Great varieties of strange and wondrous musings germinate, grow, and mutate midst the hackneyed weed-thoughts in the gardens of my mind.
I went back to visit my yesterdays,
but I couldn’t find me there.
I reached out my hand to an old
love of mine but all I got was air.
I looked for my childhood friends
But didn’t find them anywhere.
Perhaps it was all a dream I had.
Perhaps I was never there.
We manage our memory;
remember what we will
—if we will. We’re careful.
What we did or should have done;
was done to us that we should not
have allowed or could not prevent
—too hurtful, too painful to own,
today, we covertly, deftly, place
in unlit rooms with unmarked doors,
lest they skew the story we
imagine for ourselves.
In scattered moments of brave,
hopeful self inspection we unearth
the broken fragments, guarded memories
—revelations from our past.
We redesign our mosaic of Self,
make space for the recovered pieces,
which of course were always there.
Copyright 2014 Robert D. McKinley
I awoke filled with the knowledge of you. It was not a dream.
I stood alone on a high balcony, which overlooked a great expansive, high-pillared hall. I looked down upon a large milling crowd of elegantly dressed people. At first, I sensed your presence among them … and then I saw you—your exquisitely lovely face, the indescribable natural grace of your movements, your pensive gaze that touched my heart—and something else that I cannot know or say or dream away—an ineffable eternal knowledge that we shared.
I longed to be with you, to look into your eyes, hear your voice, to touch and hold you. I knew at once, profoundly, that I had always loved you and that you had always loved me.
It was not a moment in time for time ceased or was replaced by you. I knew we had been joined forever, beautifully, in a transcendent, eternal truth. I simply knew. Yet I was unable to move or speak.
Oh, dear beautiful soul, how I love and miss you so. You are my missing piece.
You moved, slowly, with those I somehow knew were your friends, toward the far right exit of the great hall. You did not look my way. Not once. I knew you would not, could not. I knew there was a reason for our separation, a reason of great import, though I knew not what it was. Yet I knew we would be together again, though not how or when.
My gaze widened in an attempt to understand where I was—where we were. In that brief moment, time had returned. As the crowd moved slowly out of the great hall I strained to see if you were still there among them, but you were not. You were gone. Had you been there, it would have been impossible to miss you, for we are joined in an intimacy beyond all earthly experience or comprehension.
This is my love letter to you, my dearest one. I cannot know why we are separated in time and space. And why I was able to cross over ever so briefly to witness our love remains a mystery. But if by the same cosmic grace that touched me, you are permitted to read these words, know that any love I have experienced here was an anemic imposter compared to ours.
For now, I can only dream of being reunited with you soon … and forever.
Copyright 2014 Robert D. McKinley
I am one among billions
of fish in the Sea.
I don't know why.
I swim with my kind
and go where they go
… that I do know.
We seek food to eat
and try to not be eaten
by those that would.
We all move as one.
We live to survive.
I don't know why.
I am one among billions
of fish in the Sea
and will be
... until I am not
Copyright 2014 Robert D. McKinleyIt's days' end. At least that's what it should be because it's late and a settled man would call it a day by now. But some days feel like they just want to go on until something gets answered, settled. That's what this day is doing and I know what wants to be settled. I also know that it probably won't be and that I probably won't be able to write about it. The things that matter the most are the hardest things to write about.
This is a big problem for a writer because we convert thoughts and feelings into words and string words into sentences for the sole purpose of saying something meaningful or expressing something in a way that others can relate to—or to sort out something that is not understood well enough yet.
As I said, the things that matter the most are the hardest to write about. So if I don’t write about you, please don’t think it’s because I don’t care enough. It’s because I care so very much.
Copyright 2014 Robert D. McKinley
I’m apt to think the universe
doesn’t give a nod or wink
as we humans claim a New Year
and toast it with a drink.
Galaxies keep on spinning
with their myriad of stars
and nothing seems to change
on Jupiter and Mars.
But it’s not a year in time we mark;
it’s a new chapter in our lives;
a time to think of who we are
and of things we might revise.
It’s a clock of hopes and dreams
on which we count the seconds down
as we anticipate our future
in every village, burg and town.
Within this Great Creation
is a part uniquely ours and
we do the best we can with it
as we wonder at the stars.
Copyright 2014 Robert D. McKinley
Felt touch, almost missed,
feather lands on still water,
soul passing unseen?
She had a garden in the back
beside an aging shed in which
she kept a child's old sled.
She talked about her early lettuce
and her sweet peas and other
thriving things that pleased.
She spoke easily about weather
and what made her garden grow
and how best to weed and hoe.
But never did she care to say
a word about the child's old sled
that hung in the weathered shed.
Til' one day an idle thought said
carelessly, brought quite clearly
a memory felt so deeply ... dearly.
Unconsciously I trust, without
intent, I spoke of winter snow
and how sleighing we would go.
My words, quickly out, quicker than
what great sadness mind could know,
dire pain that near the garden grows.
Turning to me, softly, she spoke,
pruning tool in her right hand
—the saddest face in all the land.
“Tommy, barely five that day we
went to sleigh on Northwind Hill,
a day that Fate would choose to kill.”
“Squealing out with joy, as down he
raced on his new Christmas sled.
Until he hit a tree ... and he was dead.”
Before I could utter a heartfelt word,
she had reached for seeds to sow
where she would help them grow.
Roaring fires of youth burned gloriously,
powerfully bright;
now flicker equivocally, reflectively,
in the waxing night.
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
busy busy talk talk
wordy wordy word stuff
puffy puffy puff brains
smarty smarty smart pants
too much thinky think think
fuzzy fuzzy brain hairs
need shavy shavy shave
with Willy Occam's Razor
Copyright 2013 Robert D. McKinley
I stood on the peak amidst the expanse of the moonlit, starry night, alone with the resplendent glory of the Sierra Nevada, windswept and cold, lungs filling full with exquisitely pure air after the hard climb.
Weakened by the long survival trek, body seeking food, the soul freedom, suddenly I was at home and at peace in the profound beauty of the night.
No window light or human voice or face, or road or sound of sufferings' groan was near or real in this ineffable place of truth. How odd, I thought, that such a place—knowledge of grace—lives, exists while humanity struggles to grin in the cruel grip of its inescapable pain.
Come here, I thought, come here with me now – see what I see, feel what I feel, know what I know in this moment and place. Come in to the hallowed beauty of this night.
But the night told me they must come in their own time, urged me to push on to Freedom Road, to food and water—avoidance of the aggressors.
It gifted me and sent me on my way to learn what I may before my inevitable return home — to the beauty of the night.
For Suzanne
Note: This was an experience I had as a twenty year old Air Force Pilot. I had just finished the two week “Starvation Trek” in the Sierra Nevada mountains that was the first phase of the Air Force Survival School. The second phase was the “Escape and Evasion Exercise.” Our crew of eleven was loaded into a truck at night and driven to an undisclosed location where we were dropped off in pairs. Each pair was given a small crude map and a compass. We were challenged to negotiate about 25 miles of difficult terrain while hitting four partisan (friendly) checkpoints and avoiding the “Aggressors” (the enemy). The objective was “Freedom Road,” which was located at Stead Air Force Base near Reno, Nevada. If we managed to evade the Aggressors and crossed over Freedom Road, we would be free without any further requirements. If we were captured, we would have to endure some very aggressive interrogation and some pretty rough treatment in the “POW” Camp.
The Inn of the Sierra Nevada Night takes place as I and my companion reached the peak of a third or fourth high ridge at about midnight. We had been weakened by the Starvation Trek so we were quite exhausted. In case you’re wondering, we successfully crossed Freedom Road the next day.
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
Rage on, dear ones — to the end,
til’ bones and heart and soul clank
hard—roar loud at Gravesend.
Unleash yourself, make your play,
dance, prance—yack at the storm.
Race headlong in. Abuse the fray.
Do not be gentle with the Fates,
not soft or feckless, nor alarmed
if you throw seven to their eight.
Sprint past what you have not.
Blind men have more than sight,
who rage on with what they've got.
Rage on, dear ones, in each new sun.
The hours watch, beg, and bet you on
as Gods descend to judge who's won.
Today's your day, the next a dream.
Now is where the magic's made,
tomorrow — fickle Future's scheme.
Be brave and bold, denounce your fear.
Mark the prize and then press on.
If you look back, you'll still be here.
Rage on dear ones, with all your heart.
Your race is on — the time is short,
the bell has tolled, it's time to start!
We didn't plant Jane like we did
— do with all our others. We honored
her wish and burned her body into ashes.
It's one thing to know about cremation
as something others do with the leftover,
evacuated evidence of a life once lived—
surely as meaningful as mine ... or yours.
It was quite another to see Jane poured out
of a small unremarkable container onto
the damp, musty, busy forest floor behind
Herbie's house where her beloved cat
was buried. She wanted to be close to
her most loyal companion. I suspect the
sentiment was mutual.
I had known her my entire life. That means
always, from before the beginning of memory
to … when? To the pouring of the ashes?
To the precise end of our last conversation?
To the official moment of her death? – when
I was not there … could not make it in time.
To the end of memory … the end of caring?
When did I stop knowing her? Have I?
Others I've loved have died. We buried them,
put them in airtight containers and put them
in the ground in fields of memories so
we could imagine that somehow they still
existed or would have evidence that they did.
An attempt to mitigate our loss? Disguise Death?
At least there was something left, a marker,
some words chiseled onto a piece of stone
that reassured us that we had loved them,
been loved by them … and it told others.
Jane was eight years older than I, my eldest sister.
That distanced us when we were children.
As I, tentatively, met my fellow kindergartners,
Jane was entering puberty. The distance between
five and thirteen is immense. But the distance
between fifty and fifty-eight is not much at all.
Most of us have been wrenched out of childhood,
shaped and cured by the vagaries of life, by then.
We became close friends, which is a very nice
thing for brothers and sisters. But nothing is free
in this life. That's what my mother told me. "Nothing
is free, Bobby. You'll see. There is a price for everything."
Jane told me that she had always wanted to be a
dancer. It was a childhood dream of hers. She was
in her seventies when she told me that. And she
had other dreams that never came true. All those
years and I never knew these things about my
sister. She wasn't bitter, just accepting, perhaps
resolved. I cried a little inside for the things she
wouldn't allow herself to cry about. Jane didn't
cry easily—even when she was whipped with
the Cat-Of-Nine-Tails. It was about principles.
Jane could be stubborn.
When her son, Billy, poured her ashes onto the
dark, damp ground I thought, "Is that it? Is that
all that is left of my sister? Where are her dreams,
her laughter, her sorrow? She hasn't finished yet!"
Though she said she had. "Where are the myriad
of things of a life lived? Where is the intelligence
I saw in her eyes, the knowledge unique to her?
Where is my dear sister? How can I love her now?
How can she love me?"
Wait, we don't even have a marker! But then markers
don't last forever, either.
Mother was right. Nothing is free in this life
... not even love.
When I was a child my mother taught me
to say a prayer before I went to sleep.
“Now I lay me down to sleep …”
It taught me that my life was fragile,
could be taken away at any moment
and if it happened while I was sleeping
I hoped that God would take my soul
(Me?)
and everything would be just fine—
that was, if He decided to take my soul.
(No one mentioned a guarantee.)
It was instructive and comforting … then.
I've had a lot of questions since “then”
but I have distilled them all into just one:
“Are You?” That's it. It's not complicated.
It's not deep or profound. It is a simple
question, which remains unanswered.
I went to Sunday School. I was a choir boy.
I studied the Bible in a Methodist prep
school. I read the major philosophers—
consulted others; pastors, priests, thinkers.
I thought about and considered it all
carefully and with great diligence.
Some believers told me that God speaks
with them. I asked them how. “Do you hear
His voice?” They said, “Not exactly, I just
know.” They said, “Pray to Him and ask
him to speak to you.” I said that I had, do,
but He does not speak to me. Some told me
to keep trying, praying, and when I told them
I had tried for many years, they said I needed
to have faith. I had heard that all my life.
“You just need to have faith, Bobby.” But, I
wondered; if having faith—belief—will get
God to talk with me, then who, what else
would talk with me if I had enough faith?
Did having faith make God real? Was He
not real before faith? Where was He before
someone believed in Him?
Some said, “It's all in the Book of God,
God's Book. It is all there. You simply need
to believe the words in the Book.” But, I said,
“The Book was written by men who lived
thousands of years ago in a land and in a culture
far different than ours. Is it reasonable to have
faith in these men with whom we have little
in common and about whom we know so little?”
“Well,” they replied, “you see the words are not
theirs, they are the words of God. God spoke to
these men and told them what they should know
and believe and how they must lead their lives.”
“So sayeth the men.” said I.
I asked, “Which is the real Book of God for there
are many.” Each one said, "Mine, the one I believe
in. It is the true Book of God.” My Jewish friends
said that and my Christian friends said that and
my Muslim friends said that and the Rabbis and
Pastors and Imams said that.
I learned that they make war against each other
and slaughter each other to force their beliefs on
each other. That is, except the Jews. Even though
they claimed God first, I learned that they don't
force their beliefs on anyone. They just ask to be
left alone, which hasn't worked out well for them.
Some said their God is a god of love.
I then learned that Jews argue among Jews about
what the words in their Books mean and that
Christians and Muslims argue among themselves
over the intent and meaning in their Books.
I asked, “Was God not perfectly clear when He
told these men what they should know and believe
and do? There seems to be a great deal of confusion
about what God said.” They replied, “God was clear.
The imperfect nature of man is the cause of this
confusion.” “Then how can we trust that the words
in the Book of God are the words of God if they were
written by men and men cannot be relied upon?”
I asked.
Once again, I was reassured by each, “You can trust
my Book. It is the Word of God.”
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved