Coming to Rest

“There must be something”,
Will read an unrecorded epitaph
That, avoiding commentary,
May explain Bob’s calling.

But I write of his journey
From terrestrial to ethereal and back.
A painful voyage at times
Searching for and hiding from Bob.

No child losing faith in his church
And seeking another that might reconcile
What he saw with what he felt,
Found a God responsive to his needs.

Accepting, practicing and finally leading
Fellow believers by prayer and sermon
Bob left the business world
To take his place on a modest pulpit.

A casualty of a beatific fall
Bob joined another church,
And found with success
An old nemesis, politics.

He rejoined the world of Mammon
But retained a spiritual need.
Now, not quite a Buddhist,
He appears at rest.

Is it an illusion?
Is there still the cat
That makes incomprehensible, incredible leaps,
Cartwheeling his life in terrifying directions?

Where did I leave my glasses?

When did I see them last?
When did I last see with them ?
I’ve lost lots of things,
Scarves, socks, hats, books, even a child.

Not to worry, the kid turned up.
My glasses, not yet.
I visualize a small prosperous village in India.
Whose chief export is replacement pens for me.

How many files have I misplaced,
Some never recovered?
Remember the warehouse in the “Search for the Holy Grail”?
They’ve a large space devoted to my stuff.

I expect to be stopped at the pearly gates.
They’ll want receipts for thousands of hats and ear-muffs.
If lost ideas count, mine might require
A separate storage planet.

Airport

She was not happy.
Our lady in white, composed and attentive,
Preceded her captive son
By six feet and two planets.

Walking with as much indifference as he could muster
Her reluctant companion moved forward like a snake,
Body half raised sliding along the stone floor
His baseball cap at 90 degrees.

His father would be advised of the boys latest outrage.
Maybe this one was serious.
I recall a time when I looked out a 20th story window
Being baad was cool, being caught not so much.

All Gone

After a losing battle with a chocolate ice cream cone,
“All gone” was the cheer that marked the cessation of hostilities.
Paul’s face would hold the remnants of the victor's army.
Good-Humor is no longer, but kids can still battle ice cream cones.

In cases of splinters, mosquito bites, or dark closets
That might hold evil creatures,
Salve, tweezers or a flash light
Could summon relief : “All gone”.

Sadly, life’s journey can’t sustain us
With “open sesames” or Dad’s incantations.
We cease running down hills because
Only children do that... pity.

When I was young I played with children’s toys.
Now that I am grown I miss the magic... All gone.

Aloft

Aloft

Lifting through the angry sky
We race to a higher and less troubled space
Hoping to escape the brillant lightening flashes
Like memories from an unhappy time.

Daylight insinuates itself as we rise,
Now miles beyond earth's Greens and Grays.
Aloft, in defiance of gravity and Zeus,
We reach for the Sun and home.

380 other flying boxes aloft right now,
Moving at speeds beyond yesterday’s thought,
Accepting this place where angels and gods once held sway,
As man’s domain

God, gun and money.

On the island of 
"My God, My Gun, My Money",
There is music, patriotic music,
Horn and drum music, playing incessantly.

It annihilates dialogue,
Hip-hop and Beethoven. 
Covers the earth with 
Semi naked drum-majorettes.

A 75 year old contract
That proclaimed acceptance of shared responsibility,
Now viewed as treason,
In this time when reason is overwhelmed by farce.