The Brilliant Ground

The body lurches forward
post-impact
flame attacked
defeated 
and falling
tower to ground

Kings hold court
in a pointed sky 
Barons of graceless report
ponder indignities
in their self-centric cause

Flame thrower, 
abandon fate
take not thy servitude
into hellish repose; Nor
hold the caucus tongue
cut from bloody mouths
wrenched from fast, hard voices
tunnel down

There is
a mother’s love
held in a gentle carry
We will walk there together
kicking clouds into swirls
the yoke in decay
dark tower to brilliant ground

Journey to Avalon

Walk, don’t run
feel the warm sun on your uplifted face
the salt breeze on the beach
a cunning temptress
this one-life Goddess

Water dampened skin
remember the wet?
we float above the bottom
where the dark feeders lie
one toe tracing Wyeth’s sigh

Absolution wave
rolling across ancient sand
washing up anew
the perceived stain removed
then prayed for

the spray is underneath
and inside, above
wearing trinkets 
holding breath against chest
with nails, there is no exhale

the rock rolls away
carried by another wave
revealing an empty cave 
full of miracle and martyrs
and overgrown gardens

Salvation

we are
blown by a window wind
a hundred kites
intertwined
falling, failing, finding
fair pastures
memories
for sale 
discount racks
at
Salvation Army

Passion Psalm

you can drive me 
down the road
to all 
your empty places, the light
of my love 
will 
be there.

you can drag me 
down
to the darkest 
depths 
of your despair, 
the light
of my love 
will 
shine there.

you can fly me 
down
to the deepest tunnel 
in your soul, 
the light of 
my love 
will 
shine through

you can tear me down 
until
I’m worthless to be owned, 
the light of my love
falls
on 
you

you can pull me
to the under
                          ground
Tell me not make 
a sound, the light 
of my love will 
                     be 
                          there

you can
tell me I will never find
all 
the blackness in your mind, 
the light of my love will 
shine there!

I will wrap you ‘round my finger 
never let you go
hold you in
where hearts melt all the winter snow
you’re everyone I dream of
in every world below
If it feels like heaven,
then heaven never 
leave us alone.

Painting by Jim Smeltz

Within Sight of the Rocks

Does it take a lot to kill a man? 
or just a well-placed scratch?
I wonder about the blood; Fascinated
by its air-soaked color, by its loss and rebirth-
gone/replaced/gone 
toilet bowl red
Filled with clean water from the tank
all is better again

Fissures break worlds, cleave them in two
I am over here, my dead future there with you
Will you walk up my street, firm and resolute yet pass me by?
Are you the warning flare in my empty, aging sky?
Remove my dirty water from your tank
should all be refreshed again

On a rocky ridge bullets spray lines across the dirt
searching for soft tissue to subvert.
who will die, who will hurt
who will you take to your church
toilet bowl red and
reborn again

The Ballerina Cat and the Funny Hat People - Chapter One

Once upon a time there was a really cool cat. Most of the other cats in the neighborhood thought he was an overly dramatic, egotistical, extremely neurotic pain in the Kominsky. But he wasn't all those things. At least, not at the same time. But he was hyper-active and could fire his behavior into the world like a big, modern machine gun. If a cat wasn't paying close attention, it could all melt together- a real Kominsky moment. Yet he was cool. His name was Nikolast. He wants you to remember that.

Nikolast didn't bother with many of the finer details of life. He discovered at a very young age that excellence was not measured by how well you performed something you loved. Excellence was measured by how well you performed something other people wanted for you, or from you. Passion was for idiots- losers with no hope of success. Nikolast wanted success. His mommy, Ms. Lovely, told him so every day. "Niko, if you study hard and choose your career wisely, one day you will be be a huge success."

But Nikolast also wanted to create new sounds, explore new plummets, and boldly go where no cat had gone before. Throughout Kitten High School, Nikolast excelled at his passionate interests and barely noticed his technical requirements. Yeah, yeah, stalk the birdie, wait, wait, pounce, kill. Whatever.

When he was a kitten, Nikolast wrote a beautiful cat melody. It went like this: "Mwar, mwar, moew, moew, meoo, moee, meowie, meow shmooey shmoo." I don't know if humans can understand how incredible and amazing this feat truly was. But you would expect cats to understand.

"Son, we don't meow like that. We meow simple melodies that humans can understand like 'meow' which means 'I would like a massage now', or 'meow meow' which means 'you should have fed me a half hour ago.' We don't want to teach the humans our language. If they discover we are as smart as they are, they will quickly declare war upon us and wipe us out. We simply do not have the skills with our paws to fire weapons back at them. Besides, we live in the United States, a free country. They believe in first strike nuclear determent. Very few cats survived Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Now embrace your freedom and do as you're told."

Nikolast listened to his father, but all he really heard was "complacency" and "conformity" and "sizzle" and a few meows that may have meant, "I would like more catnip" If he was so free, why couldn't he be free to sing sparkling cat melodies? He vowed to be different. If he could not change the world, then he would not be changed by the world either.

At this point in the story, you are probably thinking, oh I know where this is headed- Nikolast is going to become a great singer, become known all over the world, and change the world for the better. He may even be invited to write an editorial in The New York Times about Africa and all the jazz cats living in Ghana. People will 'ooo' and 'ahh' at him every time he speaks.

Perhaps you are thinking- Oh I know where this is going- Nikolast is going to become a great singer and dancer, known all over the world, make millions of kitty dollars, become isolated and destroyed by his fame, addicted to drugs and alcohol, chased by paparazzi, and stalked by fancats (also called fanaticats) who are obsessed with wearing his fur as a coat. Eventually, he will slide into a drug-induced stupor and die of an overdose of sleeping pills. Wow. You really have a vivid imagination. Go write your own story.

Perhaps, like me, you are asking yourself, "Hey! Where are the funny hat people? Exactly. They're not here yet. This is a story with plot development.

After swearing to never to be changed by society, Nikolast promptly forgot his promise. He graduated from Kitten High with great passions and average grades. He enrolled in Catalist Community College. Even though his family was poor, the government had established an excellent loan program.

By this time, Niko's mother convinced him to be a success as a lawyer. Nikolast took some lawyering classes. He learned that many lawyers are sly like foxes, and can stalk a defendant like a cat, but most were sharks. He didn't want to be the only cat in a room full of sharks.

Then he decided to become a success as a Doctor. Nikolast took some doctoring classes. One day, he went to the teaching laboratory to study anatomy. There, pinned to the surgery table, was a dead cat. Niko ran for the exit. There was no way he was going to cut open a dead cat.

Next, Nikolast tried engineering. He sat through many classes about engineering. Nikolast thought the subjects were very boring. Mostly, it semed that engineers were trying to find ways to make money by not allowing other smart people to design stuff. One day he asked his professor what it was that distinguished engineers from other intellectuals. "We have a Professional seal!", his teacher replied. No wonder bridges fall into the river, Nikolast thought.

One day, Nikolast was walking past a room full of female cats in tights and tutus They were balancing their paws on a railing and staring at themselves in the mirror. Now this was something interesting! The next day, Nikolast changed his college major to ballet. It was the first of many, many mistakes Nikolast would make in his life. And it made his father and mother very angry.

"Son, your mother and I are very angry," said his father, Nicodemis. "You will have to choose another major or we will end all support for your college."

Nikolast sighed.

"Dad, this isn't 'The Dead Poets Society'. You aren't paying for my education, the government is, through a loan program at a participating bank. And I have to pay the loan back. Even if the very large, nationally known bank would fold up one day like a tent at a Jesus revival, even if the Government were 100 trillion dollars in debt- issuing furloughs and I.O.U.'s to its employees and borrowing billions of dollars from China, even if the economy collapsed like a huge blimp on fire and the only jobs available were at Cat Burger, I still have to pay back this loan, and at 6 and a 1/2 percent interest. Now if you don't mind, I will choose whatever major I want, unless you are offering to pay back my loan for me." Nikolast glared at his father, claws extended.

"You will make a beautiful ballerina, my boy." Nicodemis patted is son on the head. "Oh my, look at the time. Gotta get home before the humans lock the front door! Bye son!"

And so Nikolast, a calico cat yearning to be cool, began ballerina classes.

The Ballerina Cat and the Funny Hat People -Chapter Two

Trevor Trevalin loved to fish. Not far from his mountain cottage, a rocky stream ran full with native trout. When he was a young boy, his father took him fishing every Wednesday. They would toss their lines into the rocky stream, at the sharp bend just below the Rumble’s dam. They wouldn’t speak a word, not until a fish was fighting on the line, then Joe Trevalin would utter a single phrase, “got one” and his dutiful son would reply, “uhuh”. Once the trout was landed, a short conversation would ensue, of which there were four possible variations: “She’s a keeper,” said Dad. “Uhuh,” replied Trevor. “She’s a youngun,” said Dad. “Toss ‘er back.” replied Trevor. “She’s a fattie girl,” said Dad. “Trout for dinner!” exclaimed Trevor. “She’s a pretty one,” said Dad. “Sure is!” laughed Trevor.

Trevor’s mom died when he was three years old. He didn’t remember her much, except for her framed picture on the mantle of their fireplace, maybe the memory of a soft snuggle or two, and the sound of soft singing, way back in his brain in a place he could hardly find anymore. Every year on her birthday, Joe Trevalin placed a single white lily on the mantle, below her bright smile and sparkling eyes. Trevor grew up with mom in the living room, keeping watch over her men, from her special place on the mantle, and inside her husband’s heart.

One time, when he was six or seven, Trevor asked his dad, “How did Mommy die?” Joe looked down at his curious son. Trevor witnessed a sad face of immeasurable depth, the perfect reflection of a broken heart. “She got sick,” Trevor’s father quickly looked away, hoping to hide his sorrow from his young son. “Why didn’t the doctor save her?” Trevor asked. He knew the doctor made him feel better when he was sick. “Doctors can’t save everyone, Trevor. Now let’s go fishing. I have a new spinner I want to try out on those pretty girls.”

As they grabbed their fishing gear and walked down the dirt driveway, Trevor wondered if he would get sick one day, like his mommy. But he didn’t ask his father about that. He never wanted to see that sad face again. Soon, he was running ahead, chasing chipmunks across the rocks, and casting lines in silent harmony with his dad. There they would spend the day, chasing fattie girls and pretty ones, dancing in the filtered sunlight of red oak and swamp maple. There beneath the surface, in a flash of spinning lures, serenity beckoned.

A Dying Wind at Rock Hill Camp

On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight.
-Scout Oath (or Promise)

The entrance to the 450-Acre campground is partially hidden on the crest of a hill along State Route 739 in Dingmans Township, County of Pike, Pennsylvania. We first arrived here in 2006, hired by a New York developer to conduct soils testing for a proposed 180 lot subdivision. After unlocking the main gate, we drove in on an old gravel lane- muddied in the low spots, eroded on the steeper slopes, crowded by branches, large boulders, and overwhelming silence.

We journeyed for almost a mile before we reached the camp buildings. A few were boarded up, but many were wide open to the summer wanderer, the squatter, the young lovers, the boisterous teenagers, and profit scavengers.

Here was an invitation to all trespassers: Explore here to ease your boredom of life. We have abandoned this camp. Kick down the doors, smash the windows, our oath has no residual force. Be irreverent, immorally crooked, enjoy the pleasure of your contempt. We have left this community behind. It is hidden and unclean. We have too many camps and too few scouts. We must turn a hard ground into a revenue stream. Let it fall, let it flow.

Remnants of childhood memories lay scattered around the buildings, like trash, like Rome in ruins. We drove on, passing by outhouses, sleeping sheds, and empty fields of baseball and rifles. The dirt and gravel lane ended on top of a small plateau. From here, we looked out over a most beautiful majesty. We had found the lake.

On the subdivision maps, wetland biologists identify it as a "Glacial Bog". Upon these waters young boys once fished, swam, camped, and watched innumerable falling stars trace fine lines in reflection across dark waters.

Inside the dilapidated guard tower, lifeguards wrote their names in permanent ink- as if that alone would guarantee serenity forever. But land can die as youth fades. When there are no more scouts sent to explore, the campgrounds will decay, they will die.

Then the vultures descend and pick clean more than just the bones of man's construction, but all Nature that stands pristine before the rotting cabins. The Scouts have gone away and the woodlands are lost without them.

The woodlands are lost.

We hear the land's lament with every test hole we dig, with every gallon of water we pour. We know the sound of bulldozers, we are intimate with macadam roads, we nod approval at fence-wrapped detention basins, we follow trucks of concrete and block, we listen to rock and roll radios of the house-framers, we chuckle at the slick-talk of the macabre Realtors. The economy wants all of this- banker's greed, builder's profit, home owner's dream, built on the foundation of a natural destruction. All roads lead to the glacial bog.

The woodlands gasp for breath, branches reach for the sky, in search of light, in search of voice, of defiance. This is Rock Hill Boy Scout Campground, where the laughter of a thousand young Jersey boys dance in the prescinded wind. Their child-ghosts sit around campfire stones, telling old tales of honor, reverence, respect, and community. Their voices are carried high on burning embers of our own youthful memories. This is Rock Hill Estates and we are the vultures descended.

Rukie is Free!!!!!.....(for now)

We are very happy to report that Rukie Paputchi has been freed from prison and reunited with her family in Sciota, PA. There are many legal challenges ahead but with the assistance of determined friends, family, public opinion, some clever and pugnacious lawyering, local, regional, and national attention she has received and with the political guidance of U.S. Sen. Bob Casey, D-Pa, Rukie was released from PIke County prison.

For more about this please read today's Pocono Record article.

We wish Zack, Rukie, and their two children all the blessings of love in their reunion. The fight to bring U.S. citizenship to these two wonderful Americans will continue!

The End of Wanting Things

I think it started with the cell phone. Maybe not the practice of not wanting things, but the realization that it as time to stop wanting. My cell phone broke and Waterbunny brought me a new one. My old one was a black, stubby Nokia phone that flipped open. It was a sturdy, useful phone- mostly because I learned how to make it useful.

The new phone was a sleek Samsumg red phone with lots of bells and whistles. But the buttons worked different and I had little patience for learning a new phone. An added irritation was a volume button on the side that I was constantly bumping during phone calls. The phone wasn't working for me.

Then I remembered that Sweetie Angel had a Nokia just like mine. I proposed a simm card switch and she ended up with the Samsung and I ended up with the same old Nokia phone. I am still using it today. The realization had hit. I didn't want more bells or whistles or cell phone internet or blackberries or tunes or television or movies. I just wanted a telephone that worked.

It spread to other things. A wall-mounted wide screen TV would be nice, But I can see the picture just fine on the 27 inch television I bought a few years ago. I know I needed a new truck that could do everything my work required. If that wasn't the case, I would buy an old, cheap truck and drive it into the ground. Again and again I would do this. I don't need things anymore.

I love to play guitar. I met a musician awhile back who was a guitar collector of sorts. He knew every guitar ever made and each guitar's worth. His collection of guitars was impressive and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. He would play at the bar with a Taylor guitar or a Martin D-38, and we would all salivate. He was an OK guitarist too, but nothing special.

Meanwhile, a good friend, recognized as one of the best progressive metal guitarists in the industry, sits in his recording studio, cradling a mid-priced guitar and making musical journeys that most only dream about. He doesn't need things, he needs music.

Even the computer I own is getting old and stubborn and could use replacement. I downloaded some virtual reality program earlier this week and was eager to play the game. When I tried to load it, an error screen popped up- insufficient video driver for the program. Ten years ago, I would have ran to the nearest computer store, pulled out a charge card, and upgraded my machine to match the game. This time I just smiled and closed the program. I don't need new things.

It all sounds so foolish on so many levels. We have been conditioned, through the pervasive and persuasive presence of television to want things. Just prior to the Academy Award show this year, there was a BMW commercial. There are many, so many of us who have never been able to afford that luxury. BMW is a status symbol we think we need. But we don't need new things.

Is the American dream to one day become successful enough buy the luxury car, live in the luxury home, and live the luxury life? That dream is the wrong dream. There has to be an end to wanting things. There should be a different American dream to believe in.

To build a better world for our children, to promote peace and harmony between cultures, to be a living example to those around us- that is the American dream I want to believe in. To live our lives with grace, honor, and dignity and to share our vision of freedom with others- that is the American dream I want to believe in. The words aren't empty if you believe in their meaning. We must end our wanting of things and begin the wanting of something more from within ourselves.

Can we fulfill such a dream? Will it require the restructuring of our capitalistic society? How do we get to the end of wanting things and keep our democracy strong? I wish I knew. Let's just see where the dream takes us. I'm ready.

Welcome the Wind~~~~~

It's blowin' up a gale outside tonight. A strong gust blew our recyclable container across the deck, scattering empty cans of Coke zero and bottles (also empty) of Corona Extra. I thought the cat knocked something over-shooed her down the hallway. Sorry kitty.

I ran outside in my tee shirt and jeans and into a driving wind and a temperature of 10 degrees. I was outside less than 2 minutes but had to be rubbed warm by the girls. I bet Barak Obama doesn't have these problems.

Water Bunny hates the wind. I remember when she lived in Texas. One day, a tornado approached her town. We watched it together on the doppler radar-she in her tiny apartment in Fort worth and me in my safe (or so I thought) Pennsylvania house. I felt helpless to protect her. She felt the same way. I suppose that's how everyone feels when the warning sirens go off and the Devil arrives. Whenever tornadoes are predicted, I say a prayer for those who are in its path. Afterwards, I say another prayer for those who were in its path.

Mother Nature has some powerful weapons: wind, water, quakes, rain, snow, floods, heat, sun, cold, ice. Every day someone, somewhere is a victim to her natural whims. No wonder whole nations prayed to Gods of Earth and Sky. Now we watch the weather channel before going to church. And the wind drives our prayers up to heaven and our Coke bottles down the street.

Oh, it's blowin' hard tonight, the house shakes and the roof groans, and the world outside seems larger than it should- so violent, so unforgiving. Yet we trust enough, we believe just enough and settle in for the long night's sleep. Where just outside our warm, wooden walls, Hell is chasing profanities to the top of a wild sky.