Haiku

Is this love shallow?

The sparkling summer brook,

or deep rooted tree?

Tanka

Is this love shallow?

Does it reflect the summer

brook, or weathered tree?

An ephemeral sparkle,

or rooted and patient growth?

Limerick

I ask myself is my love vain?

My time wasted would be a shame.

A sparkling brook,

Or great tree unshook?

To choose poorly would be a shame.

English Sonnet

Semblance of love manifests in two forms;

Close neighbors in soft breeze of summer.

Mighty tree weathered from forgotten storms;

Crisscrossing roots like pipework from plumber.

Also nearby, churns sparkling brook.

Dancing and shim’ring in bright golden sun.

The denizen shade tree above forsook,

Preferring caprice to let its course run.

Which love is proper to seek in my life?

Sparkling brook of temporal passion,

Or the birch strengthened by time and deep strife,

Yet earned and active—filled with compassion?

Only one lasts, after summer is dead.

Both have a place, but by the birch I’m led.

All the frozen wrath of nature has manifested in the dense mist saturating the air. The thick, frigid fog is the manifestation of solitude, turbulent soul, and silence. The silence. Such a mass should seem to make a sound, but there is none. The white particles are unmoved for lack of wind. Despite the terrible and awesome sight, there is a pleasure in the piercing cold of the blanketing monolith. Each nerve is prickled by the fine drops suspended perfectly on the autumn night. An ineffable surge of ethereal glee sweeps over the viewer. Being engulfed by the haze of frost is strangely comforting. Even breath does not keep its course much further past expulsion, as it joins the indistinguishable spray fixed upon the night air.

Outside the stream of consciousness, or within it for the first time? Life, existence, experience all manifest as music. My essence begins as a well ordered dance. Sometimes the waltz, and then the mazurka–a fluid, flowing fidelity. As time progresses, so the time changes. A 6|8 begins to rock me, lull me. Then the pace quickens into a jubilant jig. The air itself gyrates and jostles, while the reel resonates. The melody slows, becomes minor, and soft. The violin begins to gently sob. It softly laments with the throb of the rhythm, now in 4. The violin’s pitch escalates as sorrow swells up within. Higher, heavier, the music weeps and wails. I cannot bear it as every fiber of my being mourns with each remorseful flourish.

Underneath, an organ begins to bellow. Deep, ominous notes swell under the violin in attempts to consume it. The violin gives a final, frantic flourish and is gone. The organ performs a scattered, scathing scherzo in unfathomably deep registers. The melody mounts and is joined by unworldly harmonies. Madness, vindictive madness is in the song. I struggle against it as it continues burrowing into my soul. I loathe the organ, disdain it, yet in spite of my belligerence, I am succumbing. Just before I am lost in the intonation of insanity, I rip my being with a defiant scream.

A sudden stop.

I am in a dimly lit room in a red, velvet chair. Bluesy jazz radiates likes a sauna. Within the darkness of the room, the organ continues a chilling chorus fighting to snuff out the smooth sax and crooning clarinet. But I am in control here. It is within my power to maintain sanity and sanctum. So I thought. As my guard begins to fall, the syncopation of soul becomes dissonant. Trumpet, woodwind, and all manner of brass rush in off queue. The brash brass clash and thrash at my fragile being.

I try to tune them out, rationalize the parts, decipher the chaos, but to no avail. The beat is droning, the angst building, the malice mounting. I am losing myself in the dissonance. The chorus crescendos into the cacophony of chaos: climbing, clawing, Crushing, Conquering,

CAESURA!

silence

Silence?          …silence…

I am paralyzed. All is dark, void, silent. I yearn for the return of the chaotic symphony; it would be better than numb, immobilizing, silence. In the midst of my utter despair, a sudden ray warms me. The pallid beam is mere microns in breadth as it radiates. Then, a faint sound. A note. An ‘A’? Yes, an ‘A’. I struggle with my being to mimic the sound. I manage to hum the ‘A’.

The sound moves closer as I hum in unison. Closer; an ‘A’ chord. Closer; A minor. The sound is a harp, which strums an A minor chord. Light filters in as the harp gently sings. The harps flutters and flits in fine fashion, freeing my fear as feeling returns to me. Cadenzas cascade into my conscience; soothing Psalters sweep my psyche and scoop me up from suffocating solitude.

The harp now floats upward. An organ begins again, but instead of malicious melodies, it rings out grandiose fourth and fifths in parallel, strengthening the hallelujahs of the harp. How thunderous and sure is the organ’s progression, as a mighty fortress for my soul. I am ascending after the harp. Scarcely above ground, scattered, frantic tritones peck against the bulwark of organ in an attempt to drag me back down. I pause in nostalgic dread of the prior cacophony as the harp continues upward, The harp pauses, and I look up to it with the gaze of the helpless prey trapped in the corner. With that look, from behind the harp, resounds a powerful chord from a steel guitar. It rips the very atoms of the air with protective wrath. The organ and harp cease, while the echoes of the chord dissolve the tritones. The organ resumes in a triplet of progressive, circling fifths, and the harp dances delicately as we ascend.

Ascending, ascending, transcending. I can feel my being rising out of time and space to a higher plane–the highest plane. The harp disappears, though the sound still lingers. The space, though it is not space, is wisping and white. Not white, pure. I feel no fear, only ease and comfort. A being approaches through the swirls of mist. The being is dressed in a snow white tux: white tie, white shoes. I perceive the being’s face, yet the features are both unmemorable and wholly familiar.

The being smiles. I melt, within my being, into a perfect pool of still water. The being takes my hand gently and guides me a few steps into the fog of purity around us. We are now before a piano. The piano is white, with all 88 keys being white; it has both iridescence and translucence about it. The being flips coat tails, sits at the white bench, turns to smile once more, and begins to play.

I am undone. Sweet, savory sounds drip from every note of every chord. The melody is sad, then joyous, fierce, then subtle, passive, then passionate. My soul is raptured. Inexplicable sublimity and ethereal peace wash over me like a spring day’s warm breeze. I am satisfied, deeply satisfied with the movement and hunger for it. The venerable virtuoso at the master of all instruments, then stops. I am still transfixed as a gaze of empathy meets mine. Epiphany. Complete, absolute comprehension seizes me. What I had drank deeply with my ears is an excerpt from my symphony: the opus of my existence. This being before me was the Musician, Composer, and Conductor. I reciprocate the Musician’s gaze with perplexity as I yield my copy of the piece.

The copy is battered. There are markings made by myself and others, coffee stains, rain damage, tears, and all other manner of wear distorting and obscuring the work. The Musician still smiles, but with pained eyes. Suddenly, we are surrounded by innumerable shelves containing identical binders. I perceive that each binder is the opus of a human’s existence. Numerous works are complete, others are empty, awaiting creation. We are before a section noted as “Under Arrangement”. Here, the Composer grabs one of the identical binders, opens it, and reveals the original copy of my opus.

As I pour over every detail, I see the beauty of the original, intended performance of my masterpiece. As I turn to another page, the Composer gentle shuts the binder; the unviewed movement was yet to be performed. Tears of gratitude stream from my face; a smile of pride sweeps across the Composer’s face. The Composer-Musician with a kiss on my forehead, begins to conduct a fluid 4. I begin to descend back into time and space. It is said that “art is how we decorate space, and music is how we decorate time”. Having been outside both, I can attest that art and music transcend those bounds.

As I descend back to consciousness, I watch the happiness of the Conductor; which, has not turned back with my descent, nor ever will, as the symphony of my being echoes back into time. Even now, I feel the Conductor conducting against the cacophony; guiding me back toward that grand concert hall.

I am the bird in the center of a tessellating flock of thousands. I am swept along by the whim of outer ranks I cannot see. The sweeping dance of the whole flock at the core feels like a ceaseless swelling of cruel, winter tides. I cannot see the sky around, nor the direction of the flock, nor possess the knowledge of the next turn of the quickening reel of chaos. I try to think, but all I hear is the deafening cacophony of chirps. I grow impatient at the axis of this migratory flock in my life. Unable to see ahead, think forward, or fully comprehend the vacillations at present, I weary. Slowing the beat of my wings, praying for the next breath of sustaining wind, I continue flapping blindly with the flock.

Mon., 21 Aug. 2017

Marshall, MO

10:50

Bloomfield’s Family Restaurant:

AccuWeather and the Weather Channel are both calling for a good chance of sunshine during the Eclipse. I hope so, because at present the storm that chased me out of Kansas City this morning is rolling by; although, I am on the southern edge of it.

11:20

The wonders of modern technology! I am watching the Eclipse live in Madras, OR, 2 hours before I will view it in Marshall, MO, on a news program airing out of New York City!

12:11

Marshall Church of the Nazarene:

It is starting to clear up to the East and South, we will see if it reaches our parking lot in time to full view the Eclipse. The pastor and his wife were seminarians at the Nazarene College in Olathe and attended Summit View while there. Small world.

13:03

Sudden, complete calm.

The sun begins to darken

Light slipping away.

Nature seems to be frozen

As darkness swallows the sky.

13:06

Odd, a crescent sun.

Armageddon fantasies,

Biblical display.

The earth, a frozen shadow

in the encroaching umbra.

13:08

I see stars forming.

Street lamps are igniting fast;

people applauding.

13:10

A sundown in noon hours.

Fear, wonder, awe, amusement.

Colors are changing:

A speck of light, the moon moves

Sundown to rise in minutes.

13:13

Birds and bugs are tricked

As the moon continues course

A fresh dawn arrives.

13:20

Celestial orbs

Embracing in a tango

As they pass their ways.

The tides of emotion are relentlessly in motion. I wish that they were stagnant for a month, no, but a week; yet they ebb incessantly. I can gain no momentum, no solace, whilst I fight the current of my own spirit. I cannot get a tight, permanent hold of my own will. I seem to continually fall: yield to temptation after a meager struggle. The loathing, lusts, lethargy, doubts, depression, and derelict demeanor rush to drown me each time I begin to come within sight of the shore. I continue on, half-heartedly, knowing in mind that things will change, but failing to assuage the turbulent soul. I will eventually reach a shore, though perhaps not one that is desired, or expected, but needed. I pray, and I do so with desperate, yet resigned petitions, that I will have the strength day to day; it always comes, but in daily doses. I am resolved to weather the storms, but the flesh is weak. Resignation or restitution, time will tell; and it is in the waiting that I drift with the current of my faded spirit and tides of times.

It is astounding the power that sight has on memory. You could have seen the same places in the same city a thousand times, go away for a period of time from those places, and upon your return, a thousand memories you had not visited since rush back in chaotic waves. Today, most of those memories have become bitter regrets and sorrowful afterthoughts. Although my purpose in visiting today is to “catch up” and be merry, I fear the experience will be tainted by former things, haunted by regret, and dogged with depressive boughts. I was unprepared, in theory or practice, for the torrent of emotions instigated by returning to this place.

I am currently in the line up to receive a promotion into the sales-research-marketing department where I work. I have been working in the warehouse for just under a year now. When I was initial told about this position I informed them that I was interested, but I was sure there were more qualified candidates. I was told that my 2-ish years experience in a similar field was plenty, and since I had a B.S. I met the education requirements. I laughed, and reminded them that a B.S. in Theology is hardly a sales associated field. They said a B.S. is a B.S.

Then there is my brother. He has been with the same company for several years. They have given him a few pay raises (nothing substantial), but will not make him full time and will not promote him to a shift lead because he does not have a college degree. Although he has been with the company longer than I have been with mine, and has gained more experience related to a lead position in his field than I, his lack of a college diploma keeps him from a leadership and/or FT position.

That. Is. Ridiculous.

If this was the difference between an IT phone operator and IT Manager understandable, but we are talking the difference between a retail team member and retail shift lead. The retailer, whom shall remain nameless, is not Nordstrum’s or a Dillards; we are talking the middle-class Wal-Mart.

I was an Asst. Manager for Dollar General for around 6 years. I was hired on as an Asst. Manager with only a H.S. Diploma at the time. Every skill I learned, I learned on the job. By the time I left Dollar General, I had managed at 9 stores in KC Metro (I was in high demand as a fill in), and 1 in Nashville. I was involved in the hiring and firing process, and I can assure you that even the Manger position doesn’t really require anything higher than a H.S. diploma. Even then, I promoted people into Asst. Manager positions with no GED or HS Diploma on merit and tenure alone.

There is, of course, the opposite issue. I know people with a college degree in precisely what a job is looking for, but won’t hire them because they have no experience. How can they gain experience if no one hires them?

Employers need to rethink the requirements for certain positions. From personal experience, in an employer and employee position, experience, for a non-field specific job, is far more valuable than generic education of any kind. Character is actually the most important quality. I would rather have a positive, consistent, employee willing to learn with no HS Diploma or GED, than a B.S. in the field that is bitter and lazy.

I recently read an article along the lines of “7 Things Science Still Can’t Explain”. Several of the items were interesting. We know more about space than our own ocean; there is a spot on earth were you can stand and all sound disappears. One item in the list stopped me: science still can’t explain human consciousness.

Today, I returned from a funeral for Rev. Billie Christensen. 97 years old, married for 72 years, 2 children, 5 grandchildren, 7 great-grandchildren. He pastored numerous churches, preached many a sermon, served in the navy in WWII, and was as close to a modern-day saint as any anyone has seen.

I began to think about that article after the funeral. It is the great paradox that has plagued humanity as long as their have been philosophers. The modern Zeitgeist would have you believe that man is an accident of an impersonal cosmic force aeons in the past, yet the same modern attitude mandates the uniqueness of humaniy and desires to protect it in its various expressions, opinions, etc. That is an irreconcilable philosophy. Meaningless existence and meaningful existentialism cannot exist as equals within philosophical thought. Either we are a product of chance, environment, and apersonal circumstances; from, of, and by nothingness and destined thereto, or human existence, consciousness, and experience is something unique, worthy, and even sacred.

As a Christ follower, I believe all people, Christian or not, are unique, dignified, and special beings. I do say Christ follower, a true student and adherent of the Christian Scriptures because people have greatly confused what the Holy Bible actually says about human worth. Allow me to set the record straight with a series of verses straight from the Scriptures, and then conclude with the worldview/philosophy I have held to.

“Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living soul.”

“When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.”

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them. How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you.”

“Whoever mocks the poor insults his Maker;”

“but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers, these things ought not to be so.”

Jesus, getting ready to raise Lazarus from the dead, cried at the funeral. Why? Because human life is a sacred, special thing. You, I, and everyone is a unique, special, scared, and important being. Whether or not you or anyone else recognizes your humanity and sacred human existence is immaterial, you have intrinsic, infinite value.

And despite the Zeitgeist, and philosophers, and nihilist banter, they would be as quick to defend human rights and dignity. Why? It is because deep down we all recognize one fundamental, inescapable, and beautiful truth: we have value and it is dependent on no external circumstance, experience, expression, or approval. It. Just. Is.

Do we all agree? No. Some folks tuned out the moment I even mentioned Christian Scriptures. But regardless of your race, religion, politics, economic situation, ancestry, life choices, or any other factor you are special. We cannot continue propagating a fatalistic, serendipitous, existentialism, while living in an era teeming with the exaltation of human consciousness and expression.

Rev. Christensen, and his life, and his legacy mattered. Whatever I may do, or have done matters. Whatever you do or may have done matters. Be the best you. Shine. Love your fellow, special humans. Be patient. Be peaceable. Be compassionate. Be interested.

I believe you were created, as everyone  was, is, and will be, for a unique purpose. Placed in history at a precise time. Find it. Embrace it. I believe you are loved by a creating, thinking, feeling God.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

You cannot look forward to an uncertain future.

Desiring the past cannot bring it back.

Benjamin Franklin seemed to think the two certainties of life were death and taxes; Einstein played on this quip and determined it was the universe and human stupidity that were infinite. I suggest instead the two irrefutable principles are an uncertain future and an inaccessible past.

Although we know these two things to be true, we cannot seem to embrace either reality. I have found myself caught between these two cliff — a song, a picture, a phrase will bring back the “good ole days” in my mind. High school, college, anything earlier than fall 2016. It makes me happy, yet sad at the same time. This nostalgia feels like a sweet sensation, but is really an addictive drug. That “sweet sorrow” and longing always leave me wanting for something that is already past. Although I know that those things cannot return, I keep longing for them. I fulfill the words of the “prophet” Gotye, “You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness”. It isn’t that these feelings and memories are bad, but that they need to be taken in the proper context. Those things provided contentment at that time, and provide a basis for reflection.

They are, however, in an inaccessible past.

So, I look eagerly to the future. My pay raise starts in July. I will likely receive a promotion before the end of the summer. I begin to get excited as I see the light piercing into the darkness, heralding the other end of the abysmal tunnel I have traversed for to long. Yet as I consider the present, and recent events, I also am filled with cynical dread. If the events of the past few months have taught me anything, it is that life can throw a curve ball at your blind side, 100 mph, and then come kick you while you are down with a studded, steel toe boot. I also begin to feel overwhelmed by the obstacles I know still lie ahead, as well as the ones I am currently climbing. It is all so draining and daunting.

I cannot say I am pacified by the remaining option: the present. The present has all the sting and residual sorrow of the past with all the fear and anxiety of the future. If I take the “good ole days” and combine them with the “shining future”, I can cope in the present. Take things day by day. “Do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” Sufficient indeed.

Prayer, coffee, and positive thinking — the sun always rises.

In the mean time, I need to contribute what I can to the people around me who also have their “good ole days”, “dark pasts”, dreary days, cheery days, anxious futures, and bright tomorrows. As Charles Dickens aptly said, “No life is wasted that is spent lessening the burden of another man.”