinely liked her as a friend. He had never been so struck by her beauty as he was now. His face reddened slightly and he looked down at the Ring of Empathy and wondered how things were going with Many Paths and She Who Saves Many Lives and Tu-Swift.

He followed the trail of the missing Z-Lotz until he came upon a creek. He could see that the one they tracked had stopped here for a drink but then continued onward back toward the camp — or — what had Cat Eyes called it? A city. Toward the city of the Z-Lotz. Perhaps as Eagle Eyes had suggested, it wasn’t really their city but one that they had found or won over with fighting. Perhaps they would learn more when they arrived at that city. 

Shadow Walker went back to the clearing intending to offer to help Eagle Eyes down, but when he arrived, she was already on the ground. He gestured toward the nearby creek. “He went to the creek and got a drink, but didn’t bring any back for his sick companions. I did though. I didn’t bring any for you, but I think we will need to pass by the creek to follow the trail. And you?” 

landscape photography of green and brown mountain

Photo by Aleksey Kuprikov on Pexels.com

Eagle Eyes said, “I saw an indentation path in the grass beyond the creek. I don’t think we are far behind him. They must have been slowed down by the illness. I saw something very strange though. In that direction, there is a broad area with no bushes, grass, or trees. It is like a desert. But… not sandy really. I am not sure, but it looks shiny and dead and … disordered … and … evil. I am glad we don’t have to go in that direction.” 

As Shadow Walker listened, he managed to get one of the sick men to sip a little water. He went to give water to the other and discovered that he was dead though his body was still hot. 

“This one is dead, Eagle Eyes. What shall we do with the other one? We can hardly take him with us. He can’t really care for himself. But I don’t want to stay here and try to heal him because — for one thing, I have no idea how to do that. Or, even what is wrong with him. There is something else. It’s odd but I feel … dirty. I don’t know. It’s weird.” 

“No, I don’t think it’s odd. I feel as though … somehow I want to get away from them both. Maybe we should both wash while we are down at the creek. I don’t think we can help this man. We could stay and comfort him and that may be help in a way.” 

Shadow Walker nodded. “I’m not sure he really knows that we’re even here. I cannot get him to focus on my sign language and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t understand my speech. Yet, can we really just leave him here to die on his own?” 

Eagle Eyes walked over to the man. She squatted before him and tapped her chest. “Eagle Eyes. I am Eagle Eyes. We are Veritas. You visited.” He said nothing, his eyes were still glazed over. For a moment, he reached his hand toward her and moved his mouth, but no sound emerged. He tilted his head slightly, then he slid sideways as thought to sleep upon the ground. She leaned forward a bit more and put his hand on his neck. She glanced up at Shadow Walker and shook her head. 

Eagle Eyes stood and gathered her outer clothes and pack together. “Can we drag these two down by the creek and cover them with nearby stones? Then, I have a feeling, though I cannot explain why, that we should bathe. I’m not sure I want to wear his clothes either. I think you should go back to your own clothes as well.” 

“Why not disguise ourselves?” 

Eagle Eyes frowned. “I’m not sure. But what came to mind. You know, if your garden starts to have those little white bugs that eat the leaves, it spreads to all of the plants if you don’t wash them off. And, it is the same with the black mold. And that disease that curls the leaves. And, when ALT-R — he — corrupted — POND MUD and then the two of them together seemed to corrupt KAVA-NUT. I don’t want to have those red spots all over me. It feels wrong to wear their clothes. It makes my skin feel itchy.” 

Shadow Walker considered. He nodded. “I agree. I already feel — I don’t feel good in these clothes. Let us go bury them in their burial cairns, bathe, and then be on our way. We’ll just have to stay hidden when we get to the village.” 

Eagle Eyes nodded, and began walking toward the nearest Z-Lotz. Shadow Walker watched her and found himself looking forward to the prospect of shedding these Z-Lotz clothes and then bathing thoroughly in the creek. Watching Eagle Eyes would not be unpleasant either.

cascade creek environment fern

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—————————————————

Author Page on Amazon

Start of the First Book of The Myths of the Veritas

Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

Table of Contents for Essays on America 

Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

 

A Cat’s a Cat & That’s That.

07 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in family, poetry, psychology, Uncategorized

≈ 23 Comments

Tags

cats, gratitude, kitten, life, love, mindfulness, peace, pets, poem, poetry

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Sirius and Mister Jones watching TV with us.

Mister Mitchell is his name.
He would rather be in my lap
Than curled up beside the keyboard
Sneaking a paw out to help me,
Tapping out a random,
(Or, seemingly random),
// here and there.

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Jones checking out the new sound system.

But //? Who knows?
Perhaps he’s trying to find some website
Devoted to the feline.
After all,
They have a TV program now for cats.

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‘Mister Mitchell’ is not a name we chose;
Rather the name came with the cat.
He mostly seems a fur generating machine
Sidling up to the Thinkpad.

orange cat foot on laptop keyboard

Photo by Александар Цветановић on Pexels.com

Yet, he is not a machine
But a living breathing system
Turning fish and turkey into more Mister Mitchell
And every one of his trillions of cells:
A miracle of masterly mechanism,
Much like me,
Getting sick and getting well,
Much like me,
Sleeping, eating, wishing the endless rain would let up
And some sun would shine at last
Much like me.

farm land during sunset

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I’m not sure he has an opinion on the world situation,
Or of whether we’ll ever fire the Liar-In-Chief,
Or of what should be done with corporate crooks,
Or cares whether the Dow is up or down.

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Mister Mitchell never helps me take out the recycling
Or do the dishes or the shopping;
In reality, Mister Mitchell is not much use —
And maybe that’s the point:

6EF5F154-38C8-42EA-8854-742770F798BF
The miracle of life is point enough without a use.
People are so forgetful,
Of the miracles all around,
Large and small.

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Much like me.

 

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Other Poems on this Blog:

Race, Place, Space, Face

Piano

A Suddenly Springing Something

Hauntings Across the Time Zone

Is a Dream? 

The Most Serious Work 

The Joy of Juggling

Wristwatch

Continental Breakfast

Maybe it Needs a New Starter

The Truth Train

Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot

Peace

The Impossible

Ambition

America

Don’t They Realize How Much Better Off They Are Now? 

The Bubble People

 

 

The Lost Child Who Brings Light

07 Tuesday Apr 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, politics, psychology, Uncategorized, Veritas

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

acceptance, dark, education, fiction, ignorance, leadership, light, psychology, story, Veritas

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“Who goes there?!” Two well-armed guards stood on either side of a broad path. Several of the villagers were cautiously walking up the path toward the guards, curious about the strangers. 

Trunk of Tree cleared his throat, but he hadn’t thought about what to say. 

Fleet of Foot began to answer, “We are Veritas. From the Center Place of the Veritas. Near the once-forgotten Field of Flowers. I am called “Fleet of Foot” and this man is called “Trunk of Tree” — you can probably see why. This woman is named Cat Eyes. She was born here, but stolen at a young age. Now, she returns to see her family.”

The guards both frowned. It was a lot to take in. Behind the guards, the crowd began murmuring and passing along the information. 

One of the guards began, “We are Veritas. I am Throws Far and this is Tree Climber. Our ancestors lived near the once-forgotten Field of Flowers. We have tried many times to send a party back to the Center Place but no-one has ever gotten through. Come and meet our leader.  Follow me. Wait. Why do you have horses?” 

Trunk of Tree began to answer, “We — I don’t really like horses anyway. They are too big.” 

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Fleet of Foot added, “We have very little experience with horses. They just came into our possession recently. It is a long tale, but we will tell all your people. Cat Eyes wishes…”

Cat Eyes put her hand on her chest. “I am Cat Eyes. I smell spicebush tea.” Tears ran down her cheeks though she reined in her breathing so that she could continue speaking. “I thought I would never find my way back here. Do you know my parents, Gathers Acorns and Of the Night?”

The guards exchanged looks. Throws Far said, “Your parents? I know them. I knew them. They left to find you. We have not heard from them. We assume…we think…it’s likely that the fell into the hidden holes in the Ice Mountain. But how did you get here without going over Ice Mountain?”

A beautiful lanky youth with long ebony hair pushed her way through the growing crowd. “Cat Eyes? Is that really you?” She walked right up and looked into the teary eyes. “Oh! Cat Eyes! It is you! I am your cousin, Blackberry Patch!” Blackberry Patch gently took the hand of Cat Eyes into her own and led her along the path to the Fire Circle. Cat Eyes stared around. The Fire Circle looked familiar though vastly smaller than she remembered. There was a cliff of brown stone which she remembered but there were many … rooms … in the cliff which she did not remember at all. “It’s nice to meet you, Blackberry. I don’t. But I’m sorry I don’t remember you.” 

 “I remember you! You were quite a … you were always…do you remember playing ‘Hide and Find’ with me?” 

Cat Eyes kept casting her eyes about to try to find things that looked familiar. She looked back at Blackberry and then over to the brown cliff. She pointed, “I think we played there … in the …  tunnels. But it looks all different.” 

Blackberry Patch nodded. “Oh, yes! We have been excavating. We’ve found out —- there used to be — we’ve found many things of the ancients! But never mind that. Let me introduce you to the others. We never thought you would be found. After your parents … we’ve never made it out of these mountains. The mountain of ice is now very unsafe. Much of it is mud and where there is ice, there are hidden cliffs. We stopped trying. But some people think that there might be a tunnel in the ancient places in the cliff. Here.” 

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Although Blackberry Patch spoke directly to Cat Eyes, everyone who could get close enough was listening. The rumor had now spread throughout the village that strange visitors had come and that one of their own had returned. Nearly everyone in the village had heard the story of Cat Eyes and most of the adults in the village remembered her specifically because of her oddly shaped pupils. They all had to wriggle themselves close enough so that they could verify that this was indeed the one who had disappeared. The people stopped their normal activities and crowded around. Many questions were asked but confusion reigned until the man who was obviously their leader came solemnly among them. His voice boomed low and loud, cutting through the din. 

“WELCOME! WELCOME! Oh, long lost of the Veritas! And Welcome, Oh, Welcome to the daughter of Gathers Acorns and Of the Night, whom we all well regard and remember. Oh, daughter of our tribe, Welcome, She with the Eyes of the Cat! Please, take this seat of honor and introduce us to your friends!” Gentle Talons, their leader, gestured grandly toward a beautifully made blanket. Cat Eyes nodded and began to walk over to her place. 

Trunk of Tree, who had remained silent during their walk into the village now seemed to find his voice. “I am Trunk of Tree and the leader of our small group.” He began to walk toward the place where Cat Eyes was about to sit. Fleet of Foot, put a strong hand on the shoulder of Trunk of Tree and said, “Not now. It will be more powerful if she introduces you.” After noting the hesitation in Trunk of Tree, he added, “Just as their leader was not the first but the last to arrive. See?”

Trunk of Tree relented. Cat Eyes, sat down gracefully and gestured to her companions. How on earth should she — could she — tell this tale? Everyone was looking at her and I don’t know what to say. The image of Many Paths flashed into her mind and she decided she would pretend to be Many Paths — or her own version of Many Paths. “Come friends, and sit near me. We have many tales to tell each other. But I will begin with the basics. First, I am overwhelmed with happiness to be here and I am overwhelmed with grief to hear that Mom and Dad disappeared. I remember much about this place, but the brown cliffs have changed much, I see. Let me introduce my friends and traveling companions. I have not known any of them very long, but we have become good friends and I can vouch for them all. 

“This strong man has been the leader of our expedition. You may easily guess why he has that name.” She smiled. She looked at the people. Everyone could see that she spoke the truth from her own heart. “This man on the other side is known as ‘Fleet of Foot’ and, as you might expect, he is a very fast runner. But he is also a fast thinker, and quite diplomatic. She smiled at him and then at the crowd. “That man Jaccim is our expert on horses. The Veritas have adopted him. He saved my life at least twice and possibly more. He is still learning our language. He knows of, and led us here via, a tunnel passage that does not require crossing the treacherous ice mountain. 

close up photo of lion

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“The man next to him is visiting the Veritas. They call him Lion Slayer because, indeed, he actually did slay a lion single-handedly. He, and his wife, Salah Hudah, are from the Great Tribe of Southern Nomads. They aided us in a great war which, I have no doubt, you will be interested to learn more about at another time. Lastly, there is me. I was born here. And, I lived here for a time. I was stolen away and taken somewhere that I now know to be a village of the Z-Lotz. And, my name is Cat Eyes.” She paused, winked and added, “Though I have no idea why I bear that odd name.” 

The crowd chuckled appreciatively. When that died down, Cat Eyes continued. 

“There are many fine stories to share and we hope to do just that. We brought, Trunk of Tree, tell to our brothers beyond the twin peaks what we have brought.”

Trunk of Tree shook his head. He frowned for a moment and then remembered that they had brought gifts. “Yes. Yes! We have brought you some … gifts. They are …” In a panic, he suddenly realized that he didn’t know, but Fleet of Foot had been carrying the bag of gifts and handed the cinnamon to Trunk of Tree. “Cinnamon. This smells very nice in cooking. And, we brought … “ Trunk of Tree took the next gift. He studied it for a moment and then stared at Fleet of Foot. “Fleet of Foot, can you tell what these pretty stones are?”

Fleet of Foot took one of the slices of mica and turned it this way and that so that people in the crowd could judge its shininess. “This is mica and we are still learning about it. But if you take a very thin slice you can see right through this rock and yet it is still rock. It keeps out the wind and the bugs from one side to the other. It is sharp but not much use for a weapon. Although…” Fleet of Foot paused for just a split second, unsure whether to let people in on the unique weapons they were preparing. “Who knows? It might be useful to make a bridge that looks strong but would break when stepped on, for instance.” 

Someone asked, “How did you discover mica?” 

woman standing inside cave

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Trunk of Tree looked panicked for a moment. He had no idea. But Cat Eyes, spoke up instead. “That is an excellent question. And, when everyone tells our story, you will find that answered. We must hear the story from end to end. And there are more gifts, but I must tell you some critical things first.” 

“The first one, and perhaps obvious is that there is another path. You are no longer confined to these mountainsides. It might be that a few of you would venture back to meet your cousins near the forgotten field of flowers.” She paused, waiting for the murmuring to subside. 

“Second, the Z-Lotz have things that we never dreamed of. They have devised a ‘Killing Stick’ which kills a person without touching them. They point the ‘Killing Stick” at their victim and there is a loud noise and a bright flash and the victim begins to bleed profusely.”

This time the murmuring did not die down until Gentle Talon’s booming voice echoed off the walls. “Let her finish!” 

Cat Eyes sighed. She took a deep breath. “And last, perhaps most importantly of all, the Z-Lotz have a way to … they think something and say it. But when they say it, or perhaps only think it, they make a mark on a piece of thin beech bark. Then, later, someone else can come and look at that mark and imagine what was said. They can hear it softly whispered even though no mouth is nearby.” 

This time, the crowd did not react with murmuring. There was dead silence. She reached into the bag of gifts and pulled out the small bit of bark with odd marks and thrust it in the air. “This is what it looks like. The marks are from sign language. But they are only the first sound of that word. I know it’s difficult to understand, but … “

Another voice rang out. “I told you! I told you! “ 

Now, the murmuring began and swelled as people who understood this concept of the written word and began to successfully explain it to their friends. 

The voice of Gentle Talons boomed out again. “As foretold! She is the one! She brings light to the tunnel of ignorance! Welcome home, O lost child!” 

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Cat Eyes shook her head. What are they talking about, she wondered. There was a children’s story about a lost child who came back to lead her … people … through a long tunnel into the light. Great Bear in the Sky!! That’s just a legend. Do they think I am a prophesy? A leader? A Goddess?

Cat Eyes tried to make her voice heard above the din. “Wait! Wait! I am not a leader or a prophesy. I am just me. I am just … one of you who was stolen but was lucky enough to return.” 

Gentle Talons bellowed, “Did you not come through a tunnel of darkness into the light to arrive here?” 

Cat Eyes said, “Yes. But so did they.” She gestured to remind people of her companions. 

Gentle Talons continued, “But you are the only one who left and then returned!”

Cat Eyes nodded. “True. But I have no idea what ignorance you are talking about.” 

Gentle Talons looked lovingly at Cat Eyes and said gently, yet loud enough for everyone to hear, “Is it not obvious, my child? You have brought us the light of knowledge! Once we began excavating the cliffs, we found many tunnels of darkness lined with row after row of strange boxes filled with such leaves as you’ve shown us. All are marked with these same strange markings. But until now, we have never had the light to enable us to understand a single mark. And now we do. You have brought us that light of understanding! Welcome, oh, child of light! Welcome home!” 

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Cat Eyes took a deep breath to try to calm herself. She felt so many conflicting emotions that she felt for a moment that she would be overwhelmed, not knowing which was her true feeling. And, suddenly, it occurred to her that her feelings were all real. It was not a contest or a race. It was a rainbow to embrace. Her grief about her parents not being here in no way meant she couldn’t feel nervous about what was expected of her or her pride of having spoken well. Nor did the red of the rainbow mean that the green did not exist. In fact, each color made the other colors that much more beautiful. Sometimes I glance at the red and sometimes I glance at the blue or the green. Sometimes the earth sleeps beneath a blanket of snow. And, sometimes it bakes in the hot summer sun. My own feelings change, more slowly than my eyes can dart from color to color, but much more quickly than the seasons turn. And, that is just natural; that is just nature. 

Of course, Cat Eyes saw all this in a more visual way; images superimposing themselves upon each other until a balance was reached — an acceptance of a balance between being in control of and responsible for one’s actions — while at the same time feeling the ever-changing flow of one’s heart and just accepting that all of it is nature. All of it is just natural. It was okay for her to feel that she wanted nothing so much as to go back to the Veritas she knew and spend the rest of her days there and also to feel that she never wanted to leave this place ever again. It was even more beautiful than she had remembered it. And, she did know enough about decoding the marks that she could lead them to understand what those many boxes of marks meant. It is okay to feel these things. But in the end, my body can only be in one place at a time. It had better be where I want the heart of my hearts to be.

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Cat Eyes smiled and asked gently, “Do you suppose I could share some of your spicebush tea? You might like to try it with some cinnamon.” Cat Eyes felt something shift inside her. She was home and being home and knowing it was all real somehow healed something deep inside her. She was alive. She had survived so much. She realized that she would now be — and always had been — home no matter where her body stood. Someone thrust a warm mug of spicebush tea into her hands. She inhaled both the fragrant spicebush from her childhood and the exotic and novel cinnamon as well. She was home. Home. And — better — she realized that she always would be.

———————————————————

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Start of the Second Book of the Myths of the Veritas

Table of Contents for the Second Book of the Veritas

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Index for a Pattern Language for Teamwork and Collaboration  

 

 

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