Possibly in Your Best Interest

The Kicking of Buckets, and How It is Done

In case a brown recluse spider should come to call on you and with her magical spells weave for you mystic sleep—

In the event that any sharks should smell your yummy blood and render you a permanent fixture of the deep—

Lest some great venerable tree should fall full upon your pointy head and leave you feeling just a little flat—

Or a once-dormant volcano barf its hot majestic load of smoking lava directly onto the brim of your jaunty hat—

Should any untoward or fearsome thing befall you or a tragedy untimely bump you off, I’d feel so sad and even a little guilty somehow

That in my concern for you and to prevent your facing any such future griefs, I feel it’s best that I help you to kick the bucket Now.

That which is Seen

That which is seen by the untrained eye of the casual observer is an older man, an elderly man, perhaps a shell of his former self. Not someone with a lot of use and life adventure left in him. Handsome, perhaps, in his latter years, with this silver hair and these pale clear eyes, with his faintly stooping posture before a window where no single thing that’s new is seen; elegant in his quiet way, and maybe wise. But not more.

What cannot be seen is the forty-two years he spent working for the postal service, learning the business from the bottom up and eventually teaching not just the next generation that would follow him but the next after that as well. There is no way to know at merely a glance that he tended a beautiful garden on Sunday afternoons where he grew too many vegetables for his own table so he shared the rest around the neighborhood. Invisible, too, is the love he keeps alive for his long-dead wife of thirty years, except for the small bouquet of flowers he picks from that garden of his and gives to their son and his wife every Monday because they were her favorite blooms. Yes, the flowers and the kids.

In the plain little vase where those flowers live for the week, there is room for all that can’t be seen in one quick look at the profile of a man who sits and meditates beside a window. Only by taking the time to appreciate the fulness of that humble bunch of flowers and all that they have to tell can anyone really know what to see when looking toward that window’s light. It takes a certain clarity to see what’s right in front of you.

Damaged

Fortresses

Wars build walls

On a foundation of

Corpses–

The evil and

The innocent alike–

And what do the walls

Keep in?

Keep out?

How is it that

Battles can be declared

Won or Lost?

For both sides die,

Both parties always

Somehow

Lose land and goods

And certainly, soul;

Starve in the snow or

Roast in the heat,

All the while watching

The world they knew

Reduced to ugly

Holes and rubble and

Its storied walls replaced

By a fortress that

Is really

Only a new prison

Old Age and Other Natural Predators

I Realize You were Only Doing

What Comes Naturally,

But I have to Scold You, My Pet

I know you only meant to make

A dandy first impression

By killing this whole crowd, but Jake,

Behold my grave expression–

For it is impolite, I think,

And maybe even naughty,

Recruiting everyone in sight

To play the role of Body–

Your nature calls you to the task,

I knew from your first GRRR!–

But some restraint gets less complaint

Than utter massacre.

I thank you that you rout the moles

And rodents by your labors,

Dear Jakey Boy, but next time leave

Your teeth out of the neighbors.

On the upside, the house next door is available now . . .

Getting Singed

Is it my imagination, or is it a little bit hot in here???

Femme Fatale

Barbara is standing by to cut my scruffy hair:

but, say–doesn’t that look a bit like an electric chair?

Look at that pair of scissors–oh, boy howdy, are they sharp!

Will my coiffure just leave me playing sad songs on the harp?

I’d say it’s mighty hot in here–a preview glimpse of Hell,

Or maybe just a purgatory-hint, that hairspray smell–

I’m not so absolutely sure that something here is wrong;

and yet, what’s so darned horrible in leaving hair this long?

Is it sheer paranoia and delusion of myself–

Hey! What’s that creepy science stuff in tubes up on the shelf?

I’m getting awfully shaggy, yes, it’s true–but not a Nut!

(I merely hope it’s nothing but my hair that will get cut!)

Oh, Barbara, I am nervous, so please, kindly, Dear, refrain

from trimming quite so near my throbbing jugular, poor vein.

And if you have to croak me (does this happen very often?),

at least make sure I’m wearing stylish hair there in my coffin.

One way or another, I’ll be a hot number when I come out of here.

Final Residing Place

Residential Issues

The beaver builds a dam-fine house,

The mouse, a hole-in-one,

The moose and goose, while on the loose,

Take shelter in the sun;

The pigeon curls up in her nest;

Raccoon believes his den is best.

It seems that every one abroad

Creates his ideal home,

Yet every head at last, when dead,

Will end up in the loam.

Therefore, I say, enjoy your port,

Your burrow, hovel, cubby, fort,

And be advised that what you’ve prized

Won’t be your utter last resort,

But rather you’ll take company

With all the beasts moved on

To their reward under the sward,

And to the dirt begone!

Dear Me! What was I Thinking When I Wrote That Thing?

Here Lies a Loon

Once upon a tombstone

I read an epitaph

whose sentiments ridiculous

were prone to make me laugh;

the information set thereon

gave me to ridicule

the marker and the makings of

some great exquisite fool;

now lest you think me callous and

a soulless Frankenstein,

you ought to know the coup de grâce:

the epitaph was mine.

Better Off as Compost

 

Snaking Suspicions
Bartholomew’s bones are now buried
In a bag in a box in a berm,
And when he has fully recycled,
He’ll become a new breed of a worm.
In life he was lousy and lurid,
Licentious and lickerish he;
Bartholomew Bogle was wicked
As one creepy creature could be.
So down in the dirt he is digging
New depths better suited his sin,
Alive, quite the snake, let us make no mistake,
Now interred, he’s the same in new skin.
Let Bartholomew go to the devil,
Worming down to the deep for his due,
And at least we can bless in our hearts the good lesson:
I won’t be a Bogle–will you?

Car Crash Bad

I almost crashed the car. While I make no claims of being an outstandingly skillful driver, I do credit myself with being a pretty sensible, legal and even careful one. But I’m not infallible, either. I’m just very glad I happen to be lucky, too.

So my close call was just that, a close call. It would have been my own fault as well, because although I did wait and look all directions and not see any cars coming my way since the one that was was behind something bigger the whole time I scanned that direction, it jolly well was there and it was moving rather quickly. Possibly even faster than was strictly appropriate in that stretch, but I was still the driver that started to turn left at the light directly in front of that oncoming car. Our respective guardian angels were evidently working overtime, because both the other driver and I were able to brake and steer out of the situation fairly swiftly.

A split second’s difference, and our cars could have been demolished, our selves injured or even killed. That accident being technically my fault would have been utterly irrelevant outside of legal terms and in practical terms: both of our lives stood a hair’s-breadth from being forever altered, not to mention the effects on all of the life-dominoes that would inevitably be downed or redirected by that incident. All because of a single mote’s difference.And we two, and all of those around us at the intersection, in the following second or two regrouped and continued just as though nothing had happened at all, if perhaps with a dash of adrenaline pumping.

Isn’t that the way that we live every day, every moment, though? Whether through wickedness or stupidity we go astray, or merely by happenstance or sheer momentary bad luck, we are at risk every instant we’re alive. As a person who copes with exaggerated anxiety (thankfully, mine is treatable), I could easily find excuse in that for any amount of paranoia and become anything from a perpetual pessimist to an emotionally crippled hermit. But besides being impractical, that’s a hideously unappealing plan for existence.

My solution is to keep working on my vigilance as far as paying attention to the details in day-to-day life, hoping that others are doing the same and we’re all generally watching out for each other, too, and assuming that my good luck, guardian angels and/or serendipitous circumstances will always tip in my favor. Beyond that, knowing that I can’t control any such things, I know it’s best to just turn off the switch, to let go. I even like to think I can be on the lookout for more excuses to be delighted with life and let the accidents be ones of tripping over unexpected joys. There’s far too much fine and happy stuff in the mix that should not be missed or wasted.

Life, that’s Good.

Depends on Whom You Ask

What’s happening in any given scene? Everyone who answers the question is sure to have his own answer. Point of view is colored and skewed every which way by one’s position at the moment, by the context of experience, by taste and beliefs. Is this a drama? A comedy? Every actor in the event might well give you a different answer.

The other day when I was hearing a delightfully humorous arrangement of the old western song ‘Blood on the Saddle’ (arranged by Trent Worthington) I couldn’t resist adding a silly illustration of my own to the music. In my sketch, the horse whose saddle has presumably been bloodied stands still enough now to act as a comfortable perch for a vulture that stopped by to survey the fallen cowboy as a potential buffet–though as the vulture has just landed he’s more interested in a short rest first. The horse, now riderless and not forced to buck, has no particular remaining interest in the fellow who until recently expected him to lug around the cowpoke‘s weight and kick his heels in the rodeo arena for a living. The cowboy, now just a flat stain in the dust of the ring, is of no more interest to the horse and little yet to the buzzard (not ripe enough yet, presumably). In fact, when I cropped the cowboy out of the picture altogether, it struck me that the horse and bird looked pretty peacefully contented just lounging around together.So, whose point of view matters here? The cowboy’s, not so much. Having croaked, he’s now short on both opinions and feelings, so we’ll leave him out of the equation. The bronc, of course, has got to be somewhat relieved at the current situation; while he did participate in the squashing of the aforementioned rider, it’s a pretty safe bet that having the guy pile on his back and goad him to buck was hardly the horse’s idea in the first place, so he can hardly be blamed for, well, bucking the buckaroo off into the dirt. Falling over the fallen fellow, I feel it’s safe to say, wasn’t the horse’s idea either, but just a natural consequence of being thrashed around unwillingly in a dirt arena for someone else’s amusement. Fictional or not, this poor horse deserves a break after all he’s been through.

The buzzard, on the other hand, is just a passing freeloader. Of course, that’s what vultures are designed by nature to be and do: the cleanup crew following food-related disasters. Some days, the sacrificial mammals are less human than in this instance, but regardless of the source, nice dead things are made to be Vulture Chow. And the upshot of the dining experience is that the buzzards will leave the scene a much spiffier one than when they arrived on it. Seems to me that this vulture, too, deserves his moment of happy contemplation and repose before hopping down to dine. I’m guessing, then, that his view of the whole scene is rather–if you’ll pardon the expression–sanguine. Unlikely he’d care how the meal arrived at his ‘table’ so long as it arrived. He sits on his equine throne and surveys what, to a carnivorous bird, is a royal feast indeed.

And what of me, the observer and, partly, inventor of this scenario? How am I to respond to it? I bring my own baggage to the occasion. I’m not a lifelong fan of vintage Western songs, having come to appreciate them as a piece of Americana and folk music culture later in life but still from the remove of something like an anthropological observer. This song itself has had a number of covers from the period-traditional to playful takes like Mr. Worthington’s above-mentioned arrangement, and each iteration adds new aspects to the folklore of the story, tingeing it further with tragedy or humor, history or fiction. The story of a cowboy riding a bucking bronco until thrown and crushed by the horse is swiftly told but can grow and change with each retelling. Do I feel sorry for the cowboy? Insofar as I get involved in the lives, loves and losses of fictional characters (and I do), I will admit his story has its sorrows. It’s arguably a tragedy in the classical sense, since it was through his own choices and actions and the consequences thereof–one could even conceivably see his fall as a direct result of hubris–but death of anything other than comfortable old age still strikes most of us humanoids as just plain sad.

I guess you can tell from my earlier remarks that my sympathies lie more with the horse in this equation. He was put into an untenable situation and responded in true horse fashion to the best of his ability. Too bad for the cowboy that horse logic says the correct response to being strapped into bucking gear is to buck, and that, as hard as you possibly can. The horse in this tale got lucky and knocked that unwelcome irritant off his back. Tough luck for the irritant. It really is all about perspective when it comes to assessing the situation. What it boils down to for me is a recognition that being the cowboy may appear more exciting and impressive, but sometimes it’s better to be the horse.Who knows? I might even root for being the buzzard: none of the hassle, all of the free booty. Say, I might be a vulture already! And I’m okay with that. Stop by and find an already made idea for a drawing? Why, sure. I am a shameless scavenger. But I prefer the term ‘artist’, if you please. And all you others are free to agree or disagree, just as you wish.