Writer

REALIZATION

Piety

Obedience

Generations of cultural conformity

My actions motivated by the premise of some life after death

My choices informed by religious doctrines

My thoughts filtered through scriptural lens

Heeding counsel from men speaking for some god

Cracks

Disillusioned

The biases of men revealed to me

I discover incongruities in dogma

My faith falters before the truths of science

I acknowledge that history does not support the fables

I grieve for the sandstone temple crumbling to ruble

Hope

Growth

I build a new foundation with authenticity

From stone quarried out of my heart and soul

Gleaning values from the field within me

These are our tools to sculpt

Chipping away at human weakness

Death

Dust to dust

From primordial soup to earth’s grand diversity

Thumbs, fire, wheel, language, reasoning: my heritage

Art, music, dance, poetry: my legacy

Homo sapiens, a sculpture in progress

I smooth out my rough edge, then step aside.

TO WHAT END

Thick, stone walls, impenetrable.

Capped, overhanging buttresses slotted for a skilled archer’s arrow.

Moat encircled. Single bridge to be drawn against an enemy.

Inner courts. More walls. Towers. Keeps. Wells. Granaries.

To what end?

Domed sanctuaries. Spires dwarfing subservient neighbors.

Transepts, cruciformed, stone symbols of death.

Pillared nave, dimly lit from arched windows of colored glass.

Candles, alters, incense, pomp.

To what end?

Muscled statuary paying homage to gods and myths.

Luminescent paintings, biased chronicles of both truth and fable.

Grand buildings, magnificent architecture, marvels of engineering.

Ancient scrolls, curious artifacts, archeological pursuits.

To what end?

Are we not to observe and learn?

Fortifications meant to alienate.

To protect from or to further advance usurped power?

Religious beliefs carried to extreme.

To encourage pious living or to control the susceptible mind?

Art as shrine, credence to the indefensible.

To uplift aesthetically or to legitimize superstition?

Are we not to observe and learn?

Usurped power is evident, not in fortifications but in governments.

Controlling minds is manifest, not in ornate temples but in cultures and classes.

Superstitions are legitimized, not in carvings but in skewed information.

Fortify the weak.

Worship equality.

Create to lift and edify.

MY DOG, SAM

My dog's named Sam. But is she really mine?

Adopting her or giving her a name

Defines no ownership or right to claim,

But only that our lives are now entwined.

I chose to take upon myself her care,

To feed her, walk her, train her to be good.

I take her to the vet like owners should,

All signs of caring for ones property.

But she is bound to me without a voice,

Which causes me to wonder what she feels.

Accepting me as just her source of meals?

Resenting all the times she is restrained?

Though in the morning seeing me awake

She's quick to nuzzle deep into my arms

And offer me her belly without qualms,

Exchanging rubs and pleasant low-pitched moans.

She follows me from room to room and lays

Down close to me to doze or spy one-eyed.

A sign of love, devotion? Does she find

Some purpose shadowing this grey-haired man?

Her silent staring totally unnerves,

Especially when she pairs it with her chin

Placed stealthily on my bare thigh or shin,

Then adding little high-pitched pleading whines.

Unleashed she ventures far and wide, and runs

With puppy pleasure fetching far flung balls.

Returning, she is slow to hear my calls,

Distracted by each sound and scent and sight.

But when she sees me moving down the hill,

She grabs the ball and sprints to where I walk.

If panting, dripping tongue and eyes could talk,

"A treat is what I’ve earned for my good work!"

When finally I succumb to drooping eyes,

Turn out the light and make my way to bed,

She watches, waits for me to pat the spread,

Leaps up and circles, settles at my feet.

She is not mine to own, nor am I hers,

A symbiotic bond of dog and man.

I nurture life, and love her as I can,

And in return I have a friend, my Sam.

THE BRIDGE

The Bridge. It spanned the rapidly flowing river, arched, solid, and wide; wide enough for many people to walk across at one time, but, as I think back now, I had rarely observed anyone actually traversing the river using that overpass of cobblestones. I had grown up well away from the river, deep in the city of old, traditional homes. My parents never spoke openly of the river, but I was aware that my father worked with some of the other township prefects to guard the bridge and caution those who might venture to leave the city. Occasionally, as I lay in my bed, I would hear the hushed voices of my parents somberly sharing the news of a friend or acquaintance who had been lost to . . . The Bridge.

I am a little disappointed with myself, that as a youth I had no curiosity about it or about the town that could be seen so clearly on the other side of the river. I was a precocious child in other areas, excelling in most school subjects, and I particularly became quite knowledgeable about the architecture and history of my own town. I remember feeling quite a swelling of pride within me that I lived there. Everyone said it was the best town, and the more I explored and read, I came to truly believe that for myself. I couldn’t fathom anyone actually wanting to live anywhere else. Why had it even been built, . . . The Bridge?

Being a zealous young man and recently come of age, I volunteered to be one of the township criers. It was a job earning no small amount of respect from the townsfolk. Criers were stationed at intervals along the river calling to passersby on the opposite bank, motioning for them to come and join us in our idyllic life. It was an education for me to be so close to the river. I had never conversed with an Other-sider before, yet here on the riverbank, despite the expanse of water between us, we seemed to be able to speak with ease, unhindered by the roar of the river. I found each Other-sider to have interesting ideas and new perspectives, especially about our town and the river. Most even showed some curiosity about our life and the strange old buildings we lived and worked in. For a couple of years I worked there on the bank, spending my day pleading with them to cross. Only a few Other-siders responded to my enticement, and they were cheered on by all of us as they made their way easily over . . . The Bridge.

With my duties as a crier fulfilled, I returned my attentions to life in the center of town and moved into a solid, traditional home to enjoy my secluded life. But a storm was brewing. Clouds formed on the horizon and moved slowly but surely into the town. It seemed to hover directly over my roof, pelting the widows relentlessly. The wind increased, bombarding the house. Walls creaked. A window pane shattered on the floor. The door banged open and was ripped from its hinges, almost striking me down. I ran out into the street. How could this be? Other houses seemed untouched by the storm. My neighbors were going about their normal affairs, oblivious to the lightning and thunder that now drove me through the winding lanes of town. I ran, driven by that unrelenting tumult. It seemed to be herding me like an animal to slaughter, unable to turn away from a predestined path to . . . The Bridge.

Seeing it as my only escape, I stumbled across. I found that I had left the storm on the other bank. Sunshine? Clear sky? A few Other-siders noticed I was drenched to the bone, quivering from fear and exhaustion. I was surprised as they quickly gathered me in, wrapped me in a warm blanket, and offered something hot to drink. I was quickly revived, and began to take in my new surroundings. I had seen the unusual buildings from the other side of the river, but now I was awed by their diversity. Some were ornate and multi-colored, others stark, with the sun glistening off the angled, asymetrical surfaces. Metal, brick, glass, tall, rambling, or expansive, they all revealed aesthetic and creative elements new to my eye. Overwhelmed by this visual feast and intent on trying to take it all in, I was slow to register the shouts coming from the other side of . . . The Bridge.

Crowded along the banks of the river were my family, friends, and colleagues who had witnessed my wild sprint across the river. They looked concerned, puzzled that I had, for no apparent reason, dashed away from the security of their beloved community. “Come back. You belong here. What can be gained over there? We love you and will care for you over here.” The worst of the storm had subsided, and in many ways they were right. I knew what life was like over there. It was predictable, comfortable. Turning away from the Other-siders, I started back across. But the cobblestones now seemed to be impeding my way, sharp edges cutting into the leather of my shoes. The arching path began to undulate under my feet, like some unseen force had flipped the other end. A groundswell lifted me up and tossed me into the water raging beneath . . . The Bridge.

“Swim! You must brave the river as your punishment for doubting,” came the barely discernible admonitions from the far side, from my friends who now seemed to give little support or encouragement to me in my plight. The water was frigid, swirling in white angry waves around me. I had always prided myself on my swimming, but this? Never had I felt such fear. Submerged in the roiling rapids, I battled with each stroke, gasping for breath. Now pulled deep into the darkness, then suddenly tossed up on a breaking crest, then twisted and dashed down again. Hours, it seemed like hours that I struggled toward the opposite bank all the while being inextricably pulled downriver, far from . . . The Bridge.

Finally able to grasp hold on the opposite side, I clawed my way up onto the muddy bank and collapsed, exhausted from the strenuous ordeal. It was the hardest thing I had ever endured. I lay there, sputtering, shivering, and barely conscious. Slowly I became aware that it was dusk. Gathering up what little energy I had left, I got to my knees and crawled away from the river, which now seemed to be flowing peacefully. I could see in the distance a figure moving toward me. As he drew closer, I recognized one of the township prefects. “Come, I’ve been assigned to reintegrate you into the community.” Offering no hand or kind word, he turned, and I stumbled along behind him through the growing darkness toward the town and . . . The Bridge.

My former home was in shambles. I was sequestered in a small dormer and required to spend my days in the town library, reading and journaling about the advantages of living in the community. My activities, my writing, even my words were monitored to assess my readiness to return to full citizenship again. At first it was quite therapeutic, and my former enthusiasm for our town began to return. Yet, that glimpse of life over the river still haunted me. Other-siders looked happy, in fact they seemed to be thriving. How could that be? Such traitorous thoughts seemed to overpower my resolve. To my surprise I found that the library did have obscure materials about life over there. The books were well hidden and dust-covered, and I felt guilty sneaking each one in turn off the shelf and stealthily smuggling it back to my carrel. Reading those forbidden words was life-changing. They seemed to unloose shackles that I did not realize had been binding me, to lift blinders from my eyes allowing me to see how myopic my view of life had been. The duplicity was no longer tenable for me. In a burst of passion and resolve, I ran from the library, starling people on the street and upsetting carts of produce. On to the river I ran. Life as it could be was within my sight. With a final burst of energy I pushed my way through the stunned prefects on guard, and jubilantly, with arms raised in victory, loped across . . . The Bridge.

Home for me is now a quiet apartment in a very pleasant neighborhood. I take great joy in the diversity of my new friends and the enlightening conversations we have. I am ashamed that I had ever been so bigoted to have called them Other-siders. I am a better person for being here, more complete, more authentic, and growing in ways I had never imagined possible. I am at peace, content, and fulfilled in this life beyond . . . The Bridge.

SEASONS

“Be nice,” the prudent playground mothers cry,

And teachers, halt the fights with “get along!”

We learned that love and kindness unify

And how it’s worth the work to right a wrong.

Adults lose focus on that basic truth,

Content to move through life with no grand plan.

“Get rich. Forget the values of your youth.

“Advance! Don’t bother with your fellow man.”

The bigger house. The boat. The better life

Begin to lack the luster dreams should have.

We yearn for value past the daily strife,

And seek for worth beyond the Golden Calf.

In years and wisdom richer now we know

That life’s true wealth in faithful friends is found.

We serve, embrace; our love for them we show,

And in the end with joy and peace are crowned.

JOY IN THE JOURNEY

I recall the origin of my journey.

Generations of faith-filled forefathers

Handcarts pushed past prairie graves

Temples, tithes, tests, trials

Repentance or retribution

Celestial sale of souls

Pews, prayers, piety

Pounded pulpits

Silent shame, guilt

Masterful masquerade

Live the letter of the Law

I cherish the inn along the road.

Cast out by kith and kin who should have cared

Succored by the scarred and scorned

Shedding tears on a proffered shoulder

Grieving for the loss of what was

Fearful of the unknown to come

Learning to see reality

Held, heard, hugged

Hope, healing

Breathing free

Embracing grace

I find joy in the adventure.

Tied no longer to Tradition’s tethers

Clear skies and storms enlighten equally

Hard ground beneath my feet

Discovering the essence of my being

Free to fly, flower, or fail

Gathering with other travelers

Sharing, supporting, serving

Grow, give, guard

Peace, passion, joy

Loving life

MY ROSE

I’d watched that rose for weeks out on the vine.

A bud, the hint of red upon her tip

First caught my eye, with tender petals fine

And blushing pink. The morning dew she’d sip.

Each day I’d pause to measure as she bloomed,

And marvel at the gift of wondrous life,

The petals slowly opening, perfumed,

And with the vibrant reds of color rife.

Such glory had that humble vine ne’r seen

As for that week my rose was at her prime.

Enthralled, enriched, I lingered by my queen

Enthroned upon that trellis, halting time.

But petals fade and fall by grand design,

And ‘round my heart the rose’s vines entwine.

BEAUTY OBSCURE

We are enriched by Nature’s grand displays,

A wealth not measured by what money buys.

Her beauty summons us to lift our gaze

And claim the great endowment with our eyes.

Gliss’ning snow weighs down the needled boughs,

Eternal in their green against the blue.

And purple crocuses from sleep arouse,

Beginning Spring’s display of every hue.

But do we search for greater wealth, beyond

The radiant setting sun or twinkling star?

She’s hidden gems in weeds and dying frond

Inviting us to where her loyalists are.

Diverse, unique, and free from culture’s ways,

Those, blessed by Her, and worthy of our praise.

THE HAT STORE

The bell on the door gave a welcoming jingle as I walked into the shop. I’d been aimlessly wandering the streets of my hometown, really not knowing where I was or even how long I’d been gone. All I knew was that I had needed to get out of that house. I had been uncomfortable through the memorial service, and back at the farm the tension in the air had been smothering. But then to be so verbally attacked by my siblings had been too much. Who were they anyway, to think they could judge the depth of my love for Dad?

“You don’t even care about family anymore,” Beth had accused. “If you did, you wouldn’t be in that den of wickedness in California doing who knows what with whomever you fancy that week.”

“Mom is rolling over in her grave, I’m sure, and now Dad . . . ” chimed in my oh-so-pious brother, as if he were the apple of their eye despite being a 20-something still living at home without a job.

Truth was, maybe Mom and Dad were up in heaven looking down disdainfully on me, their wayward son. Though neither of them had ever expressed anything but love for me, now, who knows what they were seeing from that Great Unknown beyond.

Coming back to reality I found myself absentmindedly browsing hats. Hats? I must have wandered into a hat store, and what a hat store! Everything you could imagine and more—hats of every color, size, style, and material. It was like the wardrobe room of a theater—hats of every culture, occupation, time, and character. I’ve always loved hats, but never worn them much. I am, however intrigued by them. Wearing a hat is like taking on a different personality, putting on someone else’s story for a few minutes. And that’s exactly what I needed right now—to escape the present, off to sometime, someplace where I didn’t have to listen to the self-righteous judgment from them . . . or from myself.

I fingered the tassel on an Ottoman soldier’s fez, caressed the fir of a Russian ushanka, and shook the bells on a jester’s floppy Mardi Gras crown. Then I saw it, an old-fashioned engineer’s hat. I was drawn to it like a magnet. It felt good in my hand--sturdy, blue and grey, hickory-striped denim. The crown was gathered at the hatband, allowing for a flat top. It had a large bill to shade the engineer from the sun as he looked at the track ahead. Without even thinking, I put it on . . .

The sound was deafening—metal screeching on metal, steam hissing, men shouting instructions, and clunking boxes on boards. The air was heavy with smoke and humidity, like a huge campfire suddenly extinguished by gallons of water. I’d been wearing a suit and tie for the funeral but now I seemed to be choking. I reached up to my neck and felt a stiffly starched collar. What the heck! As the smoke cleared I had to rub my eyes before I could believe that I was standing just yards away from a huge steam locomotive coming to a lumbering stop.

Where was I? When was I!? Men, women, and children were bustling all around me, some getting out of the passenger cars, others boarding. Husky, sweaty men were shifting cargo or shoveling coal into the hopper behind the engine. With a rusty squeak, a long spout had been swung around over the train. Coming from a huge wooden barrel high in the air, it was now filling the engine’s tank.

I could hardly take it all in.

And then my total concentration was drawn to the engineer. He was cranking wheels and pulling levers, all with the confidence of a man experienced with riding the gargantuan beast.

“Don’t let ‘em short us on the coal this time” he shouted to the fireman, “and don’t ya let that water overflow onto the boiler!” Even though his words seemed harsh, there was a twinkle in his eye and I could sense the loyalty that the fireman had for his boss as he shot back with a grin, “Sure thing, Sam.”

Coincidence? My great-grandfather was an engineer, Samuel Lawrence Gardner.

The broad-chested man climbed down from his high perch in the engine, inspected a coupling on one of the cars, and then turned toward me. With a hearty laugh, he pressed through the crowd like a tank, his eyes right on mine and calling, “There ya are, and wearin’ the hat I gave ya. Ya look just like one o’ my crew ‘cept for the school-boy shirt.”

He put his strong arm around me, pulled me in close to him, and he swept me along as we moved into the station. “What’s Mother sent me for lunch today?” he chided as he grabbed the tin lunch pail that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. “Yur mom’s bread is worth waitin’ for. I been hankerin’ for it all the way here from Cache Junction. And look it here,” as he unwrapped the paper, “a bit o’ left-over breakfast bacon along with some garden tomaters. What a sandwich! Fit for a king.”

He kept eating and talking about the morning’s run, but it was all in the background of my perception. Here I was, with a legend. As kids, we heard the stories over the dinner table, at reunions, and around campfires--Great-grandpa Samuel, the railroad engineer. We’d even visited his home in Utah and decorated his grave.

His grave. Right. He’s one more ancestor probably turning over in his. What are they all doing up there with their white robes and golden harps, or were they trumpets? What are they thinking? What are they thinking about me?

His, “Well, best be gettin’ back to that big metal baby of mine,” brought me back to the present, or whenever. “The run on into Ogden is goin’ to be a scorcher this afternoon.” Then, turning to me, “I really do look forward to your bringin’ me my lunch every day.” He handed me back the pail, and started toward the tracks. But then he stopped and it seemed like the moment was frozen in time. There was no sound from the jostling crowd, no smoky air, no blazing sun. He turned back, and with more love than I have ever seen in anyone’s eyes, he looked deep into mine, took my face into his two big hands, and in a voice that penetrated to the very heart of me, said, “I love you. There is nothin’ that you could ever do to keep me from lovin’ you. And when I get to that big railroad in the sky, I’m a savin’ you a spot on my crew. I’ll be drivin’ that engine for eternity with you at my side, come hell or high water.”

With that he kissed me on the cheek, gave me the biggest bear hug, and turned to go, catching the brim of my hat with his arm. I bent over to pick it up . . .

My head was spinning. I had to catch myself on the display rack, knocking a cowboy hat and derby to the floor beside the striped engineer’s cap. Picking them all up and returning them to their proper pegs, I had to catch a couple of deep, shuddering breaths. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, and I could almost feel his hands still there, and sensed the lingering warmth of his kiss.

The bell jingled again as I left the store. The sky was a bright blue. I heard birds chirping, smelled burgers frying at the diner. I was alive, loved.

I knew where I was. I knew who I was.

I knew where I was going.