Waitin' for the Weekend

another day 

far away 

happy noise

simple joys 

shirts and skins 

innocence

Tom Hewitt - Favorites  2 

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Epiphany 2023: Planet and Comet

Planet and Comet

   for Karl, 1966-2020

I was at the noon of life, you were in midmorning

That June in February when we kissed and fell

In love, too soon for sense, too strong for caution.

But oh, how lovely did the moon smile down on us!

We seemed to dance among the stars, they seemed to reel 

About our heads, and in your eyes I saw reflected

All my own forever dreams; felt your heartbeat thrum

In tune with mine, a summer song – too soon to end.

I watched for your return a long and lonely while.

In time, forsaken passion mellows into quietude

As green leaves turn to gold and rust

And flames die down to embers,

Souvenirs of light and heat and joy

When graybeards huddle by the hearth,

Remembering summer's caressing kiss,

The south wind’s warm embrace.

Comparisons are odious, of course.

We each must walk an unmarked path

Through barren wastes or fields of gold

To gather thorns and roses where we may

And water them with memories.

Who knows but that our found and lost

Are lessons learned to pave the way

For other joys to come: salt water into wine.

The stars swing on, thirty years have gone:

Time out of mind.  I can hardly comprehend, 

Cannot count that high.  It seems absurd,

So many steady rounds about the sun.

Never thought that I would end up here

At this cold, far place, an old man now,

So long removed from dancing days,

Leaning on a cane, shuffling through snow.

And still the music of the spheres plays faintly on

I hear it now and then behind the winter wind . . .

But suddenly you’re here, O my beloved wanderer—

Why this epiphany so late?  Why did we have to wait?

Never mind.  Oh, what a strange, unlooked-for joy!

For one sweet moment to dance the dance again,

To feel again – and know – your summer warmth,

The gravity of your embrace:  a love that knows no end.

Copyright 2023 by Russ Manley.  All rights reserved.

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With special thanks to my truckbuddy Frank, who unwittingly gave me the springboard for this poem.

Published on the day of the Full Wolf Moon.

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This is post 3 of 4

Post 1    Post 2    Post 4

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Jack O'Lantern

A little Halloween tradition here at the Blue Truck:

Jack O'Lantern

What was it like, growing fat and lopsided, a homely thing
there in the warm, dark earth, leaved over and hardly noticed?

Only a pumpkin, you said to yourself, and sighed,
earthbound, tethered by a restraining vine,
wistfully admiring the tall apple trees,
the high, bright cherry boughs
dancing in the sky,
the glinting fruits and nimble berries,
all so sought-after, all so prized.

But you knew your fate
was never to be loved like that,
never praised and petted,
tenderly handled, highly graded,
stamped with approval,
waxed and polished to a shine,
wrapped in tissue paper,
carried home in exultation,
exclaimed over and delighted in,
savored in merriment, enjoyed in laughter.

You knew you were too heavy, too big, too dull, too low:
At best, to end up part of a pie, half baked or overdone,
the afterthought of a glorious meal, waiting lonely and
untouched at the end of a groaning board.

A humble end, a small purpose.
Not much to speak of.
And so you grew, silent,
Waiting for the knife
To end the wait.
Quiet. Still.
Expecting not.

And yet one day, against all hope,
when pumpkin time was nearly at an end
and you had grown beyond your ripeness,
The hand of the Artist picked you up,
set you high, and with the tenderest knife
in all creation gave you, finally,
a face,
a lovely one,
oh surpassing lovely.
Made you smile, at last,
as you never believed you could.

For once,
Your lowly pumpkin heart
thumped a bright rhythm of joy:
Touched, healed, redeemed,
perfected there at the last,
so unexpected, against all hope.

And that smile lit up the night,
banished darkness, engendered joy.
Delight beamed from you, filled with light;
and delight and exultation glowed back upon you.

For that one lovely, shining moment you were born
and grew and ripened, all unknown, unknowing,
all unaware.

And now your light is spent, your smile
drooping, sagging, melting in decay.
But you return to earth happy,
oh so very very happy:

I lived and I was loved,
I had a purpose after all,
I gave delight.
I did not sprout in vain,
I had a face, I had a name—

I was Jack o'Lantern.

poem and photo copyright 2008 by Russ Manley

artwork by the Moon King

Jack O'Lantern

The other night, the ex-roommate and I had our monthly supper:  this time, he stirred up some scrumptious beef stew, and of course being Cajun, he started with a roux, the way all good dishes begin.  My contribution was to make the cornbread - which wasn't much work, coming straight out of the Jiffy box.  But the two things together were just larruppin' good, boys.  I tell you what.

Later, after much good talk and good wine, we had fresh pumpkin pie for dessert.  The ex-r scooped out a great big pumpkin as usual, and being an artist made another lovely jack o'lantern, which he is rather good at.  Here's this year's Jack:

Which has gotten to be a little tradition between us.  And so a good time was had by all, and I came home with a quart jar of stew that I'm still working on, very happily.

And to make another tradition for this blog, here's something I wrote for the first Jack, reprinted from the original post in 2008:

Jack O'Lantern

What was it like, growing fat and lopsided, a homely thing
there in the warm, dark earth, leaved over and hardly noticed?

Only a pumpkin, you said to yourself, and sighed,
earthbound, tethered by a restraining vine,
wistfully admiring the tall apple trees,
the high, bright cherry boughs
dancing in the sky,
the glinting fruits and nimble berries,
all so sought-after, all so prized.

But you knew your fate
was never to be loved like that,
never praised and petted,
tenderly handled, highly graded,
stamped with approval,
waxed and polished to a shine,
wrapped in tissue paper,
carried home in exultation,
exclaimed over and delighted in,
savored in merriment, enjoyed in laughter.

You knew you were too heavy, too big, too dull, too low:
At best, to end up part of a pie, half baked or overdone,
the afterthought of a glorious meal, waiting lonely and
untouched at the end of a groaning board.

A humble end, a small purpose.
Not much to speak of.
And so you grew, silent,
Waiting for the knife
To end the wait.
Quiet. Still.
Expecting not.

And yet one day, against all hope,
when pumpkin time was nearly at an end
and you had grown beyond your ripeness,
The hand of the Artist picked you up,
set you high, and with the tenderest knife
in all creation gave you, finally,
a face,
a lovely one,
oh surpassing lovely.
Made you smile, at last,
as you never believed you could.

For once,
Your lowly pumpkin heart
thumped a bright rhythm of joy:
Touched, healed, redeemed,
perfected there at the last,
so unexpected, against all hope.

And that smile lit up the night,
banished darkness, engendered joy.
Delight beamed from you, filled with light;
and delight and exultation glowed back upon you.

For that one lovely, shining moment you were born
and grew and ripened, all unknown, unknowing,
all unaware.

And now your light is spent, your smile
drooping, sagging, melting in decay.
But you return to earth happy,
oh so very very happy:

"I lived and I was loved,
I had a purpose after all,
I gave delight.
I did not sprout in vain,
I had a face, I had a name—

I was Jack o'Lantern."

poem and photo copyright 2008 by Russ Manley

artwork by the Moon King

August

True to its name, Sunday
has always seemed full
of gold eternal light.

Almost always tranquil
unhurried and calm,
a refuge from the world.

But Sunday evening
you feel pressed against
the brutal wall of endings.

All is quiet still but
you can feel the dread
chill draft of clamor beyond.

August is the Sunday evening
of summer.  The shelter of July
once gone will not return again.

In the bright yellow blaze
if you squint you can see
snowflakes falling on your hands.

Perspiring, I shiver.


Photo:  Kathy Bauer Photography.

Quo Vadis?

I don't know where to go from here

I don't know where the road will lead

Or even if there is a road

Or only a dead end

Barb wire and cross posts

Saying here but no farther

I should be afraid

But I'm too tired

Too lost to care

When you get to the place

Where you have to get out and walk

Even breadcrumbs would help

But if the birds ate them all

Then what?

Scintilla

Suddenly in the afternoon

A spark of joy

Quick

Catch it

Before it flies away

Where all the light goes

When you turn it out

It will not feed you

But you can feast on it

For a moment

All joys are

Like that

Necessarily brief

Briefly necessary.

Some Days

Some days I feel like my proper self:  noble, proud, and good.

Some days I am the lion in winter, solitary and strong.

Some days I am the tiger of the Lord, leaping to defend the right.

Some days I bear the avenging sword against callousness and cruelty.

Some days I am a warrior, quick to right a wrong and speak the truth.

Some days I need no help from anyone and bear my burden lightly.

Some days I just don't have the heart to try.

Some days I cannot bear to look beyond my own front door.

Some days I want to stay in bed and curl up there a long, long while.

Some days my heart is drained and empty, like a crumpled paper cup.

Some days I feel so horny I would take the first thing in pants.

Some days I feel so lonely I would kiss a stranger's hand for just a smile.

Some days the one makes the other that much worse:  and vice versa.

Some days I want to be some other man, almost anyone would do.

Some days I am ashamed of being so unmanned:

Ashamed of naked need and empty depths, and of wanting to be loved.

Some days I do not believe in possibility.  Or spring.  Or love.

Some days are best endured without thinking any thoughts.

Without feeling much at all.  If you can manage that.

Which some days I simply can't.

Do you know what I mean?

The Movie That My Parents Made

They met and married in law school:  love at first sight, a whirlwind romance, a romantic elopement.  Today would have been their 63rd anniversary.

Requiescant in pacem.

Older now than they were then
gazing at their youthful faces
strong and confident, unafraid
of all that life would bring
and throw against them, not
knowing then how awful and
how wrong it all would end.

Older now than they were then
struck by their youthful beauty
remembering, barely, their
unlined faces and the quick
movements of their bodies when
I was just a child and did not know
how wrong it all would end.

Older now than they were then
enough in fact to be the parent
of either one, stretching out
a warning hand, I call to them
Look out, turn back, do not proceed
into that dark night, you do not know
how wrong, so wrong, it all will end.

Older now than they were then
the single fruit of that mad cleaving
only I am left to grieve their story
and I alone foresee the plot will
wind and twist about like mangled
sheets and strangle every hope
and know how wrong it all will end.

Older now than they were then
mourning the untroubled faces
the black ringlets, the red curls
that tangled softly once on
pillowed dreams, but grew
like tendrils in a nightmare land
of bile and blood where love
sweet love would end so wrong.

Stop. Go back. Do not do this thing.
Love is not all. Courage is not enough.
Youth will not last, nor tenderness.
Please turn that car around
before you cross the fateful border,
go back into your separate lives,
for love’s own sake. My phantom cry
falls voiceless on their unhearing ears.

So on and on the story goes,
nothing now can stop the denouement,
the weeping end, the fade to black.
All must be what it must be. And I
step out into the glare of lights
and cameras, the action of forgiveness
playing out the sequel to their story
which must not end so wrong.

Jack O'Lantern

What was it like, growing fat and lopsided, a homely thing
there in the warm, dark earth, leaved over and hardly noticed?

Only a pumpkin, you said to yourself, and sighed,
earthbound, tethered by a restraining vine,
wistfully admiring the tall apple trees,
the high, bright cherry boughs
dancing in the sky,
the glinting fruits and nimble berries,
all so sought-after, all so prized.

But you knew your fate
was never to be loved like that,
never praised and petted,
tenderly handled, highly graded,
stamped with approval,
waxed and polished to a shine,
wrapped in tissue paper,
carried home in exultation,
exclaimed over and delighted in,
savored in merriment, enjoyed in laughter.

You knew you were too heavy, too big, too dull, too low:
At best, to end up part of a pie, half baked or overdone,
the afterthought of a glorious meal, waiting lonely and
untouched at the end of a groaning board.

A humble end, a small purpose.
Not much to speak of.
And so you grew, silent,
Waiting for the knife
To end the wait.
Quiet. Still.
Expecting not.

And yet one day, against all hope,
when pumpkin time was nearly at an end
and you had grown beyond your ripeness,
The hand of the Artist picked you up,
set you high, and with the tenderest knife
in all creation gave you, finally,
a face,
a lovely one,
oh surpassing lovely.
Made you smile, at last,
as you never believed you could.

For once,
Your lowly pumpkin heart
thumped a bright rhythm of joy:
Touched, healed, redeemed,
perfected there at the last,
so unexpected, against all hope.

And that smile lit up the night,
banished darkness, engendered joy.
Delight beamed from you, filled with light;
and delight and exultation glowed back upon you.

For that one lovely, shining moment you were born
and grew and ripened, all unknown, unknowing,
all unaware.

And now your light is spent, your smile
drooping, sagging, melting in decay.
But you return to earth happy,
oh so very very happy:

"I lived and I was loved,
I had a purpose after all,
I gave delight.
I did not sprout in vain,
I had a face, I had a name—

I was Jack o'Lantern."

poem and photo copyright 2008 by russ manley

artwork by the Moon King