Victor D. López (October 11, 2018)

You were born five years before the beginning of the Spanish civil war and
Lived in a modest two-story home in the lower street of Fontan, facing the ocean that
Gifted you its wealth and beauty but also robbed you of your beloved and noblest eldest
Brother, Juan, who was killed while working as a fisherman out to sea at the tender age of 19.

You were a little girl much prone to crying. The neighbors would make you cry just by saying,
"Chora, neniña, chora" [Cry little girl, cry] which instantly produced inconsolable wailing.
At the age of seven or eight you were blinded by an eye Infection. The village doctor
Saved your eyesight, but not before you missed a full year of school.

You never recovered from that lost time. Your impatience and the shame of feeling left behind prevented
You from making up for lost time. Your wounded pride, the shame of not knowing what your friends knew,
Your restlessness and your inability to hold your tongue when you were corrected by your teacher created
A perfect storm that inevitably tossed your diminutive boat towards the rocks.

When still a girl, you saw Franco with his escort leave his yacht in Fontan. With the innocence of a girl
Who would never learn to hold her tongue, you asked a neighbor who was also present, "Who is that Man?"
"The Generalissimo Francisco Franco," she answered and whispered “Say ‘Viva Franco’ when he Passes by.”
With the innocence of a little girl and the arrogance of an incorrigible old soul you screamed, pointing:

"That's the Generalissimo?" followed up loud laughter, "He looks like Tom Thumb!"
A member of his protective detail approached you, raising his machine gun with the apparent intention of
Hitting you with the stock. "Leave her alone!" Franco ordered. "She is just a child — the fault is not hers."
You told that story many times in my presence, always with a smile or laughing out loud.

I don't believe you ever appreciated the possible import of that "feat" of contempt for
Authority. Could that act of derision have played some small part in their later
Coming for your father and taking him prisoner, torturing him for months and eventually
Condemning him to be executed by firing squad in the Plaza de Maria Pita?

He escaped his fate with the help of a fascist officer who freed him as I’ve noted earlier.
Such was his reputation, the power of his ideas and the esteem even of friends who did not share his views.
Such was your innocence or your psychic blind spot that you never realized your possible contribution to
His destruction. Thank God you never connected the possible impact of your words on his downfall.

You adored your dad throughout your life with a passion of which he was most deserving.
He died shortly after the end of the Spanish Civil War. A mother with ten mouths to feed
Needed help. You stepped up in response to her silent, urgent need. At the age of
Eleven you left school for the last time and began working full time.

Children could not legally work in Franco’s Spain. Nevertheless, a cousin who owned a cannery
Took pity on your situation and allowed you to work full-time in his fish cannery factory in Sada.
You earned the same salary as the adult, predominantly women workers and worked better
Than most of them with a dexterity and rapidity that served you well your entire life.

In your free time before work you carried water from the communal fountain to neighbors for a few cents.
You also made trips carrying water on your head for home and with a pail in each hand. This continued after
You began work in Cheche’s cannery. You rose long before sunrise to get the water for
Home and for the local fishermen before they left on their daily fishing trips for their personal water pails.

All of the money you earned went to your mom with great pride that a girl could provide more than the salary of a
Grown woman--at the mere cost of her childhood and education. You also washed clothes for some
Neighbors for a few cents more, with diapers for newborns always free just for the pleasure of being
Allowed to see, hold spend some time with the babies you so dearly loved you whole life through.
When you were old enough to go to the Sunday cinema and dances, you continued the
Same routine and added washing and ironed the Sunday clothes for the young fishermen
Who wanted to look their best for the weekly dances. The money from that third job was your own
To pay for weekly hairdos, the cinema and dance hall entry fee. The rest still went to your mom.

At 16 you wanted to go to emigrate to Buenos Aires to live with an aunt.
Your mom agreed to let you--provided you took your younger sister, Remedios, with you.
You reluctantly agreed. You found you also could not legally work in Buenos Aires as a minor.
So you convincingly lied about your age and got a job as a nurse’s aide at a clinic soon after your arrival.

You washed bedpans, made beds, scrubbed floors and did other similar assigned tasks
To earn enough money to pay the passage for your mom and two youngest brothers,
Sito (José) and Paco (Francisco). Later you got a job as a maid at a hotel in the resort town of
Mar del Plata whose owners loved your passion for taking care of their infant children.

You served as a maid and unpaid babysitter. Between your modest salary and
Tips as a maid you soon earned the rest of the funds needed for your mom’s and brothers’
Passage from Spain. You returned to Buenos Aires and found two rooms you could afford in an
Excellent neighborhood at an old boarding house near the Spanish Consulate in the center of the city.

Afterwards you got a job at a Ponds laboratory as a machine operator of packaging
Machines for Ponds’ beauty products. You made good money and helped to support your
Mom and brothers  while she continued working as hard as she always had in Spain,
No longer selling fish but cleaning a funeral home and washing clothing by hand.

When your brothers were old enough to work, they joined you in supporting your
Mom and getting her to retire from working outside the home.
You lived with your mom in the same home until you married dad years later,
And never lost the bad habit of stubbornly speaking your mind no matter the cost.

Your union tried to force you to register as a Peronista. Once burned twice cautious,
You refused, telling the syndicate you had not escaped one dictator to ally yourself with
Another. They threatened to fire you. When you would not yield, they threatened to
Repatriate you, your mom and brothers back to Spain.

I can’t print your reply here. They finally brought you to the general manager’s office
Demanding he fire you. You demanded a valid reason for their request.
The manager—doubtless at his own peril—refused, saying he had no better worker
Than you and that the union had no cause to demand your dismissal.

After several years of courtship, you and dad married. You had the world well in hand with
Well-paying jobs and strong savings that would allow you to live a very comfortable life.
You seemed incapable of having the children you so longed for. Three years of painful
Treatments allowed you to give me life and we lived three more years in a beautiful apartment.

I have memories from a very tender age and remember that apartment very well. But things changed
When you decided to go into businesses that soon became unsustainable in the runaway inflation and
Economic chaos of the Argentina of the early 1960’s. I remember only too well your extreme sacrifice
And dad’s during that time—A theme for another day, but not for today.

You were the hardest working person I’ve ever known. You were not afraid of any honest
Job no matter how challenging and your restlessness and competitive spirit always made you a
Stellar employee everywhere you worked no matter how hard or challenging the job.
Even at home you could not stand still unless there was someone with whom to chat awhile.

You were a truly great cook thanks in part to learning from the chef of the hotel where you had
Worked in Mar del Plata awhile—a fellow Spaniard of Basque descent who taught you many of his favorite
Dishes—Spanish and Italian specialties. You were always a terribly picky eater. But you
Loved to cook for family and friends—the more the merrier—and for special holidays.

Dad was also a terrific cook, but with a more limited repertoire. I learned to cook
With great joy from both of you at a young age. And, though neither my culinary skills nor
Any aspect of my life can match you or dad, I too am a decent cook and
Love to cook, especially for meals shared with loved ones.

You took great pleasure in introducing my friends to some of your favorite dishes such as
Cazuela de mariscos, paella marinera, caldo Gallego, stews, roasts, and your incomparable
Canelones, ñoquis, orejas, crepes, muñuelos, flan, and the rest of your long culinary repertoire.
In primary and middle school dad picked me up every day for lunch before going to work.

You and he worked the second shift and did not leave for work until around 2:00 p.m.
Many days, dad would bring a carload of classmates with me for lunch.
I remember as if it were yesterday the faces of my Jewish, Chinese, Japanese, German, Irish
And Italian friends when first introduced to octopus, Spanish tortilla, caldo Gallego, and flan.

The same was true during college and law school.  At times our home resembled an
U.N. General Assembly meeting—but always featuring food. You always treated my
Closest friends as if they were your children and a number of them to this day love
You as a second mother though they have not seen you for many years.

You had tremendous passion and affinity for being a mother (a great pity to have just one child).
It made you over-protective. You bought my clothes at an exclusive boutique. I became a
Living doll for someone denied such toys as a young girl. You would not let me out of your sight and
Kept me in a germ-free environment that eventually produced some negative health issues.

My pediatrician told you often “I want to see him with ***** finger nails and scraped knees.”
You dismissed the statement as a joke. You’d take me often to the park and to my
Favorite merry-go-round. But I had not one friend until I was seven or eight and then just one.
I did not have a real circle of friends until I was about 13 years old. Sad.

I was walking and talking up a storm in complete sentences when I was one year old.
You were concerned and took me to my pediatrician who laughed. He showed me a
Keychain and asked, “What is this Danny.” “Those are your car keys” I replied. After a longer
Evaluation he told my mom it was important to encourage and feed my curiosity.

According to you, I was unbearable (some things never change). I asked dad endless questions such as,
“Why is the sun hot? How far are the stars and what are they made of? Why
Can’t I see the reflection of a flashlight pointed at the sky at night? Why don’t airplanes
Have pontoons on top of the wheels so they can land on both water and land? Etc., etc., etc.

He would answer me patiently to the best of his ability and wait for the inevitable follow-ups.
I remember train and bus rides when very young sitting on his lap asking him a thousand Questions.
Unfortunately, when I asked you a question you could not answer, you more often than not made up an answer Rather than simply saying “I don’t know,” or “go ask dad” or even “go to hell you little monster!”

I drove you crazy. Whatever you were doing I wanted to learn to do, whether it was working on the
Sewing machine, knitting, cooking, ironing, or anything else that looked remotely interesting.
I can’t imagine your frustration. Yet you always found only joy in your little boy at all ages.
Such was your enormous love which surrounded me every day of my life and still does.

When you told me a story and I did not like the ending, such as with “Little Red Riding Hood,”
I demanded a better one and would cry interminably if I did not get it. Poor mom. What patience!
Reading or making up a story that little Danny did not approve of could be dangerous.
I remember one day in a movie theater watching the cartoons I loved (and still love).

Donald Duck came out from stage right eating a sandwich. Sitting between you and dad I asked you
For a sandwich. Rather than explaining that the sandwich was not real, that we’d go to dinner after the show
To eat my favorite steak sandwich (as usual), you simply told me that Donald Duck would soon bring me the sandwich. But when the scene changed, Donald Duck came back smacking his lips without the sandwich.

Then all hell broke loose. I wailed at the top of my lungs that Donald Duck had eaten my sandwich.
He had lied to me and not given me the promised sandwich. That was unbearable. There was
No way to console me or make me understand—too late—that Donald Duck was also hungry,
That it was his sandwich, not mine, or that what was on the screen was just a cartoon and not real.

He, Donald Duck, mi favorite Disney character (then and now) hade eaten this little boy’s Sandwich. Such a Betrayal by a loved one was inconceivable and unbearable. You and dad had to drag me out of the theater ranting And crying at the injustice at top volume. The tantrum (extremely rare for me then, less so now) went on for awhile, but all was well again when my beloved Aunt Nieves gave me a ******* with jam and told me Donald had sent it.

So much water under the bridge. Your own memories, like smoke in a soft breeze, have dissipated
Into insubstantial molecules like so many stars in the night sky that paint no coherent picture.
An entire life of vital conversations turned to the whispers of children in a violent tropical storm,
Insubstantial, imperceptible fragments—just a dream that interrupts an eternal nightmare.

That is your life today. Your memory was always prodigious. You knew the name of every person
You ever met, and those of their family members. You could recall entire conversations word for word.
Three years of schooling proved more than sufficient for you to go out into the world, carving your own
Path from the Inhospitable wilderness and learning to read and write at the age of 16.

You would have been a far better lawyer than I and a fiery litigator who would have fought injustice
Wherever you found it and always defended the rights of those who cannot defend themselves,
Especially children who were always your most fervent passion. You sacrificed everything for others,
Always put yourself dead-last, and never asked for anything in return.

You were an excellent dancer and could sing like an angel. Song was your release in times of joy and
In times of pain. You did not drink or smoke or over-indulge in anything. For much of your life your only minor Indulgence was a weekly trip to the beauty parlor—even in Spain where your washing and ironing income
Paid for that. You were never vain in any way, but your self-respect required you to try to look your best.

You loved people and unlike dad who was for the most part shy, you were quite happy in the all-to-infrequent
Role as the life of the party—singing, dressing up as Charlie Chaplin or a newborn for New Year’s Eve parties with Family and close friends. A natural story-teller until dementia robbed you of the ability to articulate your thoughts,
You’d entertain anyone who would listen with anecdotes, stories, jokes and lively conversation.

In short: you were an exceptional person with a large spirit, a mischievous streak, and an enormous heart.
I know I am not objective about you, but any of your surviving friends and family members who knew you
Well will attest to this and more in a nanosecond. You had an incredibly positive, indomitable attitude
That led you to rush in where angels fear to treat not out of foolishness but out of supreme confidence.

Life handed you cartloads of lemons—enough to pickle the most ardent optimist. And you made not just
Lemonade but lemon merengue pie, lemon sorbet, lemon drops, then ground up the rind for sweetest
Rice pudding, flan, fried dough and a dozen other delicacies. And when all the lemons were gone, you sowed the Seeds from which extraordinarily beautiful lemon trees grew with fruit sweeter than grapes, plums, or cherries.

I’ve always said with great pride that you were a far better writer than I. How many excellent novels,
Plays, and poems could you have written with half of my education and three times my workload?
There is no justice in this world. Why does God give bread to those without teeth? Your
Prodigious memory no longer allows you to recognize me. I was the last person you forgot.

But even now when you cannot have a conversation in any language, Sometimes your eyes sparkle, and
You call me “neniño” (my little boy in Galician) and I know that for an instant you are no longer alone.
But too son the light fades and the darkness returns. I can only see you a few hours one day a week.
My life circumstances do not leave me another option. The visits are bitter sweet but I’m grateful for them.

Someday I won’t even have that opportunity to spend a few hours with you. You’ll have no
Monument to mark your passing save in my memory so long as reason remains. An entire
Life of incalculable sacrifice will leave behind only the poorest living legacy of love
In your son who lacks appropriate words to adequately honor your memory, and always will.


*          *          *

The day has come, too son. October 11, 2018. The call came at 3:30 am.
An hour or two after I had fallen asleep. They tried CPR in vain. There will be no more
Opportunities to say, “I Love you,” to caress your hands and face, to softly sing in your ear,
To put cream on your hands, or to hope that this week you might remember me.

No more time to tell you the accomplishments of loved ones, who I saw, what they told me,
Who asked about you this week, or to pray with you, or to ask if you would give me a kiss by putting my
Cheek close to your lips, to feel joy when you graced me with many little kisses in response,
Or tell you “Maybe next time” when as more often than not the case for months you did not respond.

In saying good bye I’d give you the kiss and hug Alice always sent you,
Followed by three more kisses on the forehead from dad (he always gave you three) and one from me.
I’d leave the TV on to a channel with people and no sound and when possible
Wait for you to close your eyes before leaving.

Time has run out. No further extensions are possible. My prayers change from asking God to protect
You and by His Grace allow you to heal a little bit each day to praying that God protect your
Soul and dad’s and that He allow you to rest in peace in His kingdom. I miss you and Dad very much
And will do so as long as God grants me the gift of reason. I never knew what it is to be alone. I do now.

Four years seeing your blinding light reduced to a weak flickering candle in total darkness.
Four years fearing that you might be aware of your situation.
Four years praying that you would not feel pain, sadness or loneliness.
Four years learning to say goodbye. The rest of my life now waiting in the hope of seeing you again.

I love you mom, with all my heart, always and forever.

Oh, But what does it all mean Hidalgo?
Are we to fly in the face of the North Wind forever?

My mind has gone blank at the question.
Stranger still, the story perceived in prescient anticipation of the exact mentioned query once expounded upon spanning millions of miles of eloquent esoteric linguini, wit and charm with a dash of philosophic consequence, to fool you (the eager) into belief.

What is belief Hidalgo, but the suspension of reality, for an adept deeper world of unseen truth?

Do we see reality at all my friend? It is already shaped by our perceptions, responds to our expectations, nay we have not a clue, perhaps the arcane texts written by the hobo scholars of old hold the answer, so yet we settle on the material and fixate it as the lone clear star in an otherwise dark and cloudy sky. Mysteries abound behind the cosmos. Even when we look, do we really see, or are we as an insect upon the written page, crawling over the plain meaning? Is our capacity to hear underwhelmed by our propensity to listen? All these senses must count for something, for God is in a blade of grass, is he not, felt by the trodden hoof of the foot.

You’re a clever mad man Hidalgo.

Ay, the penultimate creator, singing in a sea of song, shining in a wave of light, lost in a dance of fractals, we are all the same rascal, blind though we are to the portrait of man, always creating, same as my neighbor, weaving dreams into Technicolor realities to beam into a future unknown. Our descendants watching us as reality television, mocking our fallibility, or perhaps empathizing and learning through telescopes strong enough to win a foot race with the sun; flying around the bend of space time and back.

The birds of the island are calm today; think they favor a slumbering respite from the noonday heat?

Mayhaps we’ll take a stroll across the columnous muddy bed, risking grey clay mummified suffocation; I dreamt as such. Yesterday’s storms make the journey perilous. My own thoughts leak from the grandiose ether and compel me to genius, the condition of the interminably insane or divine.

My bare feet tread the good earth, the 3rd density, in a daily attempt to stay grounded, however my mind is always floating, receiving transmitted whispers. Sanctified secret musings of the muse. Scribbled poetry of another dimension, meaningless to the materially minded, yet wholesome for the moment. Like a thunderstorm whose power is plain, yet unheard and unseen as the forest falling with a tree. Where do the tree and the forest begin? Are they the same root? Like my thoughts from a universal mind, the zeitgeist of an all-encompassing mood, a social memory complex.

The sophists will claim you are dodging responsibility. These tangents serve only to feed your egoic mind, but put no food in your belly nor rent in another’s hand.

Ay, but its creation all the same.
A tirade of compulsions. The ringing of the hill grows, the natural chorus of bugly unison screaming its existence into the manifold, manifesting itself to the initiate.

For what are they asking, could it be peace?

Ha Ha! Those shrill like cries wound the ears of the prideful dog, but are contained in the silences of the infinite potential all the same.

A man may change one hundred lives in a day, and earn no material currency for his unasked effort. Therefore, who is trivial? I change the wind by simply being, its current flows over me and the endless blades alike.

Vibratory love, what is that feeling, the realest phenomena of all?

Bliss in its own awareness, reveling in self-revelation, actualization, the knowingness of the child who still sees the spirit existing in each of the physical realm’s shadows. The taste of the foul and pure passing without judgment to the innocent tongue. A simple being secure with the wisdom of the wise. Does the power come from you or the hill, inspiring motions, accounting on the page symbolically. Break it down further. Dissolve. ******* into nothingness.

What is cheating Hidalgo?

Is the ant called to my arm by its own volition, how did it find me here on this patch of earth formed into mound by ancestors buried below.

Opening up all channels now.

Death locks the door with life’s key.

Should I let him crawl over me repeatedly?

Ten words to speak before the coming of the night.

Creative Destruction
Awake from the trance
Guns and Bullets
Shoot from our hands
Teller of Tales
Faint whisperer
Of sordid man’s
Hallucinatory waking
Follow the Beam
Follow the beam
The world before this world
Secrets unseen
My best thoughts come
As I lie suspended awake in sleep
Before sleep
No troubles
The curse runs blood deep
He closes the book but still speaks in rhyme
The riddle draws madness
The tongue laps up the fire
Drawn from self same wells
Will and Desire
Pruning and Preening
Political Beasts are we
Lost in our notions
I find, I keep
Braggadocioc Players
Upon the Worldly stage
Every person has the story
Only what is real?
What is fate?
So I lift my hat
To another year born true
A quarter century passed
Play the tune


Am I awaken by words from another man’s sleep?
What is the source of the tetradactyl nature?
My hexagonal heap
Of flesh and bones
Earth and dust
Brought together again by unending sound vibrating ceaselessly
I sleep but am not rested
Eat but am never full
The piper plays among the sand
Whirling in the heart of the caged word
If I keep my eyes fixated on a point, in actuality my vision expands and visualizes all

Reputationally speaking,
I am an ant, with male pattern baldness
We forget to chuckle at life’s absurdities, just as we pass by flowers without engaging the fragrance.


Rest your head with the hillside now
Restless wanderer of fantastical dreams

Treading water silently until our legs melt
Just as the weary albatross cries its last song over the harbor or the butterfly ***** its freckled wings, so too will we see the setting of the sun and a coming of the new dawn. If the chalk works carved in the abandoned sidewalk are to be believed, so must we girdle ourselves for the coming tides and lift our spirits once more for the ebb and flow of circumstance. The bike rides in the gutter all the same, and the forgotten cemetery stone stands as testament to the age gone by.

The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.

Underneath the anger, there are tears. Beneath the fury, there is hurt, a river
of affliction - the day that possibility evaporated. I knew, the moment
it was gone. Telos obscured, like a mist, had left me.

Frost in February, morning at the local coffee house, perseverating, sedate
in privatized, cogitations - certainty dissolves into irony, the transient
collective with predictable cadence and singular objective. Borrowed
energies - preferred anesthetic in defiance of the placid, quotidian horror.

Angst wrapped in skin, clothed in remorse, like a muslin coat unable
to keep me warm, the palette of truculence, dislocated savant,
with guarded aversion - faces enucleating in tacit harmony, the muted tragedy
of the forgotten.

Yoked, the metaphorical satchel, freighted with the sentient debris, sifting
the fuckage, memoirs of failure, privation of venture and honor, objectified as
mere portent. [Existence] - the daily riot, becomes the necessary crucible.

Dissonance and detachment resonate the cultural banality, [being] displaced
by icon; [branding], ideas about ideas, life several times removed,
emblem over essence.

Existential renegade, exploiting the counter intuitive, the paradigmatic prodigal,
favor squandered, in the absonant passage, bearing fruit of the undone.

Bones of contention lament, interminably, like a false friend, present in absence,
perceived in the lack, subtraction, slip-stream - the disheveled
palaver of the broken.

Acutely self referential, misery enfleshed, its own reward, a post-war
discontent inhabiting sorrow, compressed and narrow, begetting
apathy in springtime.

Commodity of youth, the currency of beauty -permuted, commerce of the
ethereal and diaphanous. Human caprice, post-modern fog,
the flattened self,
the enemy of us is us, drowning in the decorum of narcissism.
the fattened calf,
immolating on the sword of autonomy.

Recycled grief, a recursive loop of gestating thoughts, marinating fluidly
within the interpretive grid. Confessional cyber community - exposed wounds
and concrete suffering, abstracted from virtual solidarity, refracted through a
reductive sentimentality, maybe they will ‘like’ it.

Iconoclast in exile, inhaling the incense of barrenness , surrounded by synoptic
drivel in understated - present tenses - alight in the now, axial axioms of the privileged,
who genuflect to the god of unfettered freedom.

Peripatetic intervals of isolation, self-imposed, hidden in a sanctuary of derision,
colliding with immutable otherness , the waters of chaos, calm.
The proleptic display, announcing eschatology. An ancient text written on the interior
expressed in myth and narrative the courier. The carnal and cerebral
arise, rightly flourishing.

Sense thresholds stirring, surprise and turbulence, reverberations of altered
domains merging - the temporal and ubiquity, the indissolubly resplendent
inversion - the invisible made visible. Opaque intrigues subsumed into the
balm of reconciliation - the first shall be last…

©2012 W.S. Warner

I

Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

II

In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.

Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.

A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned--
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.

III

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;

And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.

Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.

And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

IV

Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.

The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.

Susanna's music touched the ***** strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

1

Suddenly, out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
Like lightning it le’pt forth, half startled at itself,
Its feet upon the ashes and the rags—its hands tight to the throats of kings.

O hope and faith!
O aching close of exiled patriots’ lives!
O many a sicken’d heart!
Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.

And you, paid to defile the People! you liars, mark!
Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
For court thieving in its manifold mean forms, worming from his simplicity the poor man’s wages,
For many a promise sworn by royal lips, and broken, and laugh’d at in the breaking,
Then in their power, not for all these, did the blows strike revenge, or the heads of the nobles fall;
The People scorn’d the ferocity of kings.

2

But the sweetness of mercy brew’d bitter destruction, and the frighten’d monarchs come back;
Each comes in state, with his train—hangman, priest, tax-gatherer,
Soldier, lawyer, lord, jailer, and sycophant.

Yet behind all, lowering, stealing—lo, a Shape,
Vague as the night, draped interminably, head, front and form, in scarlet folds,
Whose face and eyes none may see,
Out of its robes only this—the red robes, lifted by the arm,
One finger, crook’d, pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.

3

Meanwhile, corpses lie in new-made graves—****** corpses of young men;
The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily, the bullets of princes are flying, the creatures of power laugh aloud,
And all these things bear fruits—and they are good.

Those corpses of young men,
Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets—those hearts pierc’d by the gray lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem, live elsewhere with unslaughter’d vitality.

They live in other young men, O kings!
They live in brothers, again ready to defy you!
They were purified by death—they were taught and exalted.

Not a grave of the ******’d for freedom, but grows seed for freedom, in its turn to bear seed,
Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.

Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
But it stalks invisibly over the earth, whispering, counseling, cautioning.

4

Liberty! let others despair of you! I never despair of you.

Is the house shut? Is the master away?
Nevertheless, be ready—be not weary of watching;
He will soon return—his messengers come anon.

Hacked
Every hook
Every cue
Every one of my references and internal pantheon
He's wired into it.

How did that happen?
He's a stranger
I didn't even know he existed two weeks ago

And yet...
He gets it so right every time.
~~
self referential
I like it when he writes of me. To me.
That curly feeling.
His revelations, and the mirror held up.

Tribute, affection, the wry smile of a stranger.
The slightly bonkers obsession and fascination.
Glimpses of a convoluted mind.
~~
Rib Ice
Standing on thin ice
Peacoat open, arms wide
I step into that hug

Burned by warm skin and hard ribs
Even more by his kiss

He likes to hear me moan
~~
Whose mindfuck now?

Are my actions consistent with my words?
Am I as I say I am?
Do I mean what I say, or am I playing you?
How's your ******* detector?

cards on the table time
abdicate or defecate
ante up
~~
headlong

He leads me on a scavenger hunt, insinuating, enticing, pulling me into dark corners to kiss me and probe me intimately, until we're off to cross the next threshold in this trip...

I have no idea how I got here. Turned round, disoriented, down the rabbit hole.
~~
Deep Purple

On the way out
Curious discoveries

Door handle sticky
Musk in the air

Who's that knocking at my back door?
~~
Goddess, lit**

I like this intimate touch I have on your mind and emotions. It makes me feel powerful and protective of you. And pulls me closer in.

When you say I am a goddess, your goddess, I suspend disbelief and nod in acknowledgment and agreement. Yes, of course. In those times, I know I am powerful, wise, feminine, and mysterious, And that you are before me, kneeling, clasping my legs, leaning on me, head against hip and belly, worshipful.

And sometimes, you clasp my wrist as I'm turning to go and pull me back, quietly certain and not to be resisted. Inevitable. And then what? Kisses? Your hand on my breast bone? Gently steadied to meet your gaze, interminably and for no time at all?

I begin to believe you won't vanish.

Dopamine,
a cascade of chemical pleasure,
food, s-x, *****, caffeine,
the chase for a fix,
the remedy for my pain,
a salve for my suffering.
But it’s temporary,
yet the need for a hit consumes interminably.
Like a lion on the prowl,
searching for prey,
the addict scours the earth,
desperately searching,
searching for more.
In this world of predator and prey,
the addict eventually discovers,
he is both.

LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 7


“Read me some more of your poems,” said Bian.

“OK,” said Jon and went to get the box that contained his poems in the  closet. He looked through the stack and selected several of them, then sat down next to Bian on the living room sofa.

“The first one I’d like to share with you is titled SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS.


SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS

When you fly to southwestern Kansas,
you see a different kind of Kansas.
The land is flat,
the sky is big and blue,
and the folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.

On a ranch down near Liberal,
the black night roars
and the wind is wet.
All are happy tonight, for there is rain
and tomorrow the pastures will grow greener.

In the morning when the sun first shines,
the hired hands
with leathered countenances
and gnarled fingers
awake in old ranch houses
made of adobe brick
and slip on their muddy cowboy boots
and faded blue jeans
to begin another day of hard labor.

On the open prairie made green by rain,
tan and white cattle huddle together,
munching on green grass and purple sage.
A new-born calf bawls.
Her mother, the Hereford cow,
is there to care
and the baby calf ***** her belly full
of mother’s milk.

About 60 miles to the north
and a little to the west,
The sun stands high in a blue sky
dotted with little puffs of white.
At noon in Ulysses,
folk eat at the Coffee Cafe:
Swiss steak, short ribs, or sweetbreads
on Tuesdays
with chocolate cake for dessert.

The folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in Ulysses.
They got a new high school and a Rexall drug store,
a water tower and a drive-in movie theater.
They got loads of Purina Chow,
plenty of John Deere combines,
and co-op signs stuck on almost everything.
And they got a main street several blocks long
with a lot of pick-up trucks parked on either side
driven by wheat farmers
with silver-white crew cuts
and narrow string ties.

Things are spread out in southwestern Kansas.
A blanket woven of green, brown, and yellow
patches of earth,
sown together by miles of barbed-wire fences,
spreads interminably into the horizon.
Occasional, faceless, little country towns,
distinguished only by imposing grain elevators
spiraling into the sky
like concrete cathedrals,
are joined tenuously together by
endless asphalt streaks
and dusty country roads,
pencil-line thin
and ruler straight,
flanked on either side
by telephone poles and wind-blown wires
strung one
after another,
after another
in monotonous succession.

But things, things aren’t too bad in southwestern Kansas.
Alfalfa’s growing green
and irrigation’s coming in.
Rain’s been real good
and the cattle market’s really strong.
The folk, they got the 1st National on weekdays
and the 1st Methodist in between.
The kids, they got 4-H clubs and scholarships to K-State.
And Ulysses, it’s got all that the big towns got–
gas, lights, and water.
So the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.


“The next poem is SIMONE, SIMONE," said Jon.


SIMONE, SIMONE

Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
please come to me
and bear your breast
for me to rest
my weary head
and shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone.


“The final poem, Bian, is TREE LIMBS,” said Jon.


TREE LIMBS

A long time ago,
I used to lie on my bed
and look out my window
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.

And I used to watch the cars
as they traveled by,
some fast, some slow,
from right to left, and left to right,
and wonder where they were going to
and coming from.

Once from my window
I hit a bus with my BB gun.
I was scared
because I knew I wasn’t
supposed to shoot buses,
even though it was kind of fun.

And sometimes I used
to hide behind my curtains
and watch the pretty
girls walk by my house
in their swimming suits
coming back from
the pool in the park.

But mostly I just used to lie
on my bed and think,
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.


“I love not only your poetry, Jon, but also how you read each one,” said Bian.

Jon gave her a kiss.

They drove to the tip of Cape Cod to watch the sunset, then drove back to the Twenty-Eight Atlantic to have dinner. Bian ordered oysters, lobster “Carbonara,” kale salad, and scallops. Jon had salmon tartare, chowder, baby green salad, and grilled octopus.

“Well, I’m excited!” Jon said. “We have a tremendous amount of planning to do, but we will have the experience of our lifetimes, and my greatest pleasure will be sharing it with you.”

“D’accord!” said Bian.

brady’s cafe



i’m doing a reading at kent state

got an interminably long wait to get on



protesters outside provoke the cops

about an after nine noise pollution law

they bang bongos and march through

the cafe

disrupting the readings

chanting

“noise is illegal noise is llegal.”



i am getting nerve racked and edgy

so i drink port from disguised juice bottle

we smoke a joint

the time drags and i get

somewhat drunk-my face a fiery blush

but no longer feel the thump of my heart

somewhere up in my neck



it’s round midnight

we smoke another

and suddenly i’m on

i totter up grabbing chairs for leverage



the crowd receptive to my words

never knew my mental anguish

or saw the slight in my left knee.


                   ana christy from beatnik blues

Thrashed interminably
to find a Death
like this,
Death like this;
digs d
          e
            e
               p
                 ,
to make      room,      for you:
that
obdurate;
                    swart;
                  ­             gelid;
                               merry-go-round.
In the centre of
                    maelstrom;
tranquility lives,
as 393 echos evaporate
                                 amid Amaranth
                                 & Hibiscus,
                                 Amen.

I don’t want to be Bukowski
anymore
Filling women with my emptiness
Dowsing ***** with gasoline
Fondling the
icky, sticky
gritty sweet with my
fat-fingered, ***** nailed
slur


I want to be  J. D Salinger
Just one something
so significant,
(even if it outlines the disturbing),
and then
a permanent exit

But here I am
Just like chuck  
looking for a flamethrower
to eradicate that ******* bluebird

The words
spewed with all the sincerity
and eloquence I can muster
always lewd

I may have enticed a bit a love
via thin pen
to come knocking once or twice
but the sentiments
they contain no glue

And so when I tumble
back into
the hopeless spaces between
the dust and ***
there is no you.
or us

There is just
this interminably
ugly
I
believing Bukowski was right

And of course I deserve this ****
but
It would be better
to disappear
to never share
to take my ball and go home
forever
home
Yeah,

I want to be Salinger

Stillness of night reigns,
pale full moon conveys
something subtly ambiguous
to each one looking at her
from their respective stand points,
the most painful feelings
echo in the heart of the lover
alone in this jungle hideout
on a blind pursuit of
another kind of happiness
he can't forgo, even if he wishes.
Now the stillness is broken glass
roar of a big cat out in the wild
hunting the best of preys well fed,
an ecstatic mating call,
of an amorous parakeet,fallows,
In the rule of the jungle,
pain and pleasure co exist
any moment, like darkness and light,
the wheel moves on, interminably for ever.

We never cracked the mysteries of Pittsburgh,
and Baltimore bled out inconveniently before

our eyes, another nervous snitch knifed outside
the corner convenience store in broad daylight.

Salt Lake City was too pure, too white,
theocracy carved into a wafer of snow.

We grew tired of watching Los Angeles
pleasure itself in the sun like a **** star,
interminably tan and vacuous.

And Chicago was too ******* cold.

So we settled here, where streets turn
the soles of our shoes to palimpsests

where every apartment elevator
offers a wall of infinite buttons

where grocery stores stock their shelves
with bottles and bottles of octopus ink

where neighbors open their curtains
and stand shimmering in moonlight

where weather mixes with nostalgia,
creating immutable, poetic forecasts

where water tastes like redemption
and the skyline rises like a chorus,

so much taller than the cities
we inhabited when we were

alive.

I do not wish to suffer but suffer I
   must
Cursing my ill luck and the mad
   excesses
Of a selfish insensitive owner
Obsessed with destruction, both mine
   and his;
Occupying a spot here in the High
   Street
Opposite the Courthouse and its
   official Clock
An eyesore, a common talking point
Squeezed between more fashionable
   premises
Which seem always to frown and
   grimace
Expressing major reservations,
   unambiguous opposition.

Housing curios, oddments and
   selected modern junk
We sell little, our few customers
   dribbling in
Only to supplement their journeys
   while waiting on the bus
Or to eye with a morbid curiosity
That sickly creature seated behind the
   counter
My luckless tyrant of an owner
Against whom all conspire
Who seriously in debt, is helpless,
   cannot pay up
Hounded interminably by mysterious
   moneylenders
Who after giving a little now expect a
   whole lot in return.

With fuel running low for my boiler
My heating system, it is unreliable
Volatile, treacherous in Winter
My ventilator rusted through
Erratic at best, chronic in Summer
The damp in the walls and ceiling
The dry rot, the wallpaper peeling
Encouraged by years of neglect
Of being used, unscrupulously
   tampered with,
In need now of meticulous care and
   attention.

My owner truly a derelict, a dissipated
   soul
Spending more time in the cellar with
   a bottle
Than on any other shop floor level
(Among his friends, the mice, the
   cockroaches and spiders)
Who trying to stay awake, eventually
   must capitulate
Caught by that Ghost Ship that drifts
   slowly North
To where the icebergs loom large and
   ominous out of a damning fog
It's compass frozen, it's wheel
   unmanned
Nothing but shadows and wind in the
   rigging
As he floats off into oblivion, off the
   edge of the earth
Where exist such shapes that can
   never be said.

                               II

Is peculiar though, my owner
At times displays a certain poise and
   grace
Hinting at a time in the not too distant
   past
Which was not altogether bad or
   harmful
But unusual as it might seem
Was quite on the contrary, fruitful !!
Him featuring as being both proud
   and distinguished
Far removed from today's pitiful
   wretch
Whose solitary doubts and fears have
   all but taken over.

And maybe I do find it hard to
   sympathize
I after all being the one offered up
   now in sacrifice
Him there with little joy, love or hope
With only complaints and grievances
   mounting up
Filed away in offices at City Hall.

                                 III

Whereupon the hour, every  hour, the
   Courthouse Clock it chines
Ever vigilant, ready to track it's quarry
   down
Where in the corridors of power this
   very moment
City fathers, town planners and
   architects have gathered
To discuss whether our future lies in
   this town
To argue out the case, the for and the
   against;
While below the vile demolition man
   he stalks my borders
With his heart of ice and ghastly  
   drunken laugh,
No! I do not wish to suffer
Indeed, I wish I could be like any other.

The bodies are buried
in boiler rooms below
precipitous buildings.

Tipped with gargoyles,
scabbed with windows,
the superstructures rise
on cords of carbon steel.

Inside miraculous husks,
the elevators lift and fall,

interminably.

Antiquated carriages
click like scarabs
on ropes and pulleys.

With interiors lit
by faint buttons,
the listless coffins

circulate our remains
behind gypsum walls.

When the elevator doors glide open,
an emerald chime sings your name.

interminably deserted
indelibly flawed
something's written all over this personality
in exposed invisible-to-me ink
and all the wanted ones
have the right glasses to read
the not-so-fine print
what switch is thrown
that makes them see
the next one will be a keeper
so passing over
or by way of me
dragging these wants
through their fly-by-night dust
to light on the one
that I was sure would've been me
is only the thing to do
no blames or games attached
but a heads up would be nice
a little rejection philanthropy
something, anything to fill me in
on what it is that's missing

Interminably, he stands at the road side
Whether the weather is kindly or not
(Somehow it's never either one). Stands there
And makes an ingratiating little nod
To the clouds. The sky bears down with its slipped
Edges— Singular walls of the unspoken
Truth: The world ends at the last of vision.

Those cars that pass us reach the brink of this small
Hemisphere, quiver on the edge of
The black and turn sharply. The bell of the sky
Doesn’t ring like it used to anymore—
It’s just too **** big. And we are much too small.
In our opinion: all those hitchers wear
Their hearts on their sleeves
If they think they can get anywhere.

Love.
Love is.
Evermore.
Love is always.
Undeniably,
Indefatigably,
Indescribably,
Insatiably,
For­ever.
Always.
Is.

Love.
Love lasts.
Tirelessly.
Love is always.
Unconquerably,
Indeterminately,
Imperviously,
Inscrutably­,
Immortal.
Always.
Lasts.

Love.
Love lives.
Timelessly.
Love is always.
Interminably,
Interconnectedly,
Independently,
Incredibly­,
Infinite.
Always.
Lives.

mistakes make us
human
and as
i
make the same
ones
over
and
over
i
no longer
see mistakes
i see an unalienable personality
that i can never give up
im trying
to climb a mountain
that goes on interminably

don't worry the end is near
all i need to do is stop climbing
and fall...

There might be an infinte number of disparate stars and galaxies in this interminably cosmic universe,
but my sorrowful eyes will be transfixed on the most majestic star that outshines the twilight lit sky,
the pulchritudinous star that divines the derailed train of thoughts into constellations within my claustrophobic & restless mind.

the star....
that is you.

Loginquitas*:
distance remoteness isolation;
separated from others.

No specification about how it is,
what it is,
if it comes as a wall between
or only a space, unrightfully empty.

Isolation indicates past ongoing,
a thing not just temporary,
but potentially permanent,
a sentence like prison solitary,
like a state of celibacy,
a vow of silence given under duress.

Remoteness means far away,
not just a length of earth -
an Everest of longing,
ice shifting underfoot and when the footing goes,
down another interminable edge,
there the freeze into narrow sleep.

Distance like roads in the Midwest,
seeing for hundreds of miles,
the knowing discomfort, the steady hunger,
a fact that is this:
lost, interminably lost, losted after.

Separated from others is the afterthought,
the side effect, the symptom-sick,
visible, wriggling nakedly.
Worm-like, burrowed into itself.

I escape from the hole,
      All is far away,
The night is undead,
   The living are not alive.
I walk interminably departing myself,
     Today is easy,
Right now is not a word.
    The restlessness circles my being,
The poem seems to follow,
      I whisper a secret to the verses
And the stars become dotted inklings,
     The night is enormously quiet,
But my mind is resounding words,
      They beg to come out,
My walk will take forever,
    But I am already home
Scribbling the lines to this poem,
       A walk becomes a metaphor,
This poem becomes reality
Shutting doors,
    The poem becomes me,
I have no name to call myself,
     I am ravaged by the words,
I write to see myself.....

Two of my baby sisters get their period on the same day,
And I did not think
I could be so proud
Of two bodies for learning to perform a task they were bound to perform,
Nor so scared of what it meant for
The worry in my heart
Every time they walked out the door.
I did not think it was possible
To be so in love with a person -
to feel their fear and shame so keenly as if it were my own
In that moment of contrite confidence:
I need your help.
Is this how it feels to be a mother?
Mariana’s trench gaping with feeling so explosive it could topple buildings?
The instinct to protect and shield and teach,
To share the knowledge of a sisterhood that binds,
while praying that this would be the worst of their pain,
To see stretched out interminably before you their growing and leaving?
But above all the love that demands to make itself known,
That rails against the stall door and crashes feral onto the stage,
Heaving through your skin in a thousand pin ***** moments
That just about stop the tears from welling too noticeably,
As you take their hands and lead them to the bathroom door.

The sound of the drip is driving me nuts.
But it's that sound that's  keeping me awake.
I would love to collapse in by bed and sleep.
But I must remember what is at stake.

I must finish a job that's interminably there.
A string that hangs just out of reach of my hands.
I know that the night's almost gone but I can't.
Stop myself from drifting to some far away lands.

And just as I get to a happy place there,
the drip pulls be back to my bright little room
The sound of that hopelessly broken faucet
Just adds to the shadows, the cold, and the gloom.

My mind is uneven and all that I do
is hopelessly bent out of what it should be
My poetry's mangled my rhyming is rough
My eyes are all blurry and hearing's failing me.

I can hardly hear myself typing these words.
My vision is dull and my fingers are numb.
The darkness is closing in my little world.
My brain has powered down am I going dumb?

Oh wait. I've nearly been up a whole day.
Maybe I should try sleeping at night.
Maybe if I didn't procrastinate so much,
I would have some free time to see if mother was right.

I know that I should have been finished by six.
She does always tell me to get my stuff done.
Because if I get it done early enough,
I might even, may even get to have fun.

So maybe I'll even try that on the 'morrow.
For now I guess I'll be going to bed.
Forgive me for throwing you all of my problems.
You probably think I've had a knock on the head.

Anyway, well goodbye! It was such a nice chat.
Maybe we can do it again sometime?
I doubt you have even read up to here
of my uneven, rythm-less, bottomless, rhyme.

Dostoevsky espoused
the eloquent adage
to live without hope
is to cease to live
and it rings true
i've been a shell
of my former self
ever since we kissed
on that frigid rooftop

leave my carcass for the vultures
i'll give up the ghost
relinquish the illusion of control
once and for all

hang me from a rope until i'm dead
the visions of a fraud lying
in your bed are  
a noose i'll loop
over my head

i am a slave
my enmity
masks a
melancholy reality

i'd part the seas
just to see you
walk on water
if i could only believe
that you'd reach out for me
but these concrete limbs
leave me sinking
interminably

the sun raises its weary head
above the distant horizon
i'll daydream of growing old with you
attending protests and fighting injustice
making love on a beach beneath a new moon

but when our star
tucks itself to sleep
each night
i can't erase the reminder
that you choose
to lie with a different lover
and deny the flame of this
never-ending romance
while i toss and turn
misery my only company

hope is a hoax

Troubled, Crying, Red, eyes
The bottle containing
Tablets
The tablets help
Tireless exhaustion knocks the bottle
Tiny white dots
Tick away on a white surface
Transparent to my vision
Too many to count
Try to close my eyelids
To rest interminably
Two, four, eleven,
Twenty is needed.

Patchouli incense, chestnut thighs

(the stoicism found in
clocks made of paper)

an impressionist's linen,
fingertips all too aware of their own alive/

the chimney's formless eye
awakes to Mattress & agedviolin & I

turning to beautiful October taking off her whistling clothes/
yawn n gasping in gossamers ghost

The weeks bobbing (interminably) like an optimistic pond of
matchsticks

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

(three strikes of a distant Mountain
bell signals reflection at Ryōan-ji)

(we abide by the fury of charging organs)

loveliness, willing to empty
our bodies of day
and fill our heads with
  goodnight

an hourglass garlanded in stems
which
the years turn over
pillowlike

II


(((((blink to
summer rain    

my heart has become
occupied by an unfamiliar
Canyon

(summer(ra(in s(um(mer rai(n)

What a curse for the world of poets to lie within the realm of dreams. We'll never see the real thing the same way, nor will any other see our world at all. So we are strung apart, and never understood, as we seek endlessly to understand ourselves.

Kinship, and loss.
I know of resonance, but not of thought.
I feel emptiness, but I am not.
I am nought.
I am wrought.
I am molded in the image of my dreams.
Which are brought about from all that I have seen.
I know you feel it too, but I know none will see me, true.
Won't know me truly.
I am nothing.
I am losing, simple, fleeting, flighty me.
I am bemusing, ever strewn, interminably.
Lost upon a fabricated of sea of my own dreams.

Dear Winter, you're leaving, and oh, how my heart hurts.
I panic as the balm of your dormancy
gives way to Spring's exuberant insistence on growth.
After Spring, Summer will saunter in
with her interminably long twilights and
loud cicada choirs.
Oh Winter, won't you transfix me again
with one of your powerful deep freezes ... or a silent snow shower ... or a glint of sun-kissed ice?
Cast once more your concealing blanket of snow and frost across the land ... blemishes be gone.
Indeed, as you fade away, I long for your return.
As you approach afresh, how my soul rejoices!
That first pure white winter flake of snow.
And then more, more, more … each one unique they say.
When you're around, my mind feels at peace
as I stroll down snow-covered streets and woody paths.
There's always a hint of magic mystery in the air,
secrets hanging amidst the ice-covered branches.
I marvel with a sense of wonder at what you'll reveal next:
a woodpecker working on a hollow tree,
a flash of cardinal red,
a twinkling ice droplet catching a sunbeam.
When you light up a lot of them, way up in the tree tops,
oh how they sparkle, an array of dazzling diamonds far finer than any man-made décor.
And what fun it is when you reveal the paw prints
of so many passers-by,
their curious patterns in the night and wee hours,
secret stories witnessed only by you.
Ah Winter, if I were a composer and the seasons a song,
I'd give spring and summer staccato quarters
to fall I'd give a half
but to you, Winter, a sustained whole.
If I were a snowbird, I'd follow you south ...
to a chilly Chilean climb or a frosty Australian hinterland.
But alas for now, my wings can't carry me that far.
And so I must wait patiently, intently, for your return,
watching for the signs, longing for the soothing forgiveness of your freezing temperatures,
the purifying baptism of that first arctic blast.
Though I may admire Spring's glory or bask in Summer's bright rays, rest assured they are passing fancies.
Even Fall, with his brilliant leaves and brisk breezes, is still a distant second to you.
These three are merely my constant companions until you return.
And so auf wiedersehen my dear Winter, my love.
I'll hold you in my memory until we are together again.

You and I knew it wasn't right.

But once the idea had been discussed,
It would not leave our minds.

We opened the door
And it wouldn't close again.

Afterwards, you pushed it shut with all your weight,
Sweating and out of breath.

We'd won,
But barely.

And the dust from that room
Hung in our air
And the light filtered through it,
Making it painfully visible,
Interminably present.

Can we open the window and let it out into the air,
Never to re-enter our sight?

I hope so.

LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 1

Jon walked down Broadway Thursday toward Tom’s to eat breakfast. He had taken this stroll hundreds of times after being at Columbia for five years during which he had eaten breakfast at all possible alternatives and found Tom’s to be categorically the best in Morningside Heights. It was a beautiful Fall morning. Monday he would begin the second and last school year at Columbia and in the Spring he would receive his MFA from the School of the Arts.

When Jon entered Tom’s, he was stunned. Sitting three down in aisle 3 on the right side in a booth by herself was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. After standing still for a few moments, Jon slowly walked toward this woman and stopped, then spoke.

“Hi, I’m Jon Witherston. May I join you?”

The young woman responded, “Sure.” Jon sat down.

“I’m Bian Ly. It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

“I’m assuming you’re a student at Columbia,” said Jon.

“Yes, I’m a senior at the College. Are you also a student?” asked Bian.

“Yes, I am. In fact, I graduated from Columbia College a year ago. Next Spring, I’ll be receiving my MFA from the School of the Arts. I’m a poet,” said Jon.

“A poet! How wonderful!,” exclaimed Bian.

“Thank you, Bian. What’s your major?” asked Jon.

“I'm majoring in Human Rights,” replied Bian.

“The world needs to major in Human Rights!” said Jon.

Bian smiled.

At that point, the waitress came over and took their orders. Both wanted breakfast.

“That is a beautiful ring you are wearing on your little finger,” said Bian.

“That a Nacoms ring,” said Jon. “Nacoms is a senior society at the College. I was selected to be a member,” said Jon. “I was Head of NSOP. Where are you from, Bian?

“I’m from Hanoi,” said Bian.

“Hanoi is a long way from Topeka, Kansas where I grew up, but I did come East to attend Andover,” said Jon.

“I also attended boarding school, but in Hanoi, not Massachusetts. I graduated from Hanoi International School,” said Bian.

“It seems we have a lot in common,” said Jon.

The waitress brought their breakfasts, which they started eating.

After finishing their meals, the two chatted for about twenty minutes, then Jon said, “Bian, before I bid you a good rest of your day, I’d like to ask you if you might like to join me to visit the Guggenheim Museum to see a showing of Vasily Kandinsky’s paintings this Saturday afternoon then be my guest for dinner at your favorite Italian restaurant in Morningside Heights.”

“I’d love to,” replied Bian.

“I’ll pick you up about 2 p.m. Where do you live?” asked Jon.

“I live in Harley Hall,” said Bian.

“Hartley Hall–that’s where I lived all four years during my undergraduate days,” remarked Jon. “ You’ve got a couple of days to pick out your favorite Italian restaurant,” added Jon. “I’ll wait in the lobby for you.”

Bian smiled again and got out of the booth.

“See you this Saturday at 2,” Jon said as he waited for Bian to leave first. Then he just sat in the booth for a while and smiled, too.


Chapter 2

Jon arrived at Hartley Hall a bit early Saturday afternoon. He sat in the lobby on a soft leather sofa. Hartley Hall. Columbia. Four years. It had been an amazing time. Chad Willington, a fellow Andover graduate from Richmond, Virginia, was his roommate all four years. A tremendous swimmer, Chad had been elected captain of the team both his junior and senior years. He was now working at Goldman Sachs on Wall Street. Jon’s most cherished honor while he was at the College was being elected by his 1,400 classmates to be one of 15 Class Marshals to lead the Commencement Procession.

Bian came into the lounge. She looked beautiful.

“How are you, Bian? Are you ready to go see Kandinsky?” asked Jon.

“Indeed, I am,” said Bian.

“Let’s go, then,” said Jon.

The two walked across campus on College Walk to Broadway where Jon hailed a cab.

“Please take us to the Guggenheim Museum,” Jon told the cabbie. The cab cut through Central Park to upper 5th Avenue.

“We’re here,” said Jon and paid and tipped the cabbie.

The Guggenheim itself was a spectacular piece of architecture designed by Frank Lloyd Wright that spiraled into the blue sky. Jon paid for the admission tickets, then both entered the museum and took the elevator to the top of the building. Then began the slow descent to the bottom on the long, spiraling walkway, pausing when they wanted to the see a Kandinsky painting closely and talking with each other about it.

Vasily Kandinsky was a Russian painter and theorist, becoming prominent in the early decades of the 20th Century. Having moved first from Russia to Germany, he then went to France. Kandinsky was a pioneer of abstraction in Western art. He was keenly interested in spiritual expression:  “inner necessity” is what he called it.

It took quite a while to make their way down the spiraling ramp, stopping at almost every painting to share their views. Finally, Bian and Jon reached the bottom.

“Well, that was most interesting,” said Bian.

“I agree,” said Jon. “Have you decided which is your favorite Italian restaurant in Morningside Heights, Bian?” asked Jon.

“Pisticci,” said Bian.

“Let's go!,” said Jon.

They took a cab to Pisticci. The waiter brought them menus, which they began to peruse.

“You first,” Jon said to Bian.

“I would like the Insalata Pisticci (bed of baby spinach tossed with potatoes and pancetta with balsamic reduction). Then Suppe Minestrone (with a clear tomato base and al dente vegetables). Finally, I would like the Fettuccine Al Fungi (handmade fettuccine tossed with a trio of warm, earthy mushrooms and truffle oil),” concluded Bian.

Jon followed. “I would also like the Insalata Pisticci, then the Suppe Minestrone, followed by the Pappardelle Bolognesse, then the Burrata Caprese. Thank you.”

Bian and Jon ate their meals in candlelight.

“Tell me about growing up in Hanoi,” Jon asked Bian.

“I am an only child, Jon. My father is Minh Ly and my mother is Lieu. My father was the youngest General in the war;  nevertheless, he rose to second in command. He has been a businessman now for a long time.

“My childhood was like those of most children. As I grew older, I loved playing volleyball. I read a lot. I began learning English at an early age. I had lots of friends. I love my father and mother very much.”

“Why did you come to Columbia,” asked Jon.

“Columbia, as you know, is one of the greatest universities in the world, and it’s in New York City,” said Bian.

“Why did you choose to major in Human Rights, Bian,” asked Jon.

“The world, and the people and all other living creations on it, need kindness and love to heal. All have been sick for millennia. I would like to help heal Earth,” said Bian.

Jon was struck by Bian’s words. He felt the same as Bian.

The two continued to share more with each other. Finally, it was time to go.

They took a cab back to campus and Jon escorted Bian back to Hartley Hall.

“I’d like to exchange phone numbers with you. Is that OK with you?” Jon asked.

“Of course,” said Bian.

“Thank you for a wonderful day, Bian,” said Jon.

“And you the same, Jon,” said Bian.



Chapter 3

Jon picked up his receiver and gave Bian a call from his apartment.

“Bian?”, asked Jon.

“Yes,” replied Bian.

“This is Jon calling. Do you have a minute or two to talk?”

“Yes, I do,” said Bian.

“Well, first let me ask how you’re doing,” said Jon.

“I’m doing well, Jon,” said Bian.

“And school, how’s that going?” asked Jon.

“Well, I'm off to a busy start, but that’s not surprising,” said Bian.

“I’m calling to ask if you would like to go with me this Sunday afternoon and hear Mario Abdo Benitez, president of Paraguay, speak at the World Leaders Forum in Low Library, then afterwards have an early picnic meal in Riverside Park with me.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” said Bian.

“Great. I’ll meet you again in the Hartley Hall lobby around quarter of 2. Will that work for you?” asked Jon.

“Yes, Jon, that will work fine. Thanks for the double invitation,” said Bian.

“Oh, and by the way, I’ll have our picnic meal ready for us. We’ll have to pick it up at my apartment after the talk. I live on Riverside Drive between 114th and 115th Streets,” said Jon.

“I look forward to both,” said Bian.

“Have a good rest of the week,” said Jon. “See you Sunday.”


Jon got to the Hartley Hall lobby a bit early Sunday afternoon and sat down on a sofa to wait for Bian. On Saturday, Jon had composed his most recent poem and he had brought it and two others to read to Bian during their picnic. After a short wait, Bian entered the lobby.

“Bian, it's so nice to see you again,” said Jon.

“It’s so nice to see you, too,” said Bian.

“Well, are we ready to head out?” said Jon.

“I am,” said Bian.

“OK, let’s go,” said Jon.

The two headed toward Low Library, now no longer a library, but the main administrative center of the University. Further, the Rotunda was glorious. That’s where President Santiago Pena would be speaking.  

The President began his speech with a concise history of Paraguay followed by his attempts to deal with the societal ills in his country, and then spoke at length about his belief, his wish, for all nations in both Central and South America to be united into one nation. Finally, he took a number of questions from members of the audience. The program lasted about an hour.

“I found President Pena’s comments about the potential unification of all countries in Central and South America united provocative,” said Jon.

“The world is one. Why not start with all nations in Central and South America?” added Bian as she and Jon walked down the steps in front of Low Library.


“Another beautiful Fall day,” said Jon. “A beautiful day for a picnic.”

They headed down College walk, crossed Broadway, then turned left on Riverside Drive and walked toward Jon’s apartment building that was just beyond 115th Street.

“Come on up while I gather all the picnic items,” said Jon, so they took the elevator to the 5th floor, got out, and walked down the hallway to Apt. 515.

“Here’s where I live,” said Jon. Bian entered first.

“You have a beautiful view of the park and the Hudson River, Jon,” said Bian.

Jon put all picnic items from the refrigerator into a large bag and grabbed the large, folded blanket lying on the sofa in the living room, then said, “Now let’s go find a great spot to have a picnic,” said Jon.

The two crossed Riverside Drive and entered Riverside Park. After spending several minutes looking around, Bian said, “Over there. That looks like a nice spot.”

When they got to the spot, Jon put everything he had been carrying on the ground and unfolded the blanket and spread it out.

"This will be an old-fashioned Kansas picnic, Bian. I hope you like it,” said Jon.

Bian sat down on the blanket. Jon began emptying the bag.

“We have before us pieces of fried chicken, coleslaw, baked beans, cleaned strips of carrots and celery, and black olives. Here are the paper plates, utensils, napkins, and cups, along with a container of cool water. I brought water because I don’t drink alcohol.” said Jon. “Plus, I have a surprise dessert.”

Jon then sat down and gave Bian a plate, utensils, and a napkin. “Help yourself, Bian, and enjoy.” And so they did.

After both had eaten everything on their plates, Jon said, “And now for the surprise,”

He reached into the bottom of the bag for the plastic container and pulled it out.

“I have here two pieces of chocolate cake from the Hungarian Pastry Shop,” he said.

“Oh, the cake looks delicious!” said Bian.

Jon carefully put the pieces of cake on plates, then handed one to Bian.

“We had no Hungarian Pastry Shop in Kansas,” said Jon.

After eating their pieces of chocolate cake, Bian and Jon chatted for quite a while, mostly about their respective childhoods, which were, surprisingly enough, quite similar. Being loved by one’s parents, especially, was the most important experience that both shared.

“I’d like to share with you, Bian, several poems I’ve recently written,” said Jon.

“I’d like that very much,” said Bian.

“The first one I’ll recite is titled I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER’S DOWN.

I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER’S DOWN

I write when the river’s down,
when the ground’s as hard as
a banker’s disposition and as
cracked as an old woman’s face.
I write when the air is still
and the tired leaves of the
dying elm tree are a mosaic
against the bird-blue sky.
I write when the old bird dog,
Sam, is too tired to chase
rabbits, which is his habit
on temperate days. I write when
horses lie on burnt grass,
when the sun is always
high noon, when hope melts like
yellow butter near the kitchen
window. I write when there
are no cherry pies in the
oven, when heartache comes
like a dust storm in early
morning. I write when the
river’s down, and sadness
grows like cockle burs in
my heart.


The next poem is titled THERE WILL COME A TIME.

THERE WILL COME A TIME

There will come a time
when time doesn’t matter,
when all minutes and
millennia are but moments
when I look into your eyes.
There will come a time
when clinging things
will fall like desiccated
leaves, leaving us with
but one another. There
will come a time when
the external becomes eternal,
when holding you is to
embrace the universe.
There will come a time
when to be will no longer
be infinitive, but infinity,
and you and I are one.


The last poem I’ll share with you today is THERE IS A TENDER WAY TO TOUCH YOU.


THERE IS A TENDER WAY TO TOUCH YOU

There is a tender way to touch you,
not more than a brush across your cheek.
I seek a gentle kiss so not to miss your soft
and red-rose lips that meet mine, the glory
of your darkened hair that falls across my face
as I unlace your flowered blouse to place
my fingertips upon your silk-like skin to begin
to love the rest of you. I lay you down on soft,
blue sheets, your head upon pillows made of
wild willow leaves softer than robin’s feathers.
I bare your beauty slowly that glows like a candle’s
flame in a room that is at once dark and bright.
The light comes from your luminous eyes that smile
at me as I reveal the rest of you from waist to knees
to heels and toes. No one knows the tender touch
I bestow upon your gentle being that I alone am seeing.


“Thank you, Jon, for sharing these poems with me. They moved me. I hope you’ll share others with me,” said Bian.

It was time to call it an afternoon. Jon walked with Bian all the way back to Hartley Hall.

“Have a good week, Bian,” said Jon, then leaned forward and
kissed her lips lightly.



Chapter 4


Bian and Jon began studying together in Butler Library. They read, they wrote, they laughed together. They got to know each other increasingly well. Their relationship, seemingly effortlessly, became romantic. They began to spend more time in Jon’s apartment. They became lovers.

Bian brought Jon a sense of happiness into his life that he had never experienced before. Not surprisingly, the same was true for Bian in a similar way, who previously, but not consciously, had always felt somewhat on the periphery of life in America. They complemented and enjoyed each other, so much so that full-blown love blossomed.

This is how the rest of the semester flowed. When Christmas break came, they decided to fly to Paris and spend the holidays there. Of course, they visited the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame. They strolled down Champs-Elysees and through Montmartre, ate mostly at bistros, and took a trip to see Versailles.

Among other excursions, they traveled to Amiens to see the famous cathedral there. Overlooking the Somme River, the Amiens Cathedral was built between 1220 and 1270. It was the largest cathedral in France, twice the size of Notre Dame. Jon said the skyscrapers in New York City paled in comparison to Amiens Cathedral.

Back to Columbia, New York City, and Spring semester. When the weather warmed, they spent many week-end afternoons in Central Park, visited many other sites, ate all kinds of ethnic foods, and, of course, had breakfast at Tom’s often. Furthermore, Bian’s parents were flying from Hanoi to New York City to attend Commencement.

But the highlight not only of the moment, but also, and most importantly, of the rest of her life, was Jon proposing marriage to her the week before they were to graduate, which, in a state of both shock and pure joy, she accepted. He gave her a diamond engagement ring he had bought at Tiffany’s.

“It is such an honor and a pleasure to meet both of you, Mr. and Mrs. Ly,” said Jon. Mr. Ly translated for his wife who knew no English.


Commencement at Columbia was always a transcendental exercise. That evening, the four of them celebrated by having dinner at Eleven Madison Park, courtesy of Mr. Minh. Three days later, Bian and Jon were married in
St. Paul’s Chapel on the Columbia campus.

Bian and John rented a cottage on Cape Cod for the summer. A summer of love it was. Sailing, relaxing, chatting, making love–all that two human beings could wish for.

The first thing Jon felt he needed to do was to call Chad, who had been Jon's roommate at Columbia, to thank him for coming to the wedding. They had a nice chat, then Chad asked the question below:

“Jon, I just have to ask you this one question,” said Chad. “Is Bian’s father, by any chance, Minh Ly?”

“Yes,” said Jon.

“Jesus, Jon! Did you know that Minh Ly is one of the richest men on the planet?”

Silence.

Finally, Jon said, “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Not only is Minh Ly one of the richest men on Earth, but he is one of the most connected in the entire world. But most people, even the richest, don’t know how internationally influential he is. He keeps an extremely low profile.

More silence.

“I didn’t know any of this, Chad. Bian never mentioned to me even an iota of what you have just told me,” said Jon.

“Well, Jon, I had to ask,” said Chad. “I hope you’re not disconcerted.”

“No, no, Chad. I guess I’m just flabbergasted,” said Jon.

“I found out about Minh Ly when I was invited to join members of the top brass at a Goldman Sachs luncheon and Minh Ly’s name popped into the conversation for a minute or two. That’s all,” said Chad.

“Fine, Chad. Thanks for telling me this,” said Jon, then hung up.


Chapter 5


Jon sat in the stuffed chair by the fireplace for a long time. Bian had driven into Hyannis to do some shopping.

When Bian had mentioned during one of their chats she had wanted to “heal the Earth” during her life, that phrase–that particular phrase–had pierced his being, bringing fully into his consciousness the same overpowering sentiment.  Once she had uttered those three words, Jon’s life had been profoundly and permanently affected. He had even written what he considered to be a “commentary,” a brief, concise pathway that humankind could follow to save the world, to create Peace on Earth forever. He had had no intention of ever sharing it with Bian, until now. Jon rose from his chair and went into the bedroom and opened the closet door and pulled out the big cardboard box in which he kept all of his poems. Near the top, he saw his commentary. He lifted it out and sat down on the bed and began to read it again.

PEACE ON EARTH THROUGH LOVE

Turning the World Rightside-In

by

Jon Witherston


PREAMBLE:  All we have is our little planet, Earth. For the vast majority of my life, I have thought, “What would it be like to have Peace on Earth?” But for only two, maybe three, weeks every year, usually around Christmas, I would see the phrase “Peace on Earth," usually on Christmas cards. But after Christmas, I would not hear or see that sanguine notion for 11 more months. The longer I lived, the more this annual ritual bothered me. At Andover, I had studied European history. At Columbia, I had majored in American history. Over time, I increasingly came to the realization that in both prep school and college, I had essentially been studying about wars on top of wars and their aftermaths:  millions and millions and millions of human beings being killed. Then, when I got curious, I used my computer to find out that, according to many scholars, only a little over 200, out of roughly 3,400 years of recorded history, were deemed “peaceful.” Humanity, I concluded, had a horrible track record when it came to effectuating “Peace on Earth.” And during my lifetime things have not gotten any better.  
      
SPIRITUAL ECOLOGY:  There is one land, one sky, one sea, one people. The boundaries that divide us are not on maps, but in our minds and hearts. John Donne was prescient. Earth is as impoverished as its poorest Citizen, as healthy as her sickest, as educated as her most ignorant. If we pollute the upper waters of the Mississippi, then ineluctably we shall pollute the Indian Ocean. If we continue to pollute our air, the current 8,100,000,000 Citizens on Earth will die. All species will be accorded the same concern and care as Citizens of Earth. The imminent threats of nuclear holocaust and catastrophic climate change we need urgently to prevent. This is the truth of Spiritual Ecology.  

CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH:  If we can wage war, why should we not wage peace? Nations are anachronistic;  therefore, there will be none. There will only be Earth and Citizens of Earth. Each Citizen of Earth will devote a sizable number of years of her/his life to the betterment of humankind and Earth. All military weapons--from handguns to hydrogen bombs--will be destroyed, and any future weapons will be prohibited. All jails and prisons will be closed, replaced by Love Centers (see below). Automation and other technological advances will enhance the opportunity for all Citizens of Earth to realize exponentially their potential, personally and spiritually. There will be no money. All precious resources and assets of Earth will be distributed equally among all Citizens of Earth. The only things each will own are the right to be treated well and the responsibility to treat Earth and all its Citizens well. All Citizens will be free to travel anywhere, at any time, on Earth. All Citizens will be free to choose their own personal and professional goals, but will do no harm to Earth or other Citizens. All Citizens will be afforded the same resources to live a full, safe, and satisfying life, including the best education, health care, housing, food, and other necessities throughout Earth.

LOVE:  The only way to change anything for the good, for good, is through love. Love is what every living creation on Earth needs. Love Centers are for those Citizens who were not loved enough, or at all, especially at their earliest of ages. Concomitantly, they act out their pain hurtfully, sometimes lethally, often against other Citizens. Citizens who are emotionally ill will be separated from those who are not. Jails and prisons only abet this deleterious situation. Some Citizens in pain may need to be constrained in Love Centers humanely while they recover, through being loved, so they do not hurt themselves or others. In some extreme cases, Citizens may be in so much pain that they remain violent for a long time.  Thus, they may need to be constrained for the rest of their lives, but always loved, never punished. In time, Citizens, when loved enough, will only have love to give, and the need for Love Centers will commensurately decline.

EARTH:  In 1948, Eleanor Roosevelt chaired the commission that wrote the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. UDHR, with some updates and revisions, will serve as the moral and legal guidepost for Earth.

GENERAL ASSEMBLY:  Twenty Citizens of Earth worldwide will be elected only for one five-year term as members of the General Assembly. Every five years, 20 new Citizens of Earth will be elected.

FIRST VOTE:  The first vote of all Citizens of Earth will be to establish CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. Majority rules. All Citizens will have access to Internet voting, as well as access to cell phones and other types of computers. Citizens of Earths will have her/his own secured ID codes. Citizens of Earth will have to be 18 or older to vote. Citizens of Earth will be encouraged to bring before the General Assembly all ideas and recommendations, as well as any concerns or complaints, which will be considered and responded to promptly. Citizens of Earth's ideas and recommendations will be formed into proposals drafted by members of the General Assembly. Citizens of Earth will vote on these proposals of each month during the first two weeks of the following month. Citizens of Earth will be Earth’s government. Members of the General Assembly will be facilitators who will work with millions of volunteers. There will be no president of Earth.

THE FUTURE:  There will be no money.  All items on Earth will be given  shares of worth. Each Citizen of Earth will receive equal shares of worth. All shares in excess of what’s needed reasonably by each Citizen of Earth will be saved for future generations. No violence of any kind will occur during the transfer of these shares. Citizens of Earth will take these steps because they are the moral, the right, steps to take to save all living creations on Earth, and Earth itself.

CELEBRATE AND SHARE: If you were to take a photograph of humanity and gaze at it, you would see a beautiful mosaic of mankind of different, beautiful colors. If you could step into the photograph, you would hear a melody of languages and dialects. You could have a worldwide picnic with all your sisters and brothers and experience different customs and taste different, delicious foods. And in moments of silence, all of you could pray in your different religions, separate but together at the same time. You would also share the same human laughter and joys and feel the same sorrows and cry the same tears, all in Peace on Earth eternal. All of you would come to delight in these differences, not dread them. You would look forward to celebrating and sharing with your family, not killing others. The spiritual whole would be larger than the sum of its sacred parts.

A QUANTUM LEAP:  The world, over millennia, keeps evolving. Over 3,400 years of recorded history, powers, nations, keep shifting, sometimes seismically. Now is the time for not only the grandest seismic shift ever, but also the one that will save Earth and all living creations upon it. It is time for Earth to become one Earth--not a scattering of over 200 nations with artificial borders. Technology, with its innumerable advances, has made us into a world when all can become one. We are free to be our real selves, to spend our variegated lives not aggrandizing, but sharing and giving. Rather than dreading our superficial differences--our different skin colors, our different cultures, our different religions, our different languages--we can explore and enjoy them. Let us finally be what we truly have been forever, one big, worldwide family of humanity. No more wars, no more weapons, no more killing. No more hunger, no more homelessness, no more hopelessness. No more ignorance, no more illnesses, no more social classes. This is the quantum leap of which I speak.

PEACE ON EARTH:  Wealth is not worth. The mansuetude of loving and being love is. When love is your currency, all else is counterfeit. Citizens will be able to go about creating their own happiness that is built on love-based personal relationships and professional activities. No longer will human beings be able to profit from another’s pain. With love at the center of being and living, there will be no more wars, no more dictators, no more corruption. Finally, there will only be Peace on Earth forever.

Copyright 2026 Jon Witherston.


Jon heard the front door open and shut.

“Bian, I’m in the bedroom,” said Jon. “I’ve got something I want you to read.”

Bian came into the bedroom. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s something you inspired,” replied Jon.

Bian kissed Jon on the cheek then sat on the bed.

“Read it, then we’ll chat,” said Jon. He handed the commentary to Bian who began reading it.

“Jon, when did you write this?” asked Bian.

“I wrote it after you shared with me your desire to spend your life trying to heal Earth,” said Jon. “At Tom’s. Do you remember?”

“I’ve always dreamed of this ever since my father told me about the war,” she said. “What I remember about Tom’s is when I told you I was majoring in Human Rights, you said the whole world should be majoring in Human Rights.”

“Of course, I remember that, too,” said Jon.


What Bian came to realize about her father as she grew up was he had become anti-war. He had come to hate it.

Two things she had never known about him, though. First, her father was one of the wealthiest men on Earth. Yes, she knew he was well-to-do:  she had grown up, after all, in a large, comfortable home, and her father had had the money to pay for her expensive educations,  Second, he had belonged, for almost two decades now, to a secret, worldwide group of extremely wealthy and influential men and women who wished for, and were working toward, a world that would never know war.

Jon did not dare tell Bian about what Chad had shared with him over the phone, about her father’s megawealth. Bian had never known about;  indeed, her father obviously had never mentioned, let alone flaunted, it, though he frequently traveled to many destinations around the world. Bian had always thought those trips had to do with his businesses, about which he never talked explicitly.

“I’d like to elaborate a bit on what you’ve read in my commentary, Bian, if you care to,” said Jon.

“Of course,” said Bian.

“I’m thinking about the poor,” Jon said. “The poor, and the extremely poor, on Earth, as the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund have put it,” Jon said, with more than a tinge of contempt. “Out of 8 billion human beings on Earth, roughly 2 ½ billion fall into these two ‘statistical’ categories. That’s more than 1 out of 4 human lives on Earth desperately trying to survive day-to-day.

“Here’s my idea, Bian,” said Jon.

“There are more than 7,000 languages and dialects spoken on Earth. Most of the poor speak those dialects. How to communicate with them is the biggest challenge. In broad strokes and succinctly, this is what I have in mind. I want to share this with you and hope you’ll be my partner.

“I want to travel Earth with you. I want to meet first the poor of Earth with you, speak with them, eat with them, live with them, answer all their questions about creating one land, one sky, one sea, one people. I want to talk with them about all Citizens of Earth cooperating with, not competing against, one another, creating Peace on Earth through love forever. If ever we can create a vote on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH, I’m sure the vast majority of them would vote for it.

“We would start in Mexico, then visit the nations of Central America, then those of South America. Then we would go to Africa where there are so many poor and do the same thing. Then the rest of the world.

“Does all of this sound audacious, Bian? Well, it should, because it is,” said Jon. “Logistics will be beyond enormous, but in my heart, I believe there will be eventually millions and millions and millions of volunteers around the world who will wish to join in.”

Bian had sat on the bed taking all of this in, paused, then said to her husband whom she loved and admired so much, “Jon, you are a genius, but all of this does sound audacious. My first idea is to share all of this with my father and get his reaction to your commentary and what you’ve just shared with me. He knows the world probably as well, if not better, than any other person on Earth.”

“A great idea!” said Jon.

“I’ll call him at 10 p.m. tonight. It will be 9 a.m. in Hanoi,” said Bian excitedly.



Chapter 6


Bian spoke with her father that evening. Bian thought she had detected a good measure of surprise, if not excitement, in his voice. He would be in Toronto on business in mid-September. He could meet his daughter and Jon at 10 a.m. at the Ritz-Carlton on Monday, the 11th. He said he would leave a note at the front desk telling them which room he was staying in. He told Bian he always used aliases when he traveled, a fact she had not previously known. Understandably, Bian was thrilled.

Bian and Jon had enjoyed immensely the rest of the summer, as only on Cape Cod one can. They flew from Logan Airport to Toronto the morning of Sunday, 10 September. They arrived at the Ritz-Carlton around 9:45 Monday morning.

“I believe you have a note waiting for Bian and Jon,” said Bian.

“Just a minute, please,” said the clerk.

“Here,” said the clerk and handed it to Bian.

“Thank you,” said Bian. “Father’s in room #715.”

The two took the elevator to the 7th floor, found the room, and knocked on the door. In a moment or two, Minh Ly opened it.

“My dear daughter, Bian! How are you?” said Mr. Ly as he gave his daughter a big hug. “And you, Jon, how are you?”

Jon shook Mr. Ly’s hand as he entered the room.

“So good to see you, sir,” said Jon.

“Come in. Make yourselves comfortable,” said Mr. Ly.

“Mr. Ly, the first thing I would like to share with you is my commentary. It is an overview of what I would like to pursue with Bian,” said Jon.

“Let me read it,” said Mr. Ly.

It took a couple of minutes for My Ly to finish reading. He paused for several moments, then exclaimed “Jon, this is extraordinary!”

“Bian inspired me,” said Jon. “You know, Mr. Ly, I’m a poet, not a financier. It would take untold amounts of money and the best technology on Earth--unbelievable amounts of it--to realize this dream.”

“Don’t worry. I have friends,” said Mr. Ly.

"I envision Bian and I traveling around the world visiting the poorest sections of most of the biggest cities on Earth, using a translator when necessary to explain how we collectively can bring lasting peace to Earth. Furthermore, I expect not only the worldwide, but also the local, media to be informed of these gatherings," Jon said.

"You need to know I must always remain anonymous. Bian, you, and I shall need to meet periodically. I and my friends have developed ways always to be in touch, but will never be able to be detected. I wish not to elaborate. Jon, you inspire me the way Bian inspired you,” said Mr. Ly.


Chapter 7

“Read me some more of your poems,” said Bian.

“OK,” said Jon and went to get the box that contained his poems in the  closet. He looked through the stack and selected several of them, then sat down next to Bian on the living room sofa.

“The first one I’d like to share with you is titled SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS.


SOUTHWESTERN KANSAS

When you fly to southwestern Kansas,
you see a different kind of Kansas.
The land is flat,
the sky is big and blue,
and the folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.

On a ranch down near Liberal,
the black night roars
and the wind is wet.
All are happy tonight, for there is rain
and tomorrow the pastures will grow greener.

In the morning when the sun first shines,
the hired hands
with leathered countenances
and gnarled fingers
awake in old ranch houses
made of adobe brick
and slip on their muddy cowboy boots
and faded blue jeans
to begin another day of hard labor.

On the open prairie made green by rain,
tan and white cattle huddle together,
munching on green grass and purple sage.
A new-born calf bawls.
Her mother, the Hereford cow,
is there to care
and the baby calf ***** her belly full
of mother’s milk.

About 60 miles to the north
and a little to the west,
The sun stands high in a blue sky
dotted with little puffs of white.
At noon in Ulysses,
folk eat at the Coffee Cafe:
Swiss steak, short ribs, or sweetbreads
on Tuesdays
with chocolate cake for dessert.

The folk, the common folk, well, they get along,
the common folk get along in Ulysses.
They got a new high school and a Rexall drug store,
a water tower and a drive-in movie theater.
They got loads of Purina Chow,
plenty of John Deere combines,
and co-op signs stuck on almost everything.
And they got a main street several blocks long
with a lot of pick-up trucks parked on either side
driven by wheat farmers
with silver-white crew cuts
and narrow string ties.

Things are spread out in southwestern Kansas.
A blanket woven of green, brown, and yellow
patches of earth,
sown together by miles of barbed-wire fences,
spreads interminably into the horizon.
Occasional, faceless, little country towns,
distinguished only by imposing grain elevators
spiraling into the sky
like concrete cathedrals,
are joined tenuously together by
endless asphalt streaks
and dusty country roads,
pencil-line thin
and ruler straight,
flanked on either side
by telephone poles and wind-blown wires
strung one
after another,
after another
in monotonous succession.

But things, things aren’t too bad in southwestern Kansas.
Alfalfa’s growing green
and irrigation’s coming in.
Rain’s been real good
and the cattle market’s really strong.
The folk, they got the 1st National on weekdays
and the 1st Methodist in between.
The kids, they got 4-H clubs and scholarships to K-State.
And Ulysses, it’s got all that the big towns got–
gas, lights, and water.
So the folk, the common folk, well, they get along.
the common folk get along in southwestern Kansas.


“The next poem is SIMONE, SIMONE," said Jon.


SIMONE, SIMONE

Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone
please come to me
and bear your breast
for me to rest
my weary head
and shattered heart
upon a part
so soft and warm.
Simone, Simone
I’m all alone.
Simone, Simone.


“The final poem, Bian, is TREE LIMBS,” said Jon.


TREE LIMBS

A long time ago,
I used to lie on my bed
and look out my window
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.

And I used to watch the cars
as they traveled by,
some fast, some slow,
from right to left, and left to right,
and wonder where they were going to
and coming from.

Once from my window
I hit a bus with my BB gun.
I was scared
because I knew I wasn’t
supposed to shoot buses,
even though it was kind of fun.

And sometimes I used
to hide behind my curtains
and watch the pretty
girls walk by my house
in their swimming suits
coming back from
the pool in the park.

But mostly I just used to lie
on my bed and think,
and watch the big elm tree
as it died slowly.


“I love not only your poetry, Jon, but also how you read each one,” said Bian.

Jon gave her a kiss.

They drove to the tip of Cape Cod to watch the sunset, then drove back to the Twenty-Eight Atlantic to have dinner. Bian ordered oysters, lobster “Carbonara,” kale salad, and scallops. Jon had salmon tartare, chowder, baby green salad, and grilled octopus.

“Well, I’m excited!” Jon said. “We have a tremendous amount of planning to do, but we will have the experience of our lifetimes, and my greatest pleasure will be sharing it with you.”

“D’accord!” said Bian.



Chapter 8


Bian and Jon began preparations with gusto.

Mr. Ly and his friends would  pay all expenses;  they would handle all details, such as reservations for air travel and hotels and rental cars;  they would contact the best interpreters in each country and pay them; they would contact leading newspapers and other news organizations in the world, including, but not limited to, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Le Monde, Times of India, China Daily, Russian Today, BBC, CNN, and MSNBC;  and they would contact the leading media–newspapers and TV and radio stations–in the largest city of each country prior to Bian and Jon’s visit there.  

Somewhat tired, but extremely gratified, they sat on the sofa in early evening to listen to Jon’s favorite Beethoven Symphony, #7. The Symphony’s second movement “was a jewel,” Jon said. Of course, he leaned back and closed his eyes as he listened.

When the recording was over, and after a silent pause, Jon slowly stood up, and without ever saying a word, reached down and picked up Bian, and holding her in his arms, carried her carefully into the bedroom where he stood her up beside the bed, then, slowly and softly, undressed her, and after he had pulled back the bed sheets, picked Bian up again and lay her on the bed. Then he undressed and got into bed beside her.

The room was dark and full of silence. Then Jon turned toward the woman who had brought limitless joy into his life and said to her, “Bian, who in the Heavens made you?” And then he kept leaning until he gently lay upon his wife, and these two lovers made love deep into the dark of night.


Chapter 9

Jon was thinking about Minh Ly. Jon knew he was beyond genius, but more importantly, Ly made Jon think of what Jorge Luis Borges had once written, that every person’s most important task was to complete successfully the transmuting of her/his pain into compassion. Ly had been the youngest General ever appointed by ** Chi Minh, and, in short, General Ly had had to order North Vietnamese soldiers into battle. 1,100,000 of them had died during the long, ugly, brutal Vietnam War. Minh had spent many days in tears. That he had had the fortitude to persevere and ultimately transmute his unbearable pain into compassion is what Jon most respected about Minh Ly. Because he was so brilliant, Ly initially threw himself into the throes of worldwide business at war’s end, amassing, over a number of years, massive wealth:  billions and billions and billions of dollars. Concurrently, however, Ly, overtime, experienced a life-changing metamorphosis. He came to realize that wealth was not worth, as Jon had written in his commentary PEACE ON EARTH THROUGH LOVE, that compassion was humanity’s most important goal, that only love could save Earth. And that was why he ultimately decided to use wealth not to buy as much of Earth as he could, but to use it to save Earth, to eradicate all the vicious inequities that had ineluctably killed billions of human beings over many millennia. Moreover, he secretly went around the world and met with his mega-wealthy friends, asking them to join him in this lifelong endeavor that he titled SOCIETY FOR PEACE, and many of them did join him. Now Ly and his friends were warring against war, fighting every injustice that caused horrid hell into which all the poor, all who suffered from myriad forms of racism through torture and death, fell. Ly was hell-bent on saving Earth and all living creations upon it. Then he met Jon.  

Bian, thought Jon, was as incredibly intelligent as her father. Of course, she was soft-spoken, but that belied her brilliance. After all, Bian has just completed the most rigorous, as well as the best, undergraduate liberal arts education to be found on Earth, graduating Summa *** Laude, an incredible academic achievement. Jon knew how much she loved her father, and he believed as well that his wife yearned, probably unconsciously, to emulate him. That notion alone was enough to cause Jon to fall in love with Bian, then propose to and marry her. Now she was co-parthers with Jon and her father to realize her wish:  to heal Earth.

“I wrote a new poem yesterday, Bian. Would you like to her it?” said Jon.

“Of course,” said Bian.

“OK,” said Jon who then reached into his satchel and pulled out the new poem and began reading it.


SOLITUDE AND GRACE

I will wander
into wilderness
to find myself.
I will leave behind
my accoutrements,
memories of medals,
of past applause
and accolades,
accomplishments that
warranted degrees
and diplomas
portending future
successes. I like
who I am, who
I have become. No,
I love myself, and that
is my greatest achievement,
the acme most men
are blind to as they
mistake wealth for worth.
Most would say
I will be lonely,
but they are wrong,
because I will always be
with my best friend ever,
my real self. And I will
share my joy with
squirrels and rabbits
and deer, with bushes
and broken branches
and brush, with rills
and rivulets and rivers,
with rising and setting
suns and countless
stars coruscating in
night's sky. I will say
prayers to piles of pine
and sycamore limbs
that once were live,
but now make monuments
I worship. I am at one
with all I prize.  My eyes,
even when they are closed,
see their beauty. I know
I will be blessed forever.
I lie on my bed, Earth,
and wait to join all
in solitude and grace.


“That was beautiful, Jon,” said Bian as she sped toward Logan.

“Thank you, my dear,” replied Jon.



Chapter 9

Jon was thinking about Minh Ly. Jon knew he was beyond genius, but more importantly, Ly made Jon think of what Jorge Luis Borges had once written, that every person’s most important task was to complete successfully the transmuting of her/his pain into compassion. Ly had been the youngest General ever appointed by ** Chi Minh, and, in short, General Ly had had to order North Vietnamese soldiers into battle. 1,100,000 of them had died during the long, ugly, brutal Vietnam War. Minh had spent many days in tears. That he had had the fortitude to persevere and ultimately transmute his unbearable pain into compassion is what Jon most respected about Minh Ly. Because he was so brilliant, Ly initially threw himself into the throes of worldwide business at war’s end, amassing, over a number of years, massive wealth:  billions and billions and billions of dollars. Concurrently, however, Ly, overtime, experienced a life-changing metamorphosis. He came to realize that wealth was not worth, as Jon had written in his commentary PEACE ON EARTH THROUGH LOVE, that compassion was humanity’s most important goal, that only love could save Earth. And that was why he ultimately decided to use wealth not to buy as much of Earth as he could, but to use it to save Earth, to eradicate all the vicious inequities that had ineluctably killed billions of human beings over many millennia. Moreover, he secretly went around the world and met with his megawealthy friends, asking them to join him in this lifelong endeavor. Now Ly and his friends were warring against war, fighting every injustice that caused horrid hell into which all the poor, all who suffered from myriad forms of racism through torture and death, fell. Ly was hell-bent on saving Earth and all living creations upon it. Then he met Jon.  

Bian, thought Jon, was as incredibly intelligent as her father. Of course, she was soft-spoken, but that belied her brilliance. After all, Bian has just completed the most rigorous, as well as the best, undergraduate liberal arts education to be found on Earth, graduating Summa *** Laude, an incredible academic achievement. Jon knew how much she loved her father, and he believed as well that his wife yearned, probably unconsciously, to emulate him. That notion alone was enough to cause Jon to fall in love with Bian, then propose to and marry her. Now she was co-parthers with Jon and her father to realize her wish:  to heal Earth.

“I wrote a new poem yesterday, Bian. Would you like to her it?” said Jon.

“Of course,” said Bian.

“OK,” said Jon who then reached into his satchel and pulled out the new poem and began reading it.


SOLITUDE AND GRACE

I will wander
into wilderness
to find myself.
I will leave behind
my accoutrements,
memories of medals,
of past applause
and accolades,
accomplishments that
warranted degrees
and diplomas
portending future
successes. I like
who I am, who
I have become. No,
I love myself, and that
is my greatest achievement,
the acme most men
are blind to as they
mistake wealth for worth.
Most would say
I will be lonely,
but they are wrong,
because I will always be
with my best friend ever,
my real self. And I will
share my joy with
squirrels and rabbits
and deer, with bushes
and broken branches
and brush, with rills
and rivulets and rivers,
with rising and setting
suns and countless
stars coruscating in
night's sky. I will say
prayers to piles of pine
and sycamore limbs
that once were live,
but now make monuments
I worship. I am at one
with all I prize.  My eyes,
even when they are closed,
see their beauty. I know
I will be blessed forever.
I lie on my bed, Earth,
and wait to join all
in solitude and grace.


“That was beautiful, Jon,” said Bian as she sped toward Logan.

“Thank you, my dear,” replied Jon.


Chapter 10

“Do come in! How wonderful to see you both again! Your visits are becoming the highlight for me every month,” exclaimed Mr. Ly.

Bian, before she said a word, rushed forward into her father’s open arms to be hugged by him. For almost a minute, Bian stayed silent in her father’s arms. She did not want him to stop hugging her;  it felt so good. Finally, Bian stepped back and, almost in a yell, said, “I love you!”

“My dear Bian, I love you too, with all my heart,” said Mr. Ly. “And you, Jon, it is always special to meet a person like you. You are my only son and I am blessed to have you now as part of my family. Please, both of you, have a seat.”

“Thank you, Mr Ly. I am honored now to be a member of the Ly family,” said Jon, then joined Bian on the sofa.

Jon spoke again.

“Mr. Ly, I have for you the information you will need to prepare the press releases you will send to all media and people you wish to inform about our imminent sojourn ? January 202. Here it is,” said Jon, and handed the pages to him.

Mr. Ly continued.

“Bian and Jon, I need to share with both of you the following. My friends and I will create our own Starlink-like internet company so no “Citizen of Earth”--as you, Jon, call all 8 billion human beings on Earth–can be blocked when each votes on CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. Furthermore, we will provide cell phones to all CITIZENS OF EARTH.  And Bian and Jon, you will be able... to visit safely in all the more than the 50 totalitarian nations. How is this possible, you ask? It is possible because I and my friends have our ways. In addition, we shall translate your commentary PEACE ON EARTH THROUGH LOVE into all 7,000 languages and dialects and, beginning ? January 202, will send it monthly to all media according to which each uses. This will continue until the vote on CAMPAIGN ON EARTH takes place during the first two weeks of 202?. And, as you have told me, Jon, only love can save Earth.”

“Mr. Ly, you are, with the exception of your daughter, the most intelligent, the most compassionate, the most self-effacing human being I have had the honor ever meeting. You know, I’m sure, the difference between personhood and behavior. Everyone’s personhood is sacred, inviolable, intrinsic, whereas so many peoples' behavior is often uncaring or hurtful, or even much worse. It is not unusual to react to one’s untoward behavior with at least displeasure, if not outright hate, even on rare occasions with violence. But this latter response is unknowing. When one encounters bad behavior to any degree and wishes it were not so, do not exacerbate what is already deleterious by making it even worse through punishment. Instead, constrain this negativity, but love this forsaken person. Love is the cure for all those who suffer pain. It may take a lot of love to heal a hurting soul, even a lifetime, perhaps even longer. But love is the antidote for all emotional maladies. But for one to be able to love others, one must first be loved, preferably by one’s parents. This dilemma is what our world suffers from the most. Wealth, fame, power–all are illusory and therefore feckless. They are but unconscious efforts to compensate for lack of love, and that is why our world has been turned inside-out for millennia. Only being loved, and then being able to love, will we be able to turn our world right-side in. Then and only then will we have Peace on Earth forever, and for the first time.

“I lavish praise upon you, because you are a beyond-magnificent human being, Mr. Ly,” concluded Jon.

Mr. Ly sat in silence, stunned. Finally, he said, “Thank you, thank you, Jon.”