Mind Gardens

Pre-assembled

We're pre-assembled, is what I think,

by Gods who had too much to drink.

We couldn't have done worse, I submit,

with a do-it-yourself kit.

Relevance

I'm looking for relevance. Nothing new there, lately.
My pulse, the whoosh of the blood, tells me I'm here, physically.
It's the “then what” question that's gotten hard to answer.

Existence sans purpose is like a train ride to nowhere—
taking an interminable journey for no reason and with no
destination.

The fickle winds of youth provide fits of relevance—carry us
on the eddies and whirls of life toward the next undisclosed moment
—toward at least something—often with great expectations.

No pulse-checking when hours are full, absent of despair,
when we're needed and have important things to do, even tomorrow.
But Empty Hours and Desperate Hours build gaudy neon signs to advertise and
incite my discontent—plunder my stash of purposes.

Empty Hours and Desperate Hours are twins with different aspects.
One vacates our allotted time—simply removes us from the hunt.
The other feigns nothing, skips all guile, tells us who we're not,
asks us why we're here, and yawns at its sedition.

I hear the drumbeat from my neighbor's party and wonder
why I'm not there. Would I be relevant if I were?

Purpose in youth is built in, privileged—a rudimentary function
of organic nature—if left undiminished by diminished others.
But youth is self indulgent by design; cannot anticipate what
it cannot imagine—cannot prepare us for the consequences
of unheeded self neglect—for the Twins' neon sign.

The Twins don't cut deals—just remind us that nothing's a given.

A call from my progeny to see if I am still alive is a game changer,

an unplanned visit a bewitching relevancy enhancer! To talk about

anything with them turns off the cheeky sign for awhile.

Ah, is that the author of these words!

I felt relevant then, when they needed me—when I needed them
for a purpose greater than the next breath of air. 32 years until
the second one hit 18—countless more, as it were, if and
whenever they needed me. It's a habit of core relevancy
that hooks us—undisputed, a commitment to nurture, protect,
teach, prepare—a natural addiction. It's about them.

And then ... as in a dream unfolding ...

Our roster of siblings and friends gets short. In unguarded
moments we reach for the phone to call someone who will not,
cannot answer—who hasn't had a phone number for …
how long now?

In line at the super market I realize I don't know a single celebrity
on the magazine covers. I never read them anyway but I once knew
their names, knew they lived in my time, which meant I lived in theirs.

Temporary! That's the word I neglected—should have embraced

so the Twins couldn't ambush me ... challenge me with what,

of course, must be.

Dear Rose

I bought an old desk.

It was antique.

Inside, a letter,

yellowed and dry,

perhaps left
for me to justify?

It said,

“Dear Rose,

I love you so.

It broke my heart

to see you go.”

That's all there was –

not one word more.

I put it back

and closed the drawer.

Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

Rabbit And Frog

Frog was lazily sitting at the edge of the pond thinking about the good life he had. It was his favorite spot on land. I say on land because he had many favorite spots and some of them were in the pond itself. But this spot was just right for a warm spring day because it was carpeted with the softest moss he had ever found. It was so soft and cushiony that along with the deliciously warm spring sun he felt so contented that he was falling asleep. But when his eyes were about half closed he heard a small squeaky voice say, "I'm a jumper."

It was Rabbit.

Now if Rabbit's voice had been louder and stronger, Frog might have been alarmed enough to have instantly jumped into the pond. That's what frogs do when they are alarmed. But when he heard those words, “I'm a jumper.” spoken so lightly, for a second or two he thought he was dreaming. But then he heard some more words.

“Did you hear me, Frog? I said I'm a jumper.”

Well, he thought, “Whoever or whatever it is, it don't sound threatenin” So he made a couple of small, quick turns to see where the words were coming from and found himself looking into the eyes of a bundle of brown and white fur.

“Yer a rabbit ain't ya?” he asked.

“Of course I am and I said I am a jumper.”

"Me too." said Frog

"Yes I know" replied Rabbit "But, you see, I'm a jumper AND a thumper!"

"Well now you may be a jumper and a thumper, but you AIN'T no croaker, wich-a-course I am" said Frog proudly.

"Oh, I make noises alright" said Rabbit.

"Noises! You call them dainty little squeaks noises? Why I can't even think that quiet", said Frog with a great deal of emphasis.

"At least I don't keep the whole neighborhood up all night when everyone is trying to get some sleep. Why those croaks of yours are a menace to one's health and well being." declared Rabbit.

"Let me tell ya, Rabbit, there's times I pend on them croaks for my health and well bein'. Matter a fac, I make some of the sweetest croaks on the pond. Jes ask the lady frogs, they'll sure nuff vouch fer it. Course you wouldn't know nothin bout that cuz you're jes too dainty fer that kinda frog stuff. Darned if I can figur out how you and Mrs Rabbit get on wit things. One of them great puzzlin mistries of life, I spect."

"Well now, you do talk on a ways, don't you?” said Rabbit. “Anyway, I should also point out that I am soft and cuddly, unlike you of course. Oh yes, and Mrs Rabbit likes me very much this way."

"Well ain't this jest gettin as cute an perty as one a them little flies on the tip of my tongue. Course I don't get a real good look at them nervous little critters cause they's in my belly for I know what I done."

"That's disgusting, Frog. Primitive's more like it. Why there's another thing I can put on my list of attributes. I'm evolved. I don't eat other living creatures. I'm a Vegan!"

"A what?"

"A Vegan, Frog. Vegans eat only vegetarian things, things that don't have thoughts and feelings like living animals do. My, you do have a lot to learn."

"Well Rabbit, speakin bout thinkin' an feelin' and how veggie stuff don't do none of it, I spose you mite jes lern a few things from that perty lily pad I was settin' on and talkin wit tuther day. In fac she bout push me rite off in ta du water; said I was hurtin her and she's bout to yell out. But den I dun spose that'd work out none fer you cuz I dun reckon Rabbit cin talk wit lily pads like Frog can."

Well, that was almost more than Rabbit could process with any degree of equanimity. His nose began to twitch at a remarkably rapid rate even for a rabbit and after he had thumped twenty or thirty times in rapid succession, he did a back flip and almost landed on Frog. Finally, with great effort and concentration and with his very best you-listen-to-me face, he looked directly at Frog and said, "My dear Frog, your ignorance is exceeded only by your dishonesty. Any fool knows that lily pads don't talk. And even though you are apparently quite ignorant, I suspect that even you know that.”

“That so?” asked Frog. But without waiting for an answer he said, “If I knowed that I'd a spent more time croaken than conversin with that lily pad that don't talk. Been wastin my time, is that what yer tellin me, Rabbit? Course now I do have a serious problem. How you spose' I should tell Lily she don't talk without gettin' her all upset?”

Well, Rabbit's nose looked like it was having some kind of a catastrophic breakdown. It was now twitching so fast one had to wonder if he could get control of it ever again! Then his whole body began to shiver and quiver and shake. It was a truly worrisome site to behold. But finally he managed to say, “Frog, you are incorrigible! Of course you do not have a serious problem. And if you don't know it then I cannot begin to tell you how pitiful and hopeless you are. Why would you worry about hurting Lily's feelings? No. Wait! I didn't mean to call her—I mean it—Lily! Now you have got me so upset I'm starting to sound like you. I meant to say, why would you worry about the feelings of some mindless plant? Plants do not talk! Lily pads do not talk! That is factual. That's it! That's all I'm going to say about it and I don't want to hear anymore of your nonsense. And if anyone is wasting time, it's me talking to the dumbest creature I have ever known. Now why don't you just jump into the pond and go bother some one else with your silly Frog talk.”

Rabbit had really gotten himself worked up this time. It was worse than the last time if you can even imagine that. Every last part of him was in motion. All his parts were moving so rapidly that one had to seriously wonder if they wouldn't fly apart in all directions at any moment. It was so worrisome that even Frog looked concerned. So Frog said simply, “Spose I'll take yer vice, Rabbit. Spose that's the bes thing to do considerin yer condishun.”

At that, Frog reared back a little, then pushed off with his big strong rear legs and jumped into the pond leaving Rabbit shaking and quivering and twitching at the edge. Within seconds Frog emerged from the water and climbed up onto a pretty emerald green lily pad.

Now even though it appeared that Rabbit had decisively dismissed Frog the odd thing was that he couldn't seem to take his eyes off this audacious creature—the very one that had managed so quickly to frazzle every rational nerve in his soft and cuddly little body. For the life of him, he couldn't look away or move away, which I think you will agree, would have been the wise thing to do at that point.

Instead, he just stayed fixed in that same spot in his sorry condition as he watched and heard Frog say, “Lily, if ya'd jes let me set here for a spell, I'd be most 'bliged. I been conversin wit Rabbit an he tell me you don't talk. So's I'm a bit sturbed an need to rest a spell. What's that ya say, Lily? He mus be purty dumb cuz yer talkin to me right now? Well now ain't that the truth but the poor fella jes don't wanta cept it. What's that, Lily? Is he a Vegan? Well now, ain't you the smart one! Thas zactly wut he told me! I ain't hurtin ya none am I? Well, thank ya, Lily, you jes tell me if I do and I'll jump right off.”

Readjust

You can't hide here and you can't hide there,
cause' life will find you everywhere.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
take a deep breath and readjust.

It's not all good and it's not about bad.
So don't get sad and don't get mad.
Over the river and into the trees;
if you want some honey, follow the bees.

Throw the dice and flap your wings
lest you miss some very cool things.
Use your wits and take some care,
be the tortoise and the hare.

You have the cards so play your hand.
Build some castles in the sand.
It's what you think that makes you you.
Above all else, to yourself be true.

Copyright 2011 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

A Momentary Vision

I saw a pregnant lady
smiling widely at a baby
that was not hers.
It was just a brief encounter,
a momentary vision amidst
the great panoply of time.
Though I had seen it all before
this gave me so much more.
It was a dazzling expression
of something quite sublime.

Copyright 2011 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

Pilots Are Different

Pilots are different. Think about it: They get into man-made heavier-than-air machines with wings and steer them all around the big skies, up where only birds used to go. Some say it's unnatural, but it's glorious if you're wired that way.

The ones who are really hard wired are like human Jonathan Seagulls; they do all kinds of marvelous things with their flying machines. They loop and roll and dive and climb and whatever else they can imagine to do. They are aerobatic pilots and their inventory of maneuvers has names like Immelmann, Chandelle, Cuban Eight, Hammerhead, Snap Roll, and Pugachev's Cobra. They push their bodies and minds and spirits to the edge of reason and often they do it with great big-ass grins on their faces. You might even hear a few loud joyous whoops if you are bold enough and lucky enough to be up there with them. These Jonathan Seagulls are risk takers for sure but they are not foolish daredevils. It's not a death wish that compels them on but rather a “Full-Life” wish.

All good pilots are never masters but are always students. They respect the sky like sailors and surfers respect the sea. They study the sky—the air— and their machines like a surgeon studies the human body and his implements. They are committed to learning and to honing their skills. Words and concepts like lift and drag and thrust and ground effect are as familiar to them as sitting down and standing up are to others.

They study the weather. Along with so many other things, they read clouds like some read labels on a can. Clouds tell them things—important things they must know if they want to fly like a bird. Pilots look up more than other people do.

Some, like Mozart to music, are born to it. They are naturals. They can feel the subtle messages of the airplane and the sky—the winds and the currents—in their fingertips and the pressures on their bodies. They know what is happening and why and they know what they can do, cannot do, or must do. They know these things all at once. They are as close to Jonathan as a human can get.

In some special way, they are at home up there.

Dedication: This little piece about pilots is dedicated to Bruce Watson, the man who taught me how to fly when I was a nineteen year old cadet in the U.S. Air Force. He was an exceptional flight instructor and he is good man. He is also the epitome of what I described above and an Aviator in the truest sense. I should add that he is now 88 years young and still flying.

Copyright 2010 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

The Green Eye-talian Hills

He was just standin there,

didn't know enough to hide.

I'm just like him, I'm thinkin;

just on the other side.

Saw him as clear as I see you.

That's how damn close I was!

I thought, what happens now

depends on what he does.

Damn, he's as young as me!

... can't be one day more,

and here we are both stuck

in this stinkin hellish war!

Hey kraut, I just kept thinkin,

“There's still time to get away.

You could have a good long life

… unless you turn my way.”

He coulda been my friend

in a different place and time.

But now the awful truth is;

it's his life ... or mine.

He was just gazin at the sunset,

drinkin all God's beauty in,

all lifted up and glowin

like a pretty church-book hymn.

Dear Jesus, what's he doin'

standin there like that so calm?

Can't he hear them big tanks movin

and the blasts of them big bombs?

You ain't on no vacation

in these green eye-talian hills.

You're an enemy German soldier

who I damn well swore to kill.

Man, can't you feel me here

just a stone throw to your right?

I'm lyin in this soft green grass

and I have you in my sites!

I've just had too much of killin

and don't wanta do one more.

So show your back and go

or I must add you to my score.

Do somethin and do it now.

Turn left and walk them feet away

cause I'll sure as hell shoot you

if you choose to look my way!

No! Stop! Turn left, not right

or you're gonna find me here!

Man, don't point that thing at me

... our lives are much too dear.

Where Guns and Lilies Grow

Guns and lilies on fields of honor grow
where souls of men collide
when duty and honor call the charge
and courage marks the stride.

Against the intent and cause
of dangerous profligate men
our good and brave go forth
to defeat their evil ends.

It is our brothers and our sons, we call –
our nephews and our friends.
These dear ones to us all,
we always choose to send.

From youthful dreams we snatch them up
and teach them to kill or die,
to endure horrors we shall never know
after we have said goodbye.

Yes, honor can be found on the fields
where guns and lilies grow,
when our boys, now men,
learn things we can never know.

Yet, are we merely left to dream of them,
to pray for them, the boys we send to war?
Can we not some day, some way, the reason
or the wisdom find to finally say no more?

Copyright 2009 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

The Longest Dream

This is the longest dream I can recall.
It’s the main feature. The shorter ones inside
this one are the extra features – you know, like
they had in theaters back in the old days.

I wonder if I’m in your dream or you in mine?
Or? We know less than a little about these things,
or next to nothing, or to be more scrupulous:
nothing—though we don’t come clean too often.

Did my children dream of me first or vice versa?
We learn so much from each other, you see …
that is, when we pay attention, which isn’t something
we spend enough time doing ... in the big dream, anyway.

I am writing about this dream while I am in it.
It’s that kind of dream. Dreams imply an awake state,
or a higher thought-full place. That’s where things get
sticky … or tricky, depending on how you look at it.
Copyright 2007 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

Ghosts

Where have they gone?

Ghost people.

Some who said hello

and kissed me

and said “I love you.”

– and said goodbye

... or did I, or did we?

and some died or perhaps

were never really here.

Yet, they seemed as real

as you, my dear,

before the losses and

the moribund sense

of how they felt

and smelled and,

oh God yes,

how they loved,

... made love.

Before the insidious

dissipation of all that was

vital and extraordinary

and ... adored,

before our hearts

began to die.

Will you become

a ghost, my dear?

A Double Ex-Husband

A monologue
By Robert Dixon McKinley

This was written to be performed by any actor who chose it for a showcase performance at a "blackbox" theater in New York City.

The thing is: I’ve been married twice. “So what?” you ask. Okay, here’s the problem and it’s a biggy: You see, if they have the slightest interest in you, women want to know this statistic real quick after they meet you. They want to know so they ask. They don’t hesitate for a cosmic nanosecond. If they’re single and looking for a husband and you look and sound like you might meet their criteria—you know, after you have met their "looks" test and they have decided you've done a fairly good job of dressing yourself and that you could fit into their social group and all that—they home right in on you. They start right at the top of their Marriage Candidate Questionnaire. Understand? They’re shopping for a husband and they don’t want to waste their time on some lump who doesn’t know the difference between “Yes, that dress makes you look fat.” and “Wow, you look great!” Let’s be clear here: When a woman asks, “Honey, does this dress make me look fat?” in the history of the world there can be found no fool-proof answer to that question, and don’t kid yourself; at that moment in time you are the fool. OK? Face it; your options are severely limited. But the second answer is a helluva lot better than the first—no matter what you’re thinking. Trust me on this.

But all that comes later. First, they put you on the stand and cross-examine you. “Are you married?” They just ask it and you are expected to answer with a yes or no and if you say no you’re expected to answer the next question automatically without it actually being asked. (pause) You know what that question is? (without waiting for an answer) It is: “Have you ever been married?” (pause)

This is serious business for them. They’re not screwing around and if you want the conversation to continue with anything more than boilerplate small talk, anything even slightly above banal, you’d better be real careful at this point. (pause) Okay, so the question is “Have you ever been married?” My friends, it gets real sticky here because you’re liking what you see and you want to get to know her better, but you’re not exactly wife hunting yet because you’re gun shy and you’re feeling as vulnerable as a deer in the headlights of an eighteen wheeler barreling down on it at seventy miles an hour. You probably look like it too. But you already struck out twice and you don’t know if you can trust your judgment anymore and that is the scariest thing of all.

Marriage? It hasn’t worked out for you. The first time neither one of you was very good at it, and the second time you got fooled. You really got fooled. She put on a good show for awhile—too long, it ate up a lot of years—but in the end she wasn’t who she said she was; not even close. While you grew up and learned what really matters in this strange world, she didn’t. She didn’t have a clue. You worked your ass off and tried your damnedest to be a good husband and a good father to your kids but she didn’t appreciate the value of all that.

So there you are; you’ve learned a lot and you’re a pretty solid guy where it counts, but you’re lonely and you’re thinking maybe, just maybe it’s time to get back in the game, so now you’re sitting there with this very attractive woman who you’re beginning to like and who just asked you, “Are you married?” And you know what the drill is and you’re beginning to squirm and twist inside because you know that you will have to tell her you’re a two-time loser and you’re thinking “Okay, just get up and leave before she formally banishes you to wherever double-ex-husbands get sent. Go back into your shell and forget this whole crazy idea that an attractive solid woman would see that you have real value now, that you’re a better man than you have ever been and that she would actually see that and would dismiss your dismal record as nothing of consequence. Just forget it and move on, now.” (pause)

But you don’t. You just sit there like a condemned criminal strapped into an electric chair waiting for her to hit the switch exactly one heartbeat after you utter your final last words, which of course are, “I’ve been married twice.” (long pause) Then you say it; you just say it and you hear the words echo a hundred times all around the room. "I've been married twice." "I've been married twice." "I've been married twice." "I've been married ..." and then there is silence and then ... and then (long pause) she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, that must have been so hard for you.” And I said, “You know, it really was. But I learned a lot in my second marriage and that’s a good thing.” And she said, “I know what you mean.” And I said, “Really? You do?” And … well … it was good, real good. Still is. (pause) (looks at audience with genuinely warm, happy smile while giving a “Hey, you never know shrug" and says …) Hey, you never know.

(The End)

Copyright 2007 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

Eternally Unforgivable

Some wounds hate to be healed.

Some fester like obstinate,

petulant children standing firm

on some principle, reasonable or not.

Some worsen in time and become

permanent sores on a crippled

psyche—the victim of acts of aggression

that were so abusive, so socially odious

(their malicious nature so pure)

that they are eternally unforgivable.

How different lights the night

How different lights the night with stars

when we together call it ours.

It all seems to dance and sparkle more

than, I am sure, it ever did before!

Hmm ...

At first I thought she must be kidding.

Her tongue is firmly planted in her cheek!

This otherwise (apparently) self-sufficient woman,

wife to one, mother of many, mistress of repartee

and fearless actress, cannot possibly write such airy

words of despair, sincerely! But then, there it was,

another message of despondency and jealousy, and,

yes, it’s true, YET ANOTHER! Well, what is a man

of heartfelt sensitivity to do but write a simple

(though inadequate) ode to this dear broken woman.

And so this man of heartfelt sensitivity wrote …

An Ode To This Dear Broken Woman

How sad! This poor life-weary soul lives not,

lest she lives with him in her life! How delicate and

tenuous is the thread of life that binds her to his

alleged strength and meaning, to all things good and

whole in which she seeks comfort in her vacant days

and sees her through one more dark night. Despair, I ask

now that you neglect defense against this ardent wish

that somehow, some way, this dear soul will get a life!

And hmm ... again for good measure.

Yes, my tongue is firmly planted in my cheek.

Fields Of Hope

They advance across flowered fields of hope,
crushing the lovely, quivering, petals of life.
Compelled by their ancestral holy-warrior blood,
as ancient as the devil’s purpose, they follow
their grotesquely evil marching orders – their
narrow intention to make us theirs – or should that fail,
to murder us. It is their holy song of death.

But do not quake in their presence nor be enticed by
their glory words. For inside their tortured vision of hate
lay the seeds of their own destruction. Without sentient,
caring hearts, they cannot know us or measure our strength.
Feel strong in their presence for they advance toward
their inevitable defeat as they march toward the
seductive, open arms of death. For greater dreams than theirs
shall meet and defeat them on these lovely, innocent fields of hope
and they shall be turned away once more by greater warriors,
our courageous defenders of all free people, everywhere.

Copyright 2007 Robert McKinley
All rights reserved

She Left Her Marker

She left her scent in my nostrils.

It stuck there like an erotic marker

—a cloned sister siren—insisting, beckoning,

drawing me, enthralling me; not allowing

me for a sane moment to forget her.

On A Dixieland Bus - 1950

Little Girl: Mommy?

Mother: Yes?

Little Girl: Why did you just tell someone they can’t sit with us?

Mother: Because she is a black woman and black people are not allowed to sit with white people.

Little Girl: She’s black?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: It’s the color thing again?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: Is color that important?

Mother: Sometimes.

Little Girl: The color of people is important?

Mother: Yes.

Little Girl: Do black people talk differently?

Mother: Sometimes.

Little Girl: Uncle Alfred talks differently. Is he black?

Mother: Good heavens, no.

Little Girl: Are black people bad?

Mother: No more questions please.

Little Girl: Johnny Russell is bad but he’s not black, right? I mean because he sits on the bus with us sometimes.

Mother: That’s enough.

Little Girl: Mommy?

Mother: Yes?

Little Girl: It’s really hard being blind.

Mother: I know dear.

Little Girl: How will I know when someone is black?

Mother: Don’t worry, dear, I’ll teach you.

His Name Should Be On The Wall

I’m watching television—a Vietnam War documentary. It’s about the cruelty, the insanity of war. People weep. A wife of an American Vietnam War veteran says her husband’s name is not on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. She says it should be. She says he went into their garage one day and shot himself and left her a note that said, “I love you, sweetheart, but I can’t take the flashbacks anymore.” So his name should be on the wall, she says. I agree and I sit here and I weep.

Sweet Street Nights

Lyric for an unwritten song ...

Sweet street nights turn off your dark lights

and sing along with me.

Slick city boys hang up your little toys

and sing this song with me.

You’re so way cool, a modern day fool

just lookin’ to break the next rule.

Sweet street nights turn off you’re dark lights

and dance this dance with me.

It’s about clubers and drugers and all kinds of lovers

who think this stuff is all free.

They’re windin’ and grindin’, slippin’ and slidin’

all the time lookin’ but ain’t never findin’.

Hot city girls straighten your pretty curls

and spray on a costume for me.

Show me your assets and tell me your story

while you write this song with me.

It’s about clubers and drugers and all kinds of lovers

who think this stuff is all free.

why loneliness?

you ask,

why loneliness?

i ask,

why mosquitoes?

or love?

or humans?

are they all the same question?

Have You Seen Me?

Have you seen me? Anywhere?

she asked.

What?

I’ve lost myself and I’m hoping

you know where I am.

Well, you’re here.

You know, right here. Now.

Not really, she said. It’s not me.

It doesn’t feel like me. You know?

I’m sorry.

Thank you ... but will that help?

Where do you guess

you lost yourself?

I’ve been in love …

And?

… and he left.

Oh, I see.

Yes.

Perhaps if you look elsewhere.

Where?

Well ...

I walk around the lake

I walk around the lake to wake up my cells and strengthen my heart and all the other good things walking does. Yet the walk always gives more than that. Just to be inside the unconditioned air is a natural pleasure too often missing from my common day and to socialize with the sights and sounds of nature as both observer and participant is as perfect as it gets when allowed to simply happen.

I wonder if the geese and ducks and gulls walk and paddle and fly for their health? Of course, I think, mostly to accomplish their survival needs, like eating—and that’s for their health. But sometimes they seem to enjoy flying for the fun of it, the joy of it—and to practice. The gulls are especially good flyers—show-offs sometimes, impressive to me, an admiring (envious?) flyer of machines. I often wonder if any of them wonder about us humans.

It's winter. Bare-limbed trees (except the evergreens), display their singularly different, sometimes intricate, silhouettes, their limb structures so clearly displayed against the still-lit, quiet eventide sky, reveal their heritage—their family characteristics.

I am awed by the diversity and beauty of it all even in this small park. Then there is the ever-fascinating activity of people watching ... and sometimes meeting. The park is a good place to visit.

Your Release Awaits

Unwittingly, though unerringly,

she lives by her script—the coping tapes,

the survival codes, the ones we write

in childhood to get through each day to the next.

Unchallenged, thus unrevised, her script crafts

her future as predictably as we mark

the movement of the stars.

In her early pubescent days—the heavy-burdened days

of her young and tentative womanhood—she sought

the mother-love she's never had from boys whose

nature-driven bodies sought something else.

These collisions of mismatched wills and wiles,

of offers and compromise—acceptance

of disguised, deceptive, and fleeting fulfillment

—refined and sculpted her nature and fate.

She gave the boys what they wanted. Oddly, to her,

at times she enjoyed giving them what they wanted –

and what they gave to her. But when they were done

she was empty again. She did not feel loved.

Now, in her tightly-bound woman world,

romance (as she knows it) abides ever so briefly

to protect her from the certainty of common life,

the reality of change and loss of which she is

most afraid. It is tricky to manage though.

It is increasingly demanding to keep reality at bay.

The pain of unmet expectations in another

ill-conceived, starry-eyed adventure—

one more self-scripted romantic failure,

is a moment of utter, bitter confirmation

that she is surely unworthy of worthy love.

Yet, loyal to script, each painful encounter is new.

She is caught unaware, fully surprised at this great,

awful, unwanted, unearned suffering

of a kind and measure so very familiar to her

should she dare to give it even a passing

sideways glance for an honest moment or two.

For her denial of authorship, the cost is high.

Unremitting tears well up from deep reservoirs

of longing where love so desperately wants to be.

Oh, dear woman, your release awaits you on the

other side of your sorrow, should you choose

to love yourself ... at last.

We are the arrogant animals

We are the arrogant animals, the out-of-step ones—

the ego-driven, tantrum-throwing destructive ones.

We are the prideful animals and the delusional animals all at once.

While a deer is busy being its noninvasive self, we are busy

invading other humans or defending ourselves from human invaders.

At this moment, as I write, somewhere a lion is busy killing

another animal in order to feed itself and its family

while we are busy composing beautiful music and killing

other humans in order to … I’m sorry, why is it we are

always killing other humans?

Of course the Book says that the first son of man murdered

the second son of man. So what did we expect?

Some among us believe we are the guardians of this planet.

They tell us they know what is best for us all—that they know

what fish should live where, and what grass should grow where,

and which humans should live where, and I suspect that soon

when they "evolve" a little more, they will denounce God for

allowing volcanoes to erupt and they will attempt to prevent

Him from doing any more of His great and diverse mischief.

We have had hundreds of thousands of years to improve—

to modify our violent natures—and we have failed miserably

to do so. Yet because we are the delusional animals,

we don’t really think about things like that too often.

Instead, we imagine ourselves to be a species apart—

a non-animal species of an infinitely superior nature.

As proof we direct each other to consider the wonders

of our truly magnificent deeds and accomplishments.

We enshrine our DaVincis and Einsteins in order

to reassure ourselves that we are the intelligent species,

the evolved species, far removed from the animals.

Of course, as needs be, we fail to earnestly consider

the all-too-human contradictions inherent in our

DaVincis and Einsteins. While we loudly and repeatedly

laud the remarkable accomplishments of these icons

of human superiority, we quietly and easily demote their

other contributions — DaVinci’s advanced weaponry designs

and the first most urgent consequence of Einstein’s e = mc2 —

apocalyptic death and destruction, which proved beyond any doubt

that we are far more efficient killers than all other creatures on this planet.

Yet, in our fleeting moments of unadorned self-appraisal

we wise and superior guardians of the planet are obliged

to accept the unspoiled truth that we can't even make a leaf.

Two Desperadoes

I don’t like pretense and posturing when
I encounter them in others, and when
I sense even a mere hint of either in myself,
I reject them quickly, like swatting away a
venomous insect before it can poison my system.

These two interlopers seem diametrically
opposed to what we most naturally seek,
which I believe is an authentic, honest Self.

Still, I remember the awkward adolescent days
when pretense and posturing often served as
temporary pseudo-Selves useful for trying on
different personalities in the sometimes very unsettling
search for identity. These desperadoes were useful,
especially when one’s Self felt like some kind of elusive,
wispy character playing now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t
head games on a hormone-rattled, stressed out teenager.

It was a relief when I no longer found them useful.

Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley All rights reserved.

Some Goodbyes Are Hard To Do

Some goodbyes are hard to do.
Some are easy — even sought.
My hardest was losing you
and the awful pain it brought.

It has been a very long goodbye,
nor is it almost over yet.
As, you see, I still ask why
in fear I shall too soon forget.

This sad house is not a home
since you left and took your
noises and your scents to be alone
with your promise of evermore.

It is such an unkind building now,
for you still call from hollow rooms
so clearly, if asked, I would vow
I’ll surely see you here again, soon!

Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.

John Offenbacher

John Ofenbacher

played soccer

everyday he could

in his childhood.

Didn't do much else at all

but kick a ball.

Until he met a girl

Named Shirl.

That changed everything,

even made him sing.

He didn't do it well

but he couldn't tell

and Shirl didn't care.

She liked his hair.

They got hitched

and now they're rich

with a little boy Ofenbacher

who plays soccer.

That's all.

I get it.

This piece came to me via a multi-recipient email a few years ago. It had no author’s name attached to it, though of course someone or more than one person wrote it. I did some edits on it, made some revisions, and added to it.

If you pay attention there will come a time in your life when you finally get it, when in the midst of all your fears and insanity you stop dead in your tracks because you hear a voice inside your head cry out — ENOUGH! Or, it just may sneak up on you, tapping away at your mind until you finally stop and listen to the message — ENOUGH!

Enough fighting or moaning or struggling to make some final breakthrough, some clear sharp feel-good, catchall answer to the Great Mystery of Your Life. Like a child quieting down after a blind tantrum, your moans begin to subside, you shudder once or twice, and as though with bleeding bare feet, you have just crunched your way over a field of brittle old complaints, you arrive at the edge of a beautiful open valley. You begin to look at the world through new eyes. This is your awakening. You realize that it's time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change, or for happiness, safety, and security to come galloping over the next horizon. You come to terms with the fact that he is not Prince Charming and you are not Cinderella or that she is not the cheerleader you drooled over in high school and you are not God’s gift to women! In that moment, you understand that in the real world there aren't always fairy tale endings (or beginnings for that matter) and that any "happily ever after" guarantees must begin with you and, in the process, a sense of serenity is born of acceptance. You are beginning to get it!

You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect and that not everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who you are, and that that is OKAY! You learn the importance of caring for and championing yourself and in the process self-approval gives birth to a sense of newfound confidence. You stop complaining and blaming others for the things they did to you (or didn't do for you) and you learn that the only thing you can really count on is change and the unexpected. You learn that people don't always say what they mean or mean what they say, that not everyone will always be there for you, and that it's not always about you. So you learn to stand on your own and to take care of yourself and in the process a sense of safety & security is born of self-reliance.

Then, low and behold, other unheard-of miracles begin to happen. You stop judging and pointing fingers. You begin to accept people as they are and to overlook their shortcomings and human frailties and another birth takes place; a sense of peace & contentment is born of forgiveness. You realize that much of the way you view yourself and the world is a result of the messages and opinions that have been ingrained into your psyche over the years by others. You begin to sift through all the horse-hockey you've been fed about how you should behave, how you should look, what you should weigh, what you should wear, where you should shop, what you should drive, how and where you should live, what you should do for a living, who you should sleep with, who you should marry, what you should expect of a marriage, the importance of having and raising children — and whatever else others think you should do or think or feel. You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view. You begin reassessing and redefining who you are, what you really stand for. You learn the difference between wanting and needing. You begin to discard the doctrines and values you've outgrown or should never have bought into to begin with, and you learn to go with your instincts.

You learn that it is in giving that we receive. You sense the self-fulfilling power of creating and contributing. You stop merely existing as a "consumer" looking for your next fix. You learn that principles such as honesty and integrity are not outdated ideals of a bygone era but are the mortar that holds together the foundation upon which you can build a good life. You understand, cherish, and nourish good friendships. You begin to practice tolerance and acceptance with the undeniable knowledge that you have truly never walked in their shoes and that to judge another says far more about you than them. You decide to not ever form an opinion about another simply because someone else has told you "all about" them. Instead, you realize that you are merely hearing one person’s self-serving words at the expense of another whom you really do not know at all. In the doing of these things, another wonderful thing happens: Your opinion of yourself improves dramatically: You begin to like yourself more. It feels good.

You learn that you don't know everything, it's not your job to save the entire world and that you can't teach a pig to sing (I’m not sure about that one). You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility, the importance of setting boundaries, and learning when to say YES and when to say NO. You learn that the only cross to bear is the one YOU choose to carry — and that martyrs get burned at the stake.

Finally, you learn about love — what love is and is not. You learn that love really is about caring and giving and expecting NOTHING in return. You learn that love is a verb, that it is active and alive and dynamic. You learn that learning about love is not easy and you decide to learn about it, anyway. You learn that loving and liking are not the same thing— that you can actually love someone you don’t like. Yet as hard as it is to learn about love, the process is made easier by its inadvertent by-product— that of loving and liking yourself more.

You learn not to project neediness or irrational feelings onto another person or into a relationship. You learn that you will not be more beautiful, more intelligent, more lovable or important because of the man or woman on your arm or the child you have had. You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would have them be. You stop trying to control people, situations, and outcomes. Instead, you learn to put into practice the new things you have learned. You learn that just as you and others grow and change, so it is with love. You learn that you don't have the right to demand love solely on your terms — just to make you happy. You learn that alone does not mean lonely. You look in the mirror and make peace with the fact that you will never be a size 5 or a perfect 10 or Arnold S. You stop trying to compete with that alien image inside your head, agonizing over how you "stack up."

You come to know that you deserve to be treated with love, kindness, and respect. You are now treating yourself and others that way and you will not accept less from anyone. You get it.

mind stretches

there's a place beyond which

i cannot go where

mind stretches taut,

to Know ...

to pierce the God walls

that entomb the Truth,

the Answer …

or something

more important

and final

celestial mental minders cling to

my thoughts like jealous cats

guarding secret mouse lairs

locking, blocking, stopping

Thought Processes,

forbidding entry to the Fruit

of Final Knowledge on penalty

of ...

something more is intuited

without the thinnest edge

of reason to justify pursuit

nothing cannot exist

sayeth the little mind of man

to its Self in its dream -

or His, or Hers, or theirs, or ...

there is no sense to this

only nagging, fleeting innuendo

teasing my highest faculties,

taunting me to follow, to wonder,

to ponder, to surrender to

... nothing

where nothing lives or dies,

or laughs or cries

wrecked on deadly shoals

off sealess shores

I scratch futilely

on the immutable wall-face

of Forbidden Knowledge

to gain entry,

which never comes

where are the Gods they speak of

when our fears reassemble

our eternal atoms into adversarial

random patterns of chaos?

the illusions of well being

evaporate for one terrifying

moment of truth

and we see ...

if there's a hell, said daddy,

this is it

and at least that's

... something

if it is

but who's got that proof

no one has it

hell or not

not allowed are we

to know anything

... important

Sweet Mary

Sweet Mary had a madman for a boyfriend.

He was crazy like in nuts, mean like in dangerous.

Mary loved him.

Mary was sweet and gentle and soft of voice.

Donald, her boyfriend, was coarse, crude, loud, and evil.

Mary was not naïve.

Dangerous Donald viciously attacked innocent people

and took whatever he wanted from them.

Mary knew.

Donald, night or day, mugged tired, weak old ladies.

He spent their money on booze, drugs, and other women.

Mary thought she could change him.

Dangerous Donny went home to Sweet Mary most days.

To eat, he went, and to sleep. He was less than a creep.

Mary fed him and slept him.

Mary and Donald were young and getting old fast.

Mary had a sense of time. Donald never thought about it.

Mary knew it might run out.

Drugged up Dangerous Donald came home one soft night

and bludgeoned Sweet Mary to death as she slept.

Mary would not have been surprised.

Rite of Passage

It’s hard to love well, again.
Brittle bones of loves lost
litter fields of sorrow,
commanding the heart’s vision,
stifling the souls voice.
With painful consistency
their sad refrains whisper
through restless, endless nights,
reminders of what is no more
and give that awful power
to the emptiness that’s left.
Indifference sought becomes a
prayer of hope for … deliverance.
Oh that with time and effort
and the grace of Happy Gods,
this battered spirit may
reassert its will to life—and
join its Rite of Passage
among the living humans being.

Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.

Make Love To Life

Live lightly with the wind and sun
and the seasons of the earth.
Move softly with the thoughts of life,
the sense of life, the landscapes of life.
Make love to life when love needs a place
to be and see what you have done there.
Steady and straight toward the truth of life
is the way, dear friend. There is no other
path is so honored. When Survival begs
your Soul to hear its Song of Death, trust
that which speaks from within your Heart.
Abide within the house of Love and travel
on the road of Wonder else you miss the
landmarks of your journey, the promise of
your life—whilst you walk among the dead
and dying, blind and dumb to the wondrous
light outside your inner night. Listen closely
to your primal memories, to the lessons of
the ages, the wisdom of the sages. Make love
to life when love needs a place to be
and see what you have done there.

Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.

The Silence

The Silence moves through a boundless sea of manifest energy, its inexorable principle proceeds unfettered always and forever beyond comprehension to be seen by those who see without eyes, hear without ears, touch without hands. It is here, there, outside, inside, nowhere, everywhere. We are in it and of it.

The Silence is without measure. Its reach is beyond all, its grasp complete. Its emptiness is full, its silent voice compelling as it whispers through creation like an omnipresent cantor informing the eternities wherein Gods share Forever stories and shape new worlds from ageless cosmic Stuff!

Listen to it! Be quiet and listen! Be still and You shall hear Your voice among the voices of the Gods. You shall hear the startling, glorious music of the Universe—the eternal One Song. With the Gods, You shall joyously dance the Dance of Eternal Life ... Danse de la vie éternelle.

You shall witness the ineffable Force as you voyage through the infinite dimensions of the Process! Be still and know. Be fastened in Your moment of Truth and know the glory of Your completeness, Your oneness, Your was, is, and shall-be-ness.

Oh, listen, my Dear One, please listen. Without ears to hear nor eyes to see, nor any senses five of Yours, You shall attend the School of Knowledge, of All There Is, Was and Shall Be. Listen to the Silence wherein All shall be proclaimed to You.

Discover Your Self among the rest with which you are One. Listen without listening and all things shall come to You as You wish, in the order of Your wishes. You shall dream the dreams of Gods, witness Their schemes and know the Truth which shall set you free! You shall Create as They created You.

Just be perfectly still ... My Dearest One.

The Oddest Thing Of All

What to make of this
thing we call Life?
Some offer answers from
the Book they say is “God’s”
while others assert and insist
it’s all a matter of random odds.
Perhaps we’re in a dream not ours—
but of the One Complete.
Yet if this be so, I wonder
more at His troubled sleep.
The oddest thing of all is that
I find it odd at all, absent
a memory of ... what?
Another life?
If this is all I’ve known,
what other world could I divine?
What mad notion compels me to
entertain something more sublime?
Then too, perhaps the dream is mine alone
to write and play as I may choose,
with schemes and scenes and lesser
dreams for others to consider thus.
If that, then have I the Gods designed?
Is my self-deception so complete?
Is such genius stuff in me so devised
to lay great Mysteries at my own feet?

Copyright © 2005 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved.