You can’t see them,
but they’re there,
nibbling, chewing, munching,
stuffing themselves for dear life.
It’s as if you’ve hung out a sign:
WELCOME TO THE- ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT GARDEN CAFETERIA.
Like most uninvited guests,
they prefer to keep to themselves,
unobtrusive, not lingering long
at the punch bowl,
gliding smoothly, quickly, away
as you approach.
You can’t see them
but they’re there all right.
Look what they’ve done to the beans!
I am not a cook, not really.
I use a cookbook and follow it
slavishly. My idea of creativity
consists of adding an extra
1/4 teaspoon of paprika
to the Betty Crocker recipe
for chili. But I do enjoy cutting
up the vegetables for a stir
fry. I like the way the knife
slices through a carrot and
makes a thunk with each slice
and I feel great when someone,
anyone, at the table
says: this is pretty good.
But I am not a cook.
Here’s to all loves lost along the way.
Some died hard, others cast aside
like clothes outgrown. Who can say
the reasons? Endings are not justified
by explanations. Instead, let’s raise
a glass to all loves found . . . and lost.
Let’s lift our voices loud in praise
for every chance at loving. Hang the cost!
Classic, perennial theme
of storytellers, song writers,
poets, movie makers.
Always bittersweet, or, to be more
precise, sweetbitter, due to the usual
pattern of felicity giving
way to its opposite.
Always a crowd-pleaser, inducing,
if not tears, at least a rueful sigh,
a sad shake of the head over
what once was,
what might have been if only . . .
I hereby register complaint.
No, a counterview, a rebuttal.
Love is never lost. But its very nature
love is not loseable. Love accumulates,
infuses, multiplies. How did the ancient
song put it . . . many waters cannot
quench it? Yes. And don’t forget
that saint from Tarsus who
insisted that it never ends.
It doesn’t, not really.
Think back to your life,
your own “lost loves.”
See what I mean?
There is a button, a key on the computer, you can press when you’re playing one of those video card games . . . UNDO. You use it when you’ve made a too-quick decision, a choice you immediately regret. Hit it and your actions is canceled, revoked. You get to do it over, no questions asked, no penalty paid for your stupidity.
I hereby petition the universe to incorporate UNDO into the workings of the time/space reality. It would eliminate an endless number of oopses. It would relieve priests; they would have to listen to far fewer forgive-me-Father-for-I-have-sinneds. It would reduce injury, might even, in some cases, save lives.
UNDO has its limits. You can’t use it to eliminate consecutive bad choices. It’s good for only one screw-up at a time. But still . . . think of the possibilities.
Dear Penny,
I’m writing this note to express how deeply I appreciate your patience, your devotion, your unconditional acceptance of me.
Lord knows I don’t deserve it. How many times I have neglected you, taken you for granted, selfishly put my needs above yours. I have, much too often, spoken harshly,
even shouted at you in anger. Preoccupied with my work or amusement, I have often kept your waiting. I confess that at times I have literally abandoned you for long stretches of time.
I am truly sorry for my thoughtlessness. I know I can never atone for my wrongdoing. Through it all, wonder of wonders, you still adore me. I see it in your eyes.
But how about this: let’s go for a long walk, just the two of us.
I’ll get the leash.
The best way to see new-fallen snow
at night from inside the house
-- in fact the only way --
is to turn off all the lights in the room.
Light is best seen, best loved,
by those who stand in darkness.
Think back to the times of trouble when you were small and frightened
when that barking dog at the corner terrorized you
when the playmate you thought was your friend turned out not to be
when your mother was in the hospital
when you learned that Santa Claus was a lie
when monsters were real as rain
Then remind yourself
that fear is a deceiver
that the worst that could happened has never happened
that you’re not a kid anymore
Hated getting out of bed
that winter I worked for Bob Kurtz
whose farm was up the road a ways
Hated getting up two hours dark
before the school bus came
so I could help Bob milk his damn cows
Hated what I had to do --
pour feed into the troughs
lug steaming pails to the milkhouse
fork manure into the spreader
But mostly hated
the getting up and going
Icy air hit me as I left the house
swung my legs onto my bike
lunged into the darkness and the wind
the cold amazed me every time
stunned my throat my lungs
burrowed through my clothing to the skin
I shivered--shook--ground
my teeth in useless freezing rage
Strain up the hill and--at long last--
see the gable light beckon like the star the wise men followed
park the bike outside, yank open the stable door
cattle warmth surrounds--embraces--blesses
I sob with glad relief
You're late again says Bob
but merry Christmas anyway
he tosses me a ribboned Hershey bar and grins
Some say it's sad that Christ the king
had just a cattle trough for crib
I say a warm stable on a bone-cold morning
feels like the entry room to heaven
Maybe--for the Child--the entry room to earth
The songs put pictures in his head:
angels in a cloud choir loft playing
golden harps and singing, kings
clad in rich robes striding in
with gifts, a boy about his age
thumping on a drum. But some
things puzzled him. He couldn’t
figure out what lowing cattle
were exactly, wasn’t sure where
stockings and mistletoe would hang,
wondered how Santa, Rudolph,
eight reindeer and a sleigh
would all fit in the stable,
and simply didn’t know how,
with all the fuss, the baby could
still be sleeping in heavenly peace.
Inklings By Ken 