Clair's unpublished poems

Selfscape 706

Double nickels has arrived

I’ve had three quarters of the expected ride.

Most of my hair has gone to gray

And my body won’t work like yesterday.

They say my kidneys and liver and heart

Look good today, but could soon fall apart.

Exercise promises that filled my mouth

Are mocked by muscles that slowly sag south.

And what of the pledges to be a good Dad

Or complete the solemn obligations I’ve had?

Are these sliding by as year follows year?

When I talk do people believe what they hear?

Fifty something may not be too soon

To look over a life to see if there’s room

For making improvements in mindsets or habits

Like responsible golfers repairing their divots.

Silent, Holy Night

One silent night in Bethlehem

some twenty centuries distant

the intersection of earth and heaven

was visible for an instant.

For on that silent, holy night,

while men did shepherd duty,

a sudden flood of celestial light

brought both fear and beauty.

It truly awed those humble Jews

that God had chosen them

to be the first to hear the news

of God’s great gift to men.

The music played on heavenly horn

made simple men applaud,

for unto them a child was born,

a Savior come from God.

Far above the pasture glen

outside of space and time,

the Father paced the halls of heaven

awaiting birth divine.

Since Adam, tricked by serpent’s ruse

had led his race astray,

The Holy Father planned to use

this Child to show the way

For sinful man to chart a course

back to the arms of grace.

Thus did the Son, without remorse

forsake His royal place

To pay the debt of sinful man

impaled on cruel tree;

then on the third day, by God’s hand,

He’d rise for all to see.

So on that silent, holy night

redemption came to earth,

and death was robbed of all its might,

by one miraculous birth.

If as a child we trust the One

who came to Bethlehem’s stall,

the long, dark night of sin is done,

and grace extends to all.

THE GOD OF MADISON AVENUE

God is dead, or at least irrelevant.

Your hope is in the evolution of humanity

or at least in Wall Street and Madison Avenue.

Your satisfaction is guaranteed

twelve ways in Marlboro country.

You can have it your way,

and your way is the right one, baby, uh-huh.

You take great pleasure in knowing

you have the real thing

and stand in confident assurance

that you're worth it

because you've come a long way, baby.

You stand before God

with your hands confidently raised

because you are sure that it's all about taste.

EF Hutton spoke; you listened

and now you are on the way to that special place

where they'll leave the light on for ya.

Life is a journey so you enjoy the ride,

flying the friendly skies,

relishing the thought of your money-back guarantee.

Vote for me and I promise

to end life on earth as we know it:

no pain, no problems, no poverty.

In the end: futile futility,

Clouds without rain.

Unless God is not dead...

MEMORIES

Across the bay a lone white light labors upwind toward the harbor.

Small, almost too dim to follow – only once I saw the green on her bow –

She works under the shore lights standing above the waves.

Then she rounds the point and slowly merges with the harbor lights:

Calm water, safe mooring, warm beds greet the travelers.

What lies in the wake of that lonely light heading home

Once the waters close astern and parted ways soon unlearn?

How to tell of glorious days of sunny pleasure

Or long tense nights of stormy weather?

Cast a backward glance in the way you’ve come

And quickly, too quickly the path behind becomes the path ahead.

Scoop up the water from the wake; taste the wine of memories.

Share it with one who wasn’t there: it’s just water, he says.

The Preacher spoke of the mysterious way of a ship in the sea;

The same might be said of the memories of you and me.

Life is Not Fair (a spoken word “poem”)

Some people say it’s just not fair and maybe it isn’t but whoever said life was fair. If life was fair the Tigers would have won the World Series after sweeping the Yankees for the pennant. If life was fair the Lions would get their turn at the Super Bowl. If life was fair everybody who wanted a job would have one, or maybe jobs would be irrelevant because everybody would be independently wealthy or maybe everything could just be free so no one would need a job if life was fair. If life was fair little babies wouldn’t die from congenital heart defects. If life was fair tsunamis wouldn’t kill a hundred thousand people at Christmastime. If life was fair mudslides wouldn’t bury whole cities and sweep thousands of people into the next life, if life was fair. But life is not fair. Somewhere a long time ago somebody wrote a set of rules for life and we puny humans can no more change those rules than Verlander can get a do-over on that first Series game or the Tigers can say, Mr. Commissioner, we have decided that this year there will be a best of nine Series and then if they lose five they can say, we want a best of eleven Series. No. There are rules in baseball. There are rules in life. But some people just don’t like the rules. Some people say that whoever made the rules was mean and that’s just the way it is. But other people say that the One who made the rules really loves us and we have gotten the rules wrong because love wins; love always wins so it cannot be that the rules say good people go to a place as terrible as hell because that would not be loving and since we know the Rulemaker is loving it is obvious that good people cannot go to hell. But sadly we don’t get the chance to rewrite the rules of life any more than the Tigers can get a fourth out in that crucial inning when they left two men on. The rules are the rules. Game over. And it is only by accepting the rules, by accepting the real love that the Rulemaker offers that we can understand that we don’t want Him to be fair. Fair would be if everyone went to the terrible place called hell. Fair would be if everyone got what they deserved because no one can live up to the standard set by the rules. We don’t really want fair, we want life without sunsets, life without rain, life without war. But there is no sunrise without a sunset; there are no flowers without rain; there is no peace without war. That’s just the way life is. Because life is not fair; it’s better than fair. What goes around comes around and you gotta pay the piper and karma all got decommissioned when that one special Someone stood up and said I’ll pay and he took the check, paid the bill, burned the mortgage. And all you have to do now is say Thanks, I’ll accept that offer. That’s not fair. That’s just the way it is.

Let’s not talk about politics

Let’s not talk about politics

let’s just talk about life

things are wrong or things are right

like love and justice or hate and strife

You don’t have to be a Republican,

or a Democrat or in between

to see that when people hurt people

it’s crude, it’s thoughtless, it’s mean

We need to stop shouting and listen

take a step back and see what we’re missin’

Let’s not talk about religion

let’s just talk about truth

we can’t even have a discussion

if fact and reason get loose

Some things just seem to have merit

whenever they’re tried, they work

Other things just fall to pieces

this contrast is not a mere quirk

No matter what why or when

we can’t make god over again

Let’s not talk about anything

let’s just look at our lives

Are we being kind to others

are we purposely growing more wise

Do our words reflect our actions

or does yes mean maybe not

Is there one thing we would die for

or give everything we’ve got

When they finally lay us to rest

will they say we gave it our best

It’s killing me to love you

It’s killing me to love you

But I can’t let you know

Somehow I have to get through

Not let the heartbreak show

Call it bad luck or karma

Or just due recompense

I am not Jeremiah

And payback does make sense

For years I couldn’t see you

I looked right past your soul

With all the brains of kudzu

And heart-eyes like a mole

You silently stuck with me

No doubt praying for change

That sloped off towards eternity

Like the horizon on a Texas range

I guess you finally gave up

Hoping that I’d grow

Now I knock on your heart’s door

And irony weights the blow

As heavy as a millstone

That grinds the righteous grain

And pulls my soul like ‘ol Nicks own

To dull embers of pain

If turnabout is fair play

As if life were a game

When I hear the umpire say

Strike three I’ll take the blame

There’ll be no joy in Mudville

My true name will be Mudd

If you listen hard you will

Hear hope drop with a thud

It’s killing me to love you

But I can’t let you know

‘Til death us part I vow anew

And June rain falls like snow

I Don’t Know How to Love You

I don’t know how to love you darling

Even though my heart is longing

Memories of your warm embraces

Absence from my mind erases

What do I do with pulses aching

Wishing that I could be making

Thoughts that read like deep December

Into fires of love remembered

Scenes that other pens have written

Draw you inward, lay you smitten

In a world that bars my entrance

Leaving me to hope for a chance

So to be the man you dream of

If I could discover how love

works within the distant object

to reform my shattered aspect

Children of our love you hold dear

Stand at length decreed by your fear

Hoping that they may recapture

Mother love that time has fractured

Deeds well done deserving honor

Daughter knows though you forgot her

Blind before the idol fawning

You in yellow ether drowning

Friends reach from the shore so near you

Cords of love extending out to

Draw you closer to the safe bank

For your rescue our God to thank

While the music drums the rhythm

One assays with all that in him

Longs to take your hand and follow

Steps that time and trouble swallow

I still love you deep in my soul

Where I’m half you make me be whole

Eyes to Heaven for the answer

Where has gone my precious dancer

I Still Do

Been a long time since we first locked eyes

And pressed our lips together.

We don’t steam up the car windows like we used to

Or take long walks in rainy weather;

But now as then,

You’re my best friend.

No one could love you more than I still do.

You might wish that you were still a dish

With an eighteen year old body.

Or maybe you’d like if I got rid of that bike

And found a safer kind of hobby.

But what’s here is here,

And one thing’s clear:

No one could love you more than I still do.

Some people get to thinking ‘bout what might have been

And miss the simple beauty of their lives.

I can’t tell you what it means to me that you’re still here,

And knowing that I’m something in your eyes.

I concede you might’ve found a better man to marry,

Or one who walks a step back from the edge.

But as the years roll on the same way they’ve gone

I’ll make you this pledge:

While I have breath,

And even after death,

No one will love you more than I still do.

Not What You Know

Not what you know, but who you know

Makes a life worth living.

I know that stars are furnaces

And Einstein’s famous theory,

But if I never had a friend,

Life would be fearsome dreary.

Not what you know, but how you know

Makes a life worth living.

I’ve read the great philosophers

And most of Shakespeare’s plays,

But filling time with noble words

will not life’s thirst assuage.

Not what you know, but why you know

Makes a life worth living.

Nor will it serve to drop a name,

Or brag, I knew him when…

Only common tears and cheers

compose a life well spent.

Not what you know, but who you love

Makes a life worth living.

So when you measure life’s applause

Or tally great deeds done,

Ignore IQ, degrees or fame

And treasure friendships won.

Green Flash

Racing eastward into gathering darkness

the spinning globe lays the sun to rest

in the watery grave of the big lake

night after countless night.

Every so often Mother Nature

devises a special treat,

streaking the horizon

with a fleeting green flash.

Skeptics scoff when a believer

tries to share its beauty,

but his private treasure

needs no public confirmation.

Like true love or real friends,

the green flash is rare,

granted only to a fortunate few.

When at last you see it,

you learn what it means

to share something precious,

something priceless

like the green flash

like true love

like real friends.

Finders Keepers

Before they come

the gull cries

the breeze stirs

the sun rises

The friends meet

they share hugs

they share stories

They seek adventures in food

the seek treasures in markets

the seek remarkable vistas

They find a home away from home

they find serenity, quietude and rest

they find all they need

When they leave

the gull cries

the breeze stirs

the sun sets

For Margaret

San Juan Capistrano,

the jetty poking

a stony finger into the sea

an old man draping

a line into the water hoping

for a fish and the sun splashing

on the waves breaking

into a million pieces

the swallows dart and soar

in the light adding

their laughter to the children playing

on the beach year by year.

The seasons sweeping

past the old mission

and the wind too soon turning

cool at the coming

of the day

for the swallows

to leave.

It was like that in Bayview

where the tidy pink house

rested peacefully on the bluff

surrounded by carefully tended

blossoms while the sun

set beyond the bay,

but the laughter is gone.

Margaret is gone.

Like the swallows leaving

Capistrano.

Eulogy for Mary Gruler

Rest easy darling Mary;

Your work on earth is done.

Whole-hearted we commit you

to God’s eternal Son.

There’s not a soul who knew you

would not recount a tale

Of service gladly given

and love that did not fail.

Your nursing care, your breakfast fare,

your gardens’ lovely bloom

Displayed to all whose lives you blessed

a heart of spacious room.

Rest in the arms of Jesus;

Hear His glad, “Well done.”

Receive your comfort now repaid

In Eternity begun.

The world has lost some color

Now that Mary’s travelled home.

We travelers here will shed a tear

Accepting that she’s gone.

But the pattern she provided

should move us all to be

As loving, kind and selfless

A servant just as she.

EDUCATION AS POWER

I’m representing education as power;

It makes us what we are in the crucial hour

Oh yeah, I know that you can learn things in the street,

But where I’m going I need more than that to compete.

I’m not waiting to hear word from anybody;

I’m here to tell you I’m already somebody.

I don’t need a Gloch 9 to show you I have power;

That kind of thing can get you dead in a shower

of lead from somebody who thinks the same thing.

You need to listen to the real man, Doctor King.

No rims – no bling, no deal you got cooking

Can measure who you are when no one is looking.

I’m representing education as power;

It makes us what we are in the crucial hour

You may think that ‘cause I’m young I don’t know much,

Can’t drink, can’t drive, you think I’m out of touch.

But in the projects I see plenty that can show me

Where I might end up if my teachers are my homeys.

They say the stuff we learn in school isn’t cool –

Don’t be a fool; in the real world knowledge rules.

I’m representing education as power;

It makes us what we are in the crucial hour

I don’t need to hear word from any body;

I know ‘cause I know I’m already somebody.

Delicate Fray

A life unweaves by pulling on one thread;

Soon you despair to make the center hold.

A thoughtless deed or something careless said

The world becomes a place depraved and cold.

What mother would with malice child berate,

Or rend the tender tapestry of life

With words that foster doubt and cruel self-hate

Soul’s flesh to wound with stabs of dullest knife?

Then life, a labor just to pass the day,

Devolves in combat to a delicate fray

How to join this battle white knight I

Would rescue dearest damsel darkening you.

But though with sword and lance I bravely fly,

My best gives not the dark his holy due.

Silence, you say, and patience gamely win;

Alone you must this demon face and fight.

So I with tears soon dry stand watching in

Aborted steps to stop a dead soul’s flight,

Constrained I long for some small part to play

When tangled hearts are caught in delicate fray

Did not the Champion of our souls once die

Our weakness and our frailty taking there

Upon that cross he answered serpent’s lie

That we alone must sin and sorrow bear.

So patient yes, but silent nevermore

I engage the enemy of your soul

With mighty weapons drawn from heavenly store

To spend my life and breath to see you whole

Assured that promised grace will find a way

To mend with Victory’s blood this delicate fray.

Cold Smiles

Pouring down the Canadian shield

And running across the border onto

frozen Michigami the arctic air

flushes the cold dry blackness of

deep space into the pale grey

face of the city. Lights blaze across

the lake from streetlamps hovering

in rows above traces of red carrying

huddled victims between heated places

of refuge. Bending southeast the only

sign of the flow snakes a frost white

trail of condensate over miles of

crisp brown cattails mocking the

frozen river. Looking down

Orion shivers remembering

Diana’s errant dart.

Untitled (Clarification)

When the strawberry fields are picked bare

And the bridge over troubled waters is raised

For someone else’s ship to come in

I mourn the passing of Twinkies.

It is meager solace that Little Debbie still bakes

Crème-filled oatmeal pies wrapped in cellophane

Twelve to a box. Patty-cake, Patty-cake

It is then that Mother Mary comes to me

speaking words of wisdom

let it be she-bop, do-wah

And I know I should care, care deeply,

care in deep purple hues that fall

Over sleepy garden walls,

but I carry that burden all the way

back to old Virginia, and it’s quite heavy;

unlike a brother who can spare a dime.

But all I can say is

Do ron-ron-ron hey do ron-ron.

Then Mother Mary comes to me

Speaking words of wisdom

let it be she-bop,

So for the final countdown

I try to remember a time

In September when I was a rock

or an island, or a rider on the storm,

but someone left the cake out in the rain

and they’ve all gone to look for America.

But don’t cry for me Argentina;

I did it my way.

And Mother Mary comforts me,

Speaking words of wisdom

let it be she-bop, do-wah

Raising Children

Raising children is like juggling eggs while running barefoot on snow; something is always up in the air, you are never quite sure of your footing, and some part of you is always uncomfortable.

The egg, a gift of endless hopes and dreams,

a message meant for place and time unknown,

sleeps on while Mother fords the waiting streams,

until conception’s seed is aptly sown.

Before disrupted cycles cancel doubt,

the morning messenger comes dressed in green;

then follows weeks of pickles, pain and pout,

‘til crowning head at last is gladly seen.

Once labor, rightly called, bears gentle fruit,

toes and fingers counted, Mother smiles;

henceforth the twig is bent on sturdy root

as Child and Mother brook appointed trials.

Blind to what’s ahead she soldiers on,

assured that patient care breeds worthy end;

despite the battles lost the victory’s won

when Child to ancient wisdom does attend.

Wisdom Preaches

Wisdom preaches moderation for she bears the scars of excess.

Wisdom preaches recreation for she has seen Jack grow dull, then die.

Wisdom preaches courtesy for she has tasted the rude dust of the selfish.

Wisdom preaches patience for she has quenched spring’s thirst with fall’s wine.

Wisdom preaches thrift for she has watched the pennies wasted deny the beggar’s feast.

Wisdom preaches relaxation for she has driven the autobahn and found the scenery blurred.

Wisdom preaches courage for she has played the three of trump on the ace of fear.

Wisdom preaches peace but she understands that the eagle must protect her nest.

Wisdom preaches friendship for she has walked the dark steep road alone.

Wisdom preaches family for she has seen thick blood calm stormy water.

Wisdom preaches honesty for she has felt the sting of the forked tongue.

Wisdom preaches love for she has learned two plus love equals infinity.

Wisdom preaches for she dreams of a world where people listen.

What is it?

It’s breakfast – no eggs, no ham.

It’s dinner up at the dam

with bowls of homemade noodles.

It’s chicks with purse-sized poodles

in the crowds that budge and nudge

on the island that’s famous for fudge.

It’s tubas and cellos and oboes

thrilling listeners with awesome solos

in the chapel up on the hill.

It’s the roses and pansies and dill

that flourish in Mary’s sweet yard.

It’s the annual word from the bard

who competes with himself every year

to come up with a new ditty dear.

It’s friends sharing gains, feeling losses,

family stories and yarns about bosses.

Not one thing specific or general

makes the days so lovely and memorable.

It’s the friendship we share,

the two Moms who take care

when each August we come

finding rain or bright sun.

It’s the …

triple AARP frequent senior

loyalty reward discount on rooms

not available in some states

non-smoking pets discouraged

see package for details

… love, dammit.