Mind Gardens

Shave It

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

The Inn of The Sierra Nevada Night

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.

One Thin Dime

Hey buddy,
can you spare a dime?
I'm sort of, temporarily,
a poet without a rhyme.

I gotta hunch you understand.
I can see it in your face. I'm
think'n you're my kinda man,
a real gift to the human race.

I just want you to know,
this ain't my style every day.
I've had my good times, but
lately they ain't come my way.

Did I say a dime? I ain't thinkin'
too clear. I shoulda said a buck
or a five spot'd be even better
considerin' the size of my bad luck.

I see you're still listenin' to me.
That's more than most of 'em do.
I can't be sure, but I think
it says a lot about you.

I did say a fiver. Ain't that right?
My mind ain't what it used to be.
Course if you're a little flush today,
a twenty'd almost make a man of me.

But if you ain't got it, that's okay.
Don't worry none. That's life, you know,
just keeps goin' the way it will,
good times come and good times go.

Well, you sure are quiet, I'll say that.
Me rattlin' on and you ain't said a word.
Ain't moved an inch or blinked an eye.
Makes me wonder what you've heard.

Okay, well — tell you what, maybe
you got problems bigger'n mine.
You never know. I've seen it before.
So I think I'll give you a dime.

It's the last one I got or I'd give you more.
But sometimes a dime's as good as a buck,
specially when a man gives all he's got.
They say it can change everyone's luck.

Here it is, one thin dime. It ain't brand new,
been passed all around and lost all its shine.
But I got a feelin' somethin' good's goin' on
—bigger and better than one thin dime.

Rage On

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

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.

Are You?

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.”

I'm Not Dead Yet

I'm tired of damn near everything. I can't remember the last time I was really excited—about anything. I mean I literally cannot remember the last time. That's pathetic. No, maybe that's the wrong word. Pathetic would be the right word if I were young because getting excited when we're young is a core emotion and function; there is lots of discovery going on and that can and should be exciting. But I'm not young, I am old. I'm past the male life expectancy number in the U.S.A., so that's old. Oh, I'm still curious about some things, big and small, like what in the hell is this all about—who are we, what are we, where are we, why are we. I'm still not satisfied or convinced by anything I have read or heard so far and I have read most of the important stuff and talked with and listened to a lot of apparently smart people who say they have the answers. But for whatever reasons, I am still as unconvinced as ever. So I am still thinking about those things. And I am still curious and fascinated with what goes on—the complexity of nature, the idiosyncratic behaviors of men, mice, all the rest, including the accomplishments of humans in their inexorable march toward … whatever, which as you should have noticed takes us back to the big questions. Think circular.

But curiosity and fascination don't replace excitement. It's better than nothing, I admit. So it is something. Years ago when I was young I read a quote by an ancient Roman or Greek comedian. I don't remember which. He said he was depressed because all the jokes had already been told, that there was nothing new for him to say. He said that about 2000 years ago. Of course it can be argued that all things are new to each generation and that maybe he was not the most creative guy or maybe he was just a lousy comedian. But maybe he was making a larger point. Maybe he was making an existential statement or observation. We'll probably never know but it doesn't matter because it doesn't change anything. The questions we ask now are the same questions that humans have been asking for, perhaps, as long as we have been here. You see where this has taken me? There is no forethought here; I am just writing this as it comes to me. It's a “thoughts-to-paper” thing.

It should be obvious to you (Of course I have no idea if anyone will ever read this or if they do, who they are—who you are.) by now that I miss excitement in my life, the kind of excitement that at one time really got my juices flowing. It may not be the same kind of excitement that gets you pumped and eager for more; we each have our own set of interests. So just imagine if whatever excites you now—stuff that you eagerly look forward to—were to become mundane, even boring. Like I said, if you are young, that might be pathetic.

Well, I can tell you, for this old reprobate, the only thing that shifts it a little distance from the proximity of pathetic is the subtle process of getting old. This stuff doesn't happen in a startling flash in time. There is no wow thing—no “Holy crap! What happened?" – moment; at least not for me. It was an insidious, inexorable, sneaky kind of thing. There were a series of displaced moments over a period of years when I felt—at times, with sadness—that something was duller, less purposeful, disturbingly absent. The youthful emotion of excitement was dying.

I know, there are those in my generation who insist that they wake up with a zest for life. I believe some of them—not all but some. Some have different social and family lives than I or have had different life challenges. Those things can sometimes make a difference. Then too we are all wired differently. Nothing new there. For full disclosure I will duly note that most people I know think I have the demeanor and outlook of someone much younger than I am. I hear it often enough to convince me that they're not stroking me. So what's the deal? What's going on? It's simple; it's all about me and how I feel and think about myself. That's what I am writing about—me. That is except for all the others who may share my experience. Not inadvertently, I am also writing about them. It's personal, singular, a simple exposition on one's current life experience—nothing original, nor uncommon.

What's that? Is there anything at all that could, would excite me? Glad you asked because I almost forgot something. If I knew that tomorrow, or sometime very soon, I was going to fly again, I mean at the controls of an airplane—that would excite me. I might even feel that core excitement again if I had a license and knew that I could fly almost anytime I want to! Is that possible? Yes, it is at least possible.

So forget everything I just wrote except for the last two paragraphs. I'm not dead yet.
Copyright 2012 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved

Quick Change Artist

Note: This was written for a writing competition. The rules required that the story begins with this sentence: "I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast." and that it should be about 750 words in length. It is a true story.

I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast. It's freezing out here! The quicker I get these smelly clothes off and get my clean ones on, the sooner Sally will let me into the nice warm kitchen. I can smell the dinner cooking and I can't wait to eat it. It smells like meatloaf. I love her meatloaf! Man, it's cold! I'm shaking all over! The thermometer in the chicken house said 10 degrees. Okay, gotta concentrate: shoes and pants are off, two more buttons and the shirt's off. Come on fingers, stop shaking, just two more buttons. That's it—now put the clean pants and shirt on and go in! I left all the smelly clothes on the back porch and went into the kitchen.

I did that bone-chilling exercise every ten weeks during my Junior year in high school many years ago. And believe it or not—the freezing change-of-clothes experience not withstanding—I have very warm memories of that year. I was living with my sister Sally and her husband Mark in a small country town in Maryland. Mark raised six thousand broiler chickens and sold them about every ten weeks when they were ready for market. Then a new brood came in—thousands of little chicks—and it started all over again. I went to the chicken house, which was four big rooms, every day after school to water and feed them. Sometimes I had to carry 50 pound sacks of feed up to the second floor rooms. Then there were different mixes of feed depending on the age of the chickens and I had to mix in some special medicines now and then so we didn't get an epidemic of some kind of chicken disease. So I was careful to do everything right.

But before I could do much of anything, each new brood of little chicks had to get used to me first because they frightened easily and wouldn't let just anyone take care of them. One of the tricks Mark taught me was to whistle every time I entered one of the rooms—not just any whistle but a soft, low, soothing kind of sound. If they heard someone coming and didn't know who it was they all ran, frantically, to a corner and bunched up together, which was not good because some could have been smothered to death—especially when they were still small chicks. So as I approached each room I began my soft little whistle to let them know not to worry, that it was me. It worked like a charm. In fact it worked so well that when I walked into the room they didn't even throw me a sideways glance, let alone a “Hi Bobby, it's nice to see you.”

Now about those smelly clothes that I had to change really fast before I froze to death. Like I said, Mark sold the chickens when they were ready for market, which, if everything went right, was in about ten weeks. At that time, a few big trucks would arrive to get the chickens. Well, after the trucks left Mark and I had the job of cleaning the chicken house to get ready for the next arrivals and that, I can tell you without hesitation, was not anyone's favorite kind of work. Ten weeks of droppings from six thousand chickens left an eight inch thick layer of some of the most acrid of smelly stuff ever imagined on the floors of all four rooms. That is a helluva lot of chicken shit! Within minutes of shoveling into it, our hair, nostrils, skin, and clothes, it seemed, would not, could not, ever be redeemed. It was quite impressive, actually.

So Sally made a rule—no, more like a law. On those clean-out-the-chicken-house-days, when we came home we had to take off our unwelcome, amazingly pungent clothes on the outside, unheated back porch and change into a fresh set before we were allowed to enter the house. And there they would remain until she had a chance to wash them—however many times it took—and until they passed her particular smell test at which time they may or may not be wearable in her house once more. Who could blame her and, anyway, she was doing us all a favor.

Interestingly, all these years later as I write this little story, for some reason I cannot recapture that special smell. All the other memories are alive and well but that odor just may be lost to me forever and that is just fine.

A Day At The Park

They were an ordinary group of people. Nothing stood out

to make you think there was anything different or odd about

them—except for what took place. No need to tell you where

it happened—what country or town. That's not important

and has no bearing on the matter. They were mostly men

with a few women among them.

One of the men said, “Did you hear the news, God is dead.”

Another man said, “What? What news? You mean someone

told you that?” The first man said, “It was on television,

on the news. They announced it. They said that God is dead.”

“That's ridiculous.” the second guy said. “They wouldn't

announce such a thing.” Yet another man said, “Of course

they wouldn't. How would anyone know such a thing anyway?

It's absurd.” The first man said, “Well I was wide awake

and I wasn't drunk and I know what I heard. The TV guy said

'God is dead.'

The group tightened. Everyone seemed suddenly interested.

They had never talked about such a disturbing thing as this before.

This had nothing to do with the weather or how someone got

ripped off at some store or how someone wasn't talking to

someone or other topics that protected them from deep think.

A woman said, “Don't pay any attention to him. He's just trying

to annoy everyone. You know how he is.” The first man said,

“What did you mean by that? You think I have nothing better to do

than make up things like this? I'm telling you it was announced

on TV. He said 'God is dead.'

I should at least tell you they were at a park with a very large

pond full of geese and ducks. It was a beautiful summer day.

You need to know this because while they were talking the

sky abruptly changed. It just went from sunny and clear to

dark, windy, and scary—the geese and ducks took off all at once

as though they all had the same thought simultaneously.

Someone said, “What the hell's going on?” Another said, “Jesus!”

They headed for a couple of picnic tables under some trees.

A woman said, “It's just a passing thunder storm. It'll be over

as fast as it started.” A man asked, “Anyway, how can anyone prove

that God is dead?” Someone said, “The same way you can prove

that He's alive.” A woman said, “That's crazy!” They all fell silent.

The storm passed and the sun came out but for some reason the

geese and ducks didn't return. A woman said, “I have to go.”

She headed for her car. A man said, “Yeah.” Another man said,

“I'm tired.” They all got up from the picnic tables and left.

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.