Happy Father’s Day

Glad Dad

this very day it’s been about
those many years you called me out
by a that tag without a name
with rules never quite the same

i must admit and i’m truly glad
yet sometimes i was very sad
the years i called my father dad
now it’s this time for me to add

it was easy as you may see
in the game of one two three
to wish the better for me to see
dad is neither simple or free

days were good yet sometimes bad
i still love my kids to call me dad
my special treasure to be had
their father’s name my greatest fame

Look both ways and mind the gaps.

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Poetry: Everybody Has a Mother

52 years ago.

Everybody Has a Mother

I had a mom. And I loved her too.
Then she died, as all mothers do.

Now I have this woman here,
Texas gal and hell-of-a-dear.
Not my mother, no siree,
Nor sister or brother, but oh is she
Mother to the progeny,
who are something
that’s part of me.

She is my lady,
you can see,
love ‘er to bits like a
long-time lover
should.
She’s their mother.
They all love ‘er –
she loves ’em too,
as mothers do.

I love her so,
And likewise them.

Mom o’ my children,
all Texas born.
Now all growed-up
with kin a their own
Tex-bred kids
of one kind or other.

We love ‘em all,
short, fat, skinny and tall.

We love ’em up,
but she Loves them
more than I,
‘cuz that’s what Moms
can do. Love them all
a lot, you see,
more than you and more ‘n me.

Daughter, sis, and cuzin to some,
Wife to me, a very special one
Good sport of a kind and sort,
Mom to three,
Oma to more.

Yolonda,
this poem, my dear lady,
is just for you.

(Bill Reynolds © 12 May 2018)

Y’all be lookin’ both ways cuz Momma be comin’ with a spoon.
Mind the gaps.

Poem — NaPoWriMo: It’s Never Just a Game

The day 16 poem prompt of the 2018 National Poetry Writing Month challenges me to write a poem that prominently features the idea of play.

My poem is about my memory of a game we played as children – a game still played today, albeit differently. It has been played for over a hundred years by boys and girls, now also by men and women. Essentially, it is street or vacant lot baseball played with a broomstick for a bat, bases like the manhole cover or the flag pole, and most often a rubber ball.

My gang used all sorts of balls including wiffle balls of various sizes. No one wore gloves or any form of protective gear. Our classic favorite was to use those small plastic practice golf balls with all the holes in them to increase the challenge. They could bounce off any window or person with no damage. No coaches, no adults, highly flexible rules, and we worked out our disagreements without paying lawyers.

My poem is this old fart’s memories of playing the game and living totally for the moment, for the game, to be as good as we could be, and to have fun for the sake of play.

We used handles cut from broom sticks or mops. I do not recall anyone buying a ball, but it would not surprise me to learn that the ones we used were found, or “found” (as in the bottom of dad’s golf bag). The first commercially produced stickball bat came out in the early 1950’s and sold for 89 cents. Today, you can buy a high-tech, Easton T10 Thunderstick stickball bat for $50.00.

One of the problems today is that it has become difficult to find a good wooden broom or mop handle not being used, and games like that have fallen out of favor. However, I have included a photo and video about the game. In both cases, commercial bats are used.

It’s Never Just a Game

I was in the game that day
when it was a hot midsummer afternoon
when we played in the Courtright elementary school yard
when Jimmy Lipinski hit a double off of Joe Mullins’ chest
when time outs were for injury or just to pee.

I was in the game that day
when the fight broke out between Balochi and the new kid
Smitty was new and wanted us to play by New Jersey rules,
Balochi and Smitty became close friends and grew old together
and we learned to play by Jersey rules, East End rules, and league rules,
but mostly we made up the rules based on many things.

I was in the game that day
when Teddy tripped on second base and broke his nose
when the Daniel’s kid at shortstop lit a cigarette in the third
when the school janitor came and ran us all off or he would call the cops,
when we vandalized the school cuz the Janitor was a dick,
when I got my first hit, and when I hit my last.

I was in the game that day
when Lipinski made his behind the back flyball catch
when the worst player on the team hit a grand slam
when cuts and scrapes and twisted ankles were part of growing up,
when it started to rain that day and we played on anyway,
when the game was just the game, and both sides always won.

I left the game that day
when we walked away cuz it was getting dark
when we were thinking of what in life came next
when we thought there were better things to do,
when we walked away one last time
from the game we all so loved.

Let’s go play some stickball.

(Bill Reynolds 4/16/2018)

Look both ways as you play the game.
When at bat, mind you, hit the gaps.

Click link to National Poetry Writing Month

Poetry – NaPoWriMo: My Affirmation

 

The day six prompt of the 2018 National Poetry Writing Month challenge is to “write a poem that stretches your comfort zone with line breaks. That could be a poem with very long lines, or very short lines. Or a poem that blends the two.”

I wrote the poem, but the words? Perhaps you recognize them.

 

 

My Affirmation

calmness
serenity
comes to me
the universe I cannot see
change
or control

grant them dignity
to be
as they are
humanity…mine…yours…theirs

face change with

wisdom from experience, peace through acceptance, knowledge of listening

with silent love

and…

it
all
begins with
………………………….me

 

(Bill Reynolds 4/6/2018)

Alertly relax as you look both ways. Fear not gaps but be mindful.

Click link to National Poetry Writing Month

Aspects of My Dream

Aspects of My Dream

There was a time in my life when I thought I didn’t dream. Since I recalled none, there were no dreams. Discussion over, right?

Wrong, Billy Boy! Since childhood, I have always dreamed, probably every night, and have had more than my share of nightmares. Even as an adult, I’ve physically acted out dream events in voice or movement, concerning and confusing my wife. If I have had one dream every night since birth, that’s over 26,000 dreams. Many nights there were more than one or two.

 

At the end of this post I’ll drop a link to a down-to-earth piece about dream interpretation, if you want some P-h-and-D ideas.

There are a lot of things written about dreams. I find most of it to be irrational BS and schemes for cash. But, I do think there is physiological meaning in dreams, and I find dream analysis to be a fun and healthy experience. Extensive metaphor and symbolism seem to be what dreams are made of, although I have had some dreams closely parallel real-life events, and were likely triggered by past or pending events.

My dreams are virtually always dreams about challenge, during which I’m motivated to overcome difficulty or an obstacle. I have faced danger, been stuck, or wanted to move away from a situation in which I found myself. Most of my dreams involve other people, but not always those I know. I have had a few pleasant dreams and my awakening to reality was disappointing. But mostly, I’m ready for the dreams to end.

Usually, I enter my dream by finding myself in an ongoing situation. There’s no introduction or preface. It’s like I’m teleported into a situation that “I” was already in, but have just became aware or conscious of.

Last night I arrived into my dream feeling a little cold. I found a discarded jacket and decided to wear it. But I was self-conscious that it was not “my” jacket, and that someone may claim it. As I walked past people, I felt their judging stares. They seemed to know it was not my jacket and that I ought not to be wearing it.

I was walking with a crowd. Along with many others, I walked into a building that looked much like the inside of church. We sat on long benches like pews. The walls were bare, there were no church-like activities such as singing, praying, or preaching. A man sitting near me was constantly watching me. I saw him and spoke to him, but he never talked. He just stared at me. And he looked pissed off – grumpy for sure. In real life, he’d be a weirdo stalker for which I’d summon the law. But in this dream, I simply moved on.

Deciding to leave the building, I stood and walked to the exit doors. A group of people surrounded the doors and were making half-hearted efforts to leave the building. None seemed to be leaving. I noticed a door with nobody near it. I grabbed the handle and opened the big heavy wooden door. That is when I discovered my exit blocked by a wall. I could see over the shoulder-high obstruction. So, I grasped the top with both hands, pulled myself up, and swung one leg over. I noticed others doing the same, then jumping and walking away. As I swung the other leg over, I jumped from the wall and joined others walking.

I was out of the building, away from the weird guy, and happy about it. I felt relieved. Then, I stopped and turned to look back. I could see the others standing behind the wall looking at me. They didn’t speak, but I was sure they wanted out – to be free. I told them how easy it was to climb over the wall. I offered to help, and I told them that fear was holding them back. With that, some climbed the wall and jumped out. Others just stood there. They didn’t try. It was not the wall that kept them trapped, it was that they didn’t try to leave. I walked away a second time.

I began to feel guilty about the people who were not motivated enough to try. Again, I went back. I considered jumping the wall back into the building, but I suspected I would not be able to leave if I tried to help others. They were afraid to come out. I was afraid to go back in. For the third time I walked away. As I looked around I noticed a pretty lady also walking away. She nodded knowingly and smiled.

Awake, I looked at the clock: 5:30 AM. I decided to sleep more, pondering where I would go, where anyone would go after leaving that building. As I was dozing back into dreamland, I analyzed my dream. I wanted to know where I was going. What would come next?

Are dreams stories with built-in conflicts? Was my dream just one more? Was it simply a story I dreamed up in my sleep? Or did it have deeper psychological meaning? Is there something in my real life that precipitated the dream?

Does everything in a dream represent something real in my world or in my mind?
Why am I always younger in my dreams?

To read one of several interesting articles about dream analysis in Psychology Today, click here.

One of my favorite dream poems:

Also this: click here to read a Mary Oliver poem about dreams.

When you dream,
look both ways for what the dream tells you about the past,
and what you may be thinking about for the future.
Dreams are not logical, so mind the gaps.

A Memory: The Silence of Darkness

A Memory: The Silence of Darkness

It was a cold northeastern Pennsylvania night. I don’t recall the day of the week, or even the year, but the season was tucked into that idiom wrongly called, the dead of winter. There’s nothing dead about it.

I was in my teens and still living with my parents. It was late night and snow had covered the ground one day in the early nineteen-sixties. While night, the reflections from the snow allowed me to see everything, although it looked like a blue-tinted black and white photograph.

While all years of my life were important, those teen years are prominent memories. I still recall how I felt then, but now it’s hard to describe. I’ll never feel like that again. The wonderful adjectives of youth applied to me: vital, vigorous, and energetic; yet so did lazy, horny, rebellious, and impulsive. I would not say pensive or thoughtful. Yet, there was that one night.

 

As I walked through deep snow above my ankles, a powdery white mattress was laid out around me in all directions. The white snow was tinted cobalt blue by the moon-lit night sky. None of the snow was marked by footsteps or car tires. The blanket was pristine. The cemetery across the street was a charming and peaceful sight. I loved the sight of the snow, the reflection of street lights with a wintery halo, the contrast of red brick buildings with lines of white where snow landed. Even boarded-up windows seemed fitting to this natural artistic sight. What I saw made me feel good. I was happy, but thoughtful about what I saw.

If anyone saw me, they might assume I was lonely. I was not. Never. While my teen years presented me with daily challenges, feeling lonely wasn’t one of them. Even back then, I treasured my alone time. I have searched for more nights like that one, but I will never discover such a night again. Nature’s art is often so fleeting.

I may have been troubled by any one of the issues I thought life changing. Today, I recall few of those traumatic teeny-bopper problems. But, I can still visualize the night. While I have long since been free of my adolescent burdens, I remember. I didn’t feel cold. I felt both my pending freedom and a connectedness to my surrounding, to the night, and to the silence. And to the darkness, the light, the snow, and a sweet silence only night offers.

I was wearing plain old brown leather oxford shoes and white socks. My pants were a bit too short and much too snug: a style of the times. Adults thought my hair too long. It was a little greasy, and it hung down to cover part of my face. I didn’t wear a hat. My outer layer was a hand-me-down, black, Navy-surplus pea coat – unbuttoned and hanging open. The collar was up.

As I picture that night, I feel my experience. That not-to-be-forgotten night was like a photograph taken with my eyes and ears, sensed with my tongue’s taste buds. I could smell the clean crisp aroma of the night air. It is imprinted in my memory: a serene moment, fifty-some years ago. A semi-normal teenager, I realized that something remarkable was happening around me. I liked it and I wanted to share it with you.

The day’s white powder parted like a soft curtain as my feet gently led me forward. Sidewalks, streets, and any surfaces open to the sky were topped with the blueish flakes. No cars passed. The plows would not be out until early next morning.

Months before this night, trees had lost their leaves. Now, white fluff-covered bare branches stretched skyward like arms reaching to catch descending flakes. Evergreens bore much thicker and fuller sparkling white coats over their needles, a weight they endured with their strong, flexible, down-sloping boughs. I sensed a soft chill as a gentle breeze brushed the powder from trees onto me.

As snow clouds passed, I saw the clear night sky of spiritual proportions. A nearly-full moon illuminated the earth with light reflected upward by snow. Even with the light in the sky, billions of stars floated above me, while below them the sheen of fresh powder glistened. I was so young, yet I intuited the unimaginable enormity of what was around me. I could sense the sheer winter-night beauty of it all. I felt comfort in that notable moment. The night and the silence were etching a memory no artist or photographer could duplicate.

The silence was purposeful and reasoned. A quiet so intense the night air was a sharp penetrating stillness that muted other sounds. All was perfectly still. No movement, not even a hush. It was an absolute quiet: a silence so powerful I imagined intense peacefulness within me.

I stopped. Didn’t move for a long time. I listened for sounds of anything, silent sounds. I heard nothing but silence itself. Very still, breathing shallow, listening intently to what was the most peaceful moment of my life as my personal Sounds of Silence came from nature. I was with my friend Darkness, where I felt destined to be. I experienced sensual pleasure in the absolute beauty of that cold winter night.

I saw silence in the stillness as nothing moved. The world had stopped. I tasted tranquility as the clear, dry night-air slid over my tongue. As the still coolness flowed into my nose with its chilled crisp fragrance, I smelled a fresh aroma only nature could provide to a young mind open to such images. I have aged. But, this memory remains set in the mind of a teenage boy.

Slowly, I started to walk a bit farther. Then stopped again. I knew this was exceptional. Then I walked more, and I stopped again. I do not recall walking away or going home. The memory leaves me standing there, taking it in.

I didn’t know that this memory would be discovered and retrieved by my muse over half a century later. Said she, “Up now, Lad. And write in yer book, before ‘tis lost again in the disorganized gaps of your mind.”

If you have no time for the video now, please come back to watch it. It’s worth it.

Live in the present, but look both ways,
to the past for who you were, and to the future for who you’ll be.
Mind the gaps, but fill in where you can.

Poetry – Kaleidoscopic Transitions 1

We think it good, we think it bad,
we think it happy, we think it sad.
Transitions gap our evolving life.
Changes are scary,
transformations are mad.

Everything changes.

Born into kaleidoscope
with passion we creep,
from stumbling blocks
to stepping stones
we eventually leap,
crossing mortared passages
through well-tuned segues
our unplanned journey
continually changes.

First babes, then as children,
we transform into teens,
with hormones and zits
and other strange things.
To walk and to talk,
of this life we wonder,
what it all means
we continue to ponder.

Everything changes.

Back to the womb
we desire to go.
As we learn of the changes
we continue to grow,
but kaleidoscope says
the answer is no.

Thru constant transitions
always more progress.
Life brings us new lessons
and dappled confessions;
how excited we get
as we look for more color.

We twist the scope faster
by leaving the nest,
then we see it in others
that desire for best,
we discover ourselves
as never before, we are
with all the transitions
still frozen by fear
of uncertainty we abhor.

Everything changes.

What is our purpose?
Why are we here?
Why do these changes
bring us such fear?
Back to the past
or into the future;
Where do we go?
What must we know?
Need we keep changing
as we continue to grow?

Everything changes while
the gaudy scope turns.
We fear the next spin
and where it might end.
Continue we must
with this prismatical game,
long into life
and well after birth.

Because everything always changes. It’s never the same.

Bill Reynolds 9/25/2017

Up from the colors, stare into the gaps.
Look both ways at life’s many changes.