The Akaholic: Life, Art, Booze, Politics

Ulalume -a poem from my favorite alcoholic Edgar Allen Poe

2009-04-27T19:25:00.003-02:30

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir-
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll-
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-
Our memories were treacherous and sere-
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year-
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber-
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn-
As the star-dials hinted of morn-
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn-
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said- "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs-
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes-
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- "Sadly this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied- "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-
See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom-
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said- "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied- "Ulalume- Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere-
As the leaves that were withering and sere-
And I cried- "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread burden down here-
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-
This misty mid region of Weir-
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

Ed Byrne(St.John's Evening Telegram April 15,2009)

2009-04-18T23:21:00.002-02:30

Dear Editor,
I address this letter to the author and creator of the editorial cartoon carried in the Thursday, April 9th. edition of your paper on page A6.
The cartoon was a caricature of Mr. Ed Byrne, a gentleman recently fallen from grace.
It depicted Mr. Byrne’s rather studious face, and carried a comment by the character of Mr. Byrne saying: I am not looking for house arrest...but cabin arrest would be nice...
That editorial cartoon is so mean, so callous, so editorially barbarous, so small, and so cowardly, it made me sick. I cannot guess the intended audience, for it was not funny, not entertaining, not particularly perspicacious, showed no evidence of any rational, intellectual thought, exhibited no cleverness, no intelligence. It was simply nasty.
Mr. Byrne, his family and friends have suffered, are suffering, will suffer. Mr.Byrne is down. Is that a really good time to kick him?
Since I am a taxpayer, I guess I am a victim of Mr. Byrne’s trespass. So, for the few pennies of my injury, I forgive Mr. Byrne, utterly, completely. Without qualification. That is my prerogative.
Sometimes life knocks us down. Sometimes we knock ourselves down. Yet, being down and getting up strengthens us, and we are often renewed.
You may not know it. Your editors may not know it. Your readers may not know it. Your garbageman may not know it. My ancestors long dead may not know it. The Pope may not know it. But I know it. I know that someday Mr. Ed Byrne, shall rise.
In the meantime, let’s be decent.

Poem for Karine

2009-04-16T10:33:00.000-02:30

Karine Blais Was Lifted Up, Exploded Apart And Thrown Down In Shah Wali Kot
Blown up to bits by,
men who rested.
And then stoned their own
women who had found the new
law harsh, that said
they were the property
of those men. Those so willing
to cast the first stone.
In their caves, hidden
from the eyes of the
Afghan man, women’s candles burned
their prayers.
Can you help us Oh God?
Can you help? Tah ma sera merasta kawohlay?
They stone us. They stone those who come
from far away to help us.
They have exploded the Canadian child,
Karine Blais,
who came to help us.
She, who will never
be twenty two.
She who has never
worn the
burqa which hides
our womaness.
Hides our concatenated
soul, stills our voices,
the voices of mothers, and daughters
and stills the voice of
Karine Blais.
Can you help us Oh God?
Can you help? Tah ma sera merasta kawohlay?

Karine Blais, two hundred fifty-two months
into her youth.
Killed for an old Man God,
whose song is blood.

The Good Friday Bus Stop

2009-04-14T09:02:00.002-02:30

She told me she could only be what she
could be, and could never be what she could
never be,
and pleaded
goodbye,
as she told me to
write down my
venal books on my
own
skin,and then
carry on my synthetic
evenings,
and shag the candles
with Jeff Buckley,
unless, she said,I
want to become finely skeined
obscura.And was leaving.
I picked glass and dirt
from my knees,quit
praying forever,but
also,
said goodbye
to her,
the egg of the world,
who had
never understood
when I'd explained
that all I
ever wanted
was to put myself
into her mouth,
the place where she
prays.

The bus came and
took her away.

Rabindranath Tagore

2009-04-13T21:37:00.005-02:30

I slept. I dreamt that Life
was joy.
I awoke and found that
Life was service.
I acted and behold,
I found that service
was joy!

How can we help?

2009-03-31T14:20:00.001-02:30

Every day 16 000 children starve to death. One every five seconds.

Only one per cent of the world’s water is drinkable.

1.6 billion people live on less than one dollar a day.

2.4 billion people do not have a clean toilet.

880 million adults are illiterate.

Violence against women causes more deaths than cancer, malaria, traffic accidents and war.

Seventy percent of the world’s poor are women.

Art

2009-03-13T16:17:00.006-02:30

"Art is not anything that goes

on 'among people'...it is

something

that one experiences alone for the purpose of realizing in a fresh way,

through the senses, the mystery of existence." Flannery O'Connor

Dreams of the Newfoundland Housewife

2009-03-06T18:47:00.002-03:30

Salt cod on the flake, fresh bread on the stove.
Children wrapped warm as they head off to school.
Everyone follows the Golden Rule.

Men all gone off, and the sea is so flat,
Pretty well sure that they all will come back.
It’ll soon be time to put the tree up.

The Mummers will come, we’ll all have a cup.
Good people everywhere, none better than these.

Maudie Parsons goes by as I drops to me knees.
Got to give thanks for all we received.
We haven’t got much, but we have got a lot.

There’s snow in the windows, the lighthouse is bright.
My old man is coming back later tonight.
He’ll want lots of grub, and a light for his pipe.
He’s not much to look at, but gold in my sight.

Salt cod on the flakes, fresh bread on the stove.
Children wrapped warm as they head off for school.
Everyone follows the Golden Rule.

Good people everywhere, none better than these.

Songs from my CD:Old Scar:Songs of an Eclectic

2009-02-08T17:09:00.005-03:30

Under re-constructive surgery

Politics,A Soft Invective:Truth Is The Best Argument

2009-02-06T17:18:00.004-03:30

The Senatorial debut of former broadcast/journalist Mike Duffy was dismal and disappointing. Maybe when he stood on the floor of that not-so-hallowed, irrelevant Canadian institution he had gone into a fugue state, and consequently his words became gibberish.
They were certainly childish, pointless, and disrespectful. At the very least, Mr. Duffy could have chosen something original to say. His speech was also very expensive. The Canadian people are forking over a lot of money(many against their will) to maintain this wasteful political resting ground for those whom the government in power wishes to reward (porkfully speaking).
Mr. Duffy did not earn his hefty salary in that speech, and when I say his words were pointless I mean, pointless. Unless of course they were meant to impress the man who anointed him as a Knight of the Senate in the first place, Prime Minister Stephen Harper. In that case his words may not have been pointless, because he did, in his rather puerile style, dump heavily on Newfoundland Premier Danny Williams, Mr. Harper’s deadliest political enemy.
So, Mr. Duffy may have gotten an A+ and a lollipop or two from the PM for his performance, but as for me and my house, not.
In any case, I believe the Senate should be abolished, the senators put out to pasture, and the money saved sent to Amnesty International, or some other equally worthwhile organization whose time is spent saving human life and limb.
D.Kennedy

A Note Of Encouragement

2009-02-04T09:19:00.002-03:30

A Steadfast Heart

I've dreamed many dreams that never came true,I've seen them vanish at dawn,But I've realized enough of my dreams thank the Lord,To make me want to dream on.

I've prayed many prayers when no answer came,Though I've waited patient and long,But answers have come to enough of my prayers,To make me keep praying on.

I've trusted many a friend that failed,And left me to weep alone,But I've found enough of my friends that are really true,That will make me keep trusting on.

I've sown many seeds that have fallen by the way,For the birds to feed upon,But I've held enough golden sheaves in my hand,To make me keep sowing on.

I've drunk from the cup of disappointment and pain,I've gone many days without song,But I've sipped enough nectar from the Roses of Life,To make me keep living on!
Author Unknown

Poems from my book- Steep Nap Graffiti

2009-02-03T23:13:00.003-03:30

Steep Nap Graffiti

In The Beginning

In the Beginning
Everybody’s job was laughter,
and observation. Gold was the lining in every
heart. Knowledge was simply the soft
detonations of the five
senses in every living thing.
There was no need for dreaming,
and winning wasn’t a word.
Whispering was the evening
wind announcing another perfect
tomorrow was coming.
There were no bad words and blood was
colour.
Education was the Child down the Butterfly
Lane, and the young boys and girls
always had a night sky. Scripture was walking in the Garden,
unmade.

I saw a butterfly not killing a whale
I sent a little song out to the world, every little boy, every little girl.
It said all the things that shoot turn into hymns of praise for the grunts we sent away to die for something, led by a one ounce hamburger from Texas , without the lettuce.
I quit for the guitar, I quit for greatness, I quit for magnificence, for the god
coming out of me.
Thinking prefaces dreaming.
After some practice it isn’t hard. Trust me. It’s arbitrary. For honor.
From fungus, beauty. The fat man singing dreams of glory, a blind man spreading color with his heart. I saw the hosts of ten million thousands breaking hearts, the molecule of a dream. I heard the song of the beginning of the rainbow.
Let this be our song and I ain’t no communist. Absolutely nothing is meaningless.
Though we spill the blood of the young, let’s stop leaving our footprints in it. Let’s
pour it back into the sky of hope they gave us, the chance they give us.
There is only one agenda; The Dream, everybody can be.
Let’s walk to North Korea and find a child, kiss our way to Paradise with a babe in our arms. The child everyone never yet has been.
I hear carols in the clouds. I hear my daughters being born. I hear diamonds being broken open for the children of the bones.
Gold being turned into guitar strings for Africa .
I feel the mountain’s soul trembling, I hear crying. I hear a bleeding Jesus trying to get out again, and I found the lone word that contains the Universe… Dreamed.
The wounded man is still dancing as I watch my hands writing this song of begging for hope. Oh please. Oh Please!
I saw a whale not killing a butterfly
I saw ancient books being burned, and the ashes carried freedom, and that day all hatred died.
Then the Blessed Day will come and I’ll hear music turn into the world, and
all the ghettos into sunlight!
We need to live one more day to sing this song.

Aunt Annie
Waiting on the bus stop
bench. Looking neither right
nor left at the others
waiting. Dreading eye
contact.
Strands of grey filament
stick out from under her
bandana- daddy long legs.
A knobby claw(her retired, practical
hand)pushes them into place. Her hand
an elaborate ballet, floats
precariously down to its spot
near its mate, holding
her purse closed, in that
lap of uncomfortable
bone.
In her rheumy eyes, hopscotch and
skipping, porcelain dollars and
cameo brooches. Not a vacant face, but
occupied, a busy parking lot from
a time gone.
A rough boy with a bone-breaking skateboard
sitting next to her brings back the
dream of her exposed hips, the nightmare
of glass extremities. She holds her
fragile breath and squirms toward
centre bench, away from the
abyss. She feels his mechanical energy
and thinks of violent Friday
nights. She shudders and squeezes her purse,
thighs and mind together. Her fluted lips
crack closer together in a
bad fit.
She drifts…the birthday girl
swimming in the peppermint summer
of Corner Brook at Butterfly Creek, but
in the foyer of her mind, her
unfriendly pension chases away
the black, warm water.
Alone, she stands to board the bus, her
balance no longer fundamental, her creaking
form jettisons air that had
nagged her since morning. "Oh!" she
exclaims."’Scuse me.Cabbage".She
mutters to no one. As she approaches
the bus, their mutually alien forms
somehow, merge. "Nice day m’am",the
driver. "Yes,sir",she replies,but from
the lips out only. Behind her a metal
cough as the boy crushes a Coke can. Near
the uniformed driver, she huddles, holding her
purse in her retired, practical hands.
Her liver marks tick away
faintly.

Dinner at the Magic Wok
Glassine hair reflects the lights of the yum yum evening.
Our group of four exits the car, coats whirling like capes as we preen.
Lucky Gods.
Shuffling into the restaurant in our glossy, black shoes,
noticing the uncouth noticing us.
Of coursing we have a reservation! How provincial!
We order Szechuan loudly, as if we had lived in Peking ,
studying the Bamboo Annals of the Xia Dynasty.
Theodore, Lilly, Agathe and I, smirk and smarm
as we dabble in French, rice sticking to our teeth,
like DNA.
As the uncircumsized look on, we pay.
Our plastic, medieval blades.
Xie, xie! We thank the Chinese university student,
in case those near the door can hear us.
Our hug hug group swirls to the left,
and heads for George. Drambuie and crushed ice,
ahead. Paeans of thanks for what we are,
unspoken. Tomorrow, we’ll begin
our job searches,
again

1966: The Pit
Corner Brook ’s lovers’ hideaway
was the "Pit", the old sandpit
near Massey Drive ,
outside town,
where,on Friday and Saturday nights,
in old Fords, Chevs and Comets,
we gathered in strength,
with our women.
Thirty cars or so,
from the West Side ,Curling, Townsite
and Westmount ;
weekend lust.
Blue Star beer and Big Dipper rum,
in flasks,
made our task no easier, but,
rendered our success
unimportant.
We stayed ‘til two and three
in the morning, and you could tell
from the debris outside each car
who had won, and
who had lost.

The Litany Of The Saints
The mist children make on windows.
The footprints mothers leave in the night
by baby’s bed.
The weight fathers carry on night shift.
Fresh bread and lassie;
A poem every cries and understands.
Fairy tales with knights.
Incubators.
The sound tiny, furry animals make in their
dens, underground;
An orange moon over Random Island .
The stories still clinging to the wet stones, in a
mine, three miles under Bell Island .
Grandmothers knitting in a rocking chair under coloured
photographs of Joey and John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
The pools of nylon on factory floors that never become
guitar strings;
Snow falling by a street lamp in Corner Brook on
Christmas Eve.
A newborn baby’s chances.
A bride’s intention.
A welfare recipient’s past.
A policeman’s dream.
A priest on Father’s Day.
A bartender’s eyes.
The hem of a nun’s frock.
The air over Jerusalem .
Tea in a forest.
Baby’s room the day baby comes home.
Families.

The Somme
My old husband, up in the morning he got.
Stretched, and a prayer he got.
His long johns, and his boots he got.
His greatcoat and a big, long gun he got.
His puttees and a dirty big bayonet he got.
Off to the train station he got.
A hug and a whisper, I got.
A great talking to he got,
Onto a big, long boat he got.
Off to France he got.
Into a ditch he got.
Night time, a lonely heart,
and shit-baked he got.
Up in the morning he got.
Over the top he got.
Something whispering through the air he got.
A German bullet he got.
Just above his web belt he got.
Dead he got.
A hug and a whisper I got.

In Memoriam
Today we spare a moment,
we bend a knee,
send our hearts, our prayers out
over the grey and urgent sea.
We look down to its brimming,
treacherous depth,
to where the sons of Newfoundland
and Labrador lie, with their comrades,
perished.
We look down to where they lay
alongside the vessel of their sudden,
swift Passage.
The Ocean Ranger rusts now, but
not the memory of its
vanquished crew, and not their
ancient Dream. We look down into the sea, this
deep and callous cauldron which
issues so much life, and so much
death.
For a moment we touch our brave men
on this another year mark of their
sad passing.
Their berth is cold and silent, but
not their memories,
where love from hearts today look
seaward to warm them.
We remember You Boys!

Excerpts from The Akaholic

2009-02-02T23:47:00.003-03:30

The Akaholic
Observations from the bottom of a bottle By Foster Poe
Preface: I met an old fisherman in the East and he warned me not to drink too much or I could end up a akaholic(sic).

There is a river of insanity that flows through human existence in whose waters, I have, quite often, waded.

When you’re very, very sick, time is a hard case.

The many crooked roads in my life are littered with a million bits of broken glass and spilled booze from flasks and bottles that have slipped from my hands as I staggered hither and yon. I have the scars on my tongue to prove it.

Surviving hangovers is probably the worst thing that could have happened to me.

The Akaholic’s fingerprints are in the raw and the roaring life he lives.

When it rains, it’s time to dance. To dizzily dance in your darkened drinking den.

The only bartender whose name I remember is Gertie.She was kind and often called taxis to pick me up off her floor and take me back to my home. She was more competent than chrome. Kinder than a fairy Godtender.

The man is front of me is staggering, dejected, forlorn, lost, ragged, shuffling, not there. He heads for a liquor store. I too have been there. It's a madness that needs itself. Feeds itself. What it needs is oblivion. In that store ahead, I find it. Yet, here I am.

And the man at the bar who won’t buy me a drink at the last call ,let him be anathema!

I drinks me toot.I haves me puff and then I wants a little love. (Not Irish)

I want to stop drinking, so I can pray without crying.

Beauty can heal us.

For the akaholic, warning signs are lighthouses that have no beacons.

If I ever commit suicide my note will read: There is simply too much beauty in the world! I can’t take any more!

Addictions Counsellor: "How do you like living alone?"
Akaholic: It’s a match made in Hell".

When I’m drunk I can’t remember tomorrow.

Excerpt from my novel Scry Tharg

2009-02-02T22:02:00.003-03:30

Chapter nine ...
As Krit Thelm began his quest to destroy Scry Tharg, the swordsman began his search for this year's Christmas family.For hundreds of years he'd returned to Earth at Yuletide searching for a special family to observe for the season. All the way back to the old planet he'd fill up Lapstrake's sound systems with ancient Terran Christmas music, all the old stuff,even Elvis Presley and Blue Christmas. His favorites were Gabriel's Message,the Coventry Carol,In the Bleak Midwinter,It came upon a Midnight Clear, Do You See What I See and a few others. Earth, of course, was no longer what it used to be. There were no industries left there of any kind, unless one considered the operation of retirement homes and certain tourist facilities as an industry .Earth had long ago given up its last renewable resource, a uranium deposit on the cold Labrador coast near Nain.The planet had been renewed ecologically to a great degree, even some species of fish came back and all the fresh water sources were renewed and purified of any contaminants.The population was only a couple of million now. Mostly seniors living out the remains of their lives in the quiet, tranquility of a planet that had once or twice destroyed itself in war. A few tourism agencies offered air travel tours around the contintential coastlines. You could still land in Lisbon and have a glass of wine in a small cafe outside the Belem Tower. You could still sit in the trenches of Beaumont Hamel and regret the youth of the world who had died there in July,
1916.You could still find a few nuns giving tours through the ruins of the Vatican. In Washington the White House remained standing, restored many times over. You could let yourself in with an electronic EGO card and tour the old building by yourself if you were so inclined and weren't afraid of ghosts. Around the globe there were still some families who raised children the old fashioned way, with a Mom, Dad and a few boys and girls or so. There was even a church or two around, in small communities in a few parts of Europe and North America, even in Iceland. There were still remnants of almost every race, colour, creed spread throughout the globe. Tharg kept a record of each and every family on board Lapstrake, the ages of each member, occupation of the parents,addresses, attitudes on social issues, such as they were, religion if there was any,and Statement Of Existence which every Earthling had to make after age sixteen.This year he had found a small family in upstate New York,near where Lake Placid used to be.The father was a ski instructor with a small tourism outfit that had rights to the runs on Whiteface Mountain.The Belanger family ,Merrill,his wife Anita, two sons,Charles and Philip and one daughter Lisa. Anita was a fully qualified teacher with a Masters Degree in Chemistry. Mr.Belanger had a degree in Philosophy with a Minor in Theologies. The boys, twins, were eleven and the girl, was seven. Mr.Belanger’s Statement of Existence,his S.O.E. included his opinion that an Earth which could produce a poet who could write :
"have you"the mountain,while his maples wept air to blood, asked"something a little child who's just as small as me can do or be?" god whispered him a snowflake: you may sleep now, my mountain"and this mountain slept
while his pines lifted their green lives and smiled
was worth trying to save, and be near. He had also stated, to the great puzzlement of some, that ... "As far as guitars go, the major chords tell the story and the minor chords tear out your heart. I love the minor chords.
Tharg's favourite poet was E .E. Cummings and he’d recognized the verse from (fire stop thief help murder save the world" in Cumming's still famous little tome 1x1. Tharg had done his thesis on Cummings for his Phd. in English Literature. Tharg knew every one of his poems off by memory. And he too loved the guitar, six and twelve string and he understood perfectly what Belanger had meant. Tharg wanted to see this fellow and his family. His wife's S.O.E. contained only two words: Earth is!
On December 23rd. Tharg put Lapstrake in orbit. He took a Quisar launch because it could hold a lot of small cargo and flew down to Mirror Lake, a few miles from the log cabin Merrill Belanger and his wife had built about twelve years ago. It was late at night. One of the pieces of equipment was a Novan Snow Jet that had a small invultuate engine,completely soundless.He got in and sped away towards the cabin. He could easily have studied intimate details of the Belangers on board Lapstrake using sohisticated observation equipment he employed sometimes tracking targets.He preferred at Christmas time,however,to do what he could, in person. He found the house on a small knoll in a little wood. He pulled in behind a few large pine trees and shut down his sled. He donned a Uni-ocular helmet with sound enhancement and scanned the area, finally focusing on the living room of the tiny lodge. A fire was burning in an old Vermont Casting's Stove .Small birch logs burned with a cheery attitude casting fireball reflections on the shiny Christmas Tree ornaments, giving the tree a life of its own, an involvement in the Christmas preparations. Mr. Belanger was hooking up a set of miniature lights on the tree. One boy,Philip was passing him things. The little girl Elisa was over in the corner arm chair winding up a tiny ceramic Christmas Tree that played Jingle Bells. The other boy,Charles was helping his mother in the kitchen making what looked like an old fashioned fruit cake. They were smiling and joking about this or that, observing, commenting, poking fun. A family.Tharg's eyes filled up.0h Lord, they're so beautiful.So happy. "Suddenly the little girl got up and went over to her daddy. "Don't forget papa.Tomorrow night we have to make a cake and leave it for Santa Claus. Her face held the brightest,reddest cheeks Tharg had ever seen ,even in his old Christmas cards, which he had saved by the thousands,and still had, thanks to the age neutralizer an old soldier had given him once. "Booty I don't need Tharg. Take it!" Tharg had taken it and added it to the immense mountain of junk he had on Lapstrake on Deck Four, the Junkyard. "Don't worry sunny brightspot. We won't forget Santa and we won't forget Baby Jesus will we little one?" The little girl suddenly became seriously reverent. "Oh no Papa.I’d never forget Baby Jesus. Can you sing the Friendly Beasts for us now?" The father smiled down at her, picked her up and hugged her. "You bet angel." Philip walked over to the big easy chair in the corner and reached behind to get the twelve string. He put it carefully in Mr. Belanger's hands.He tuned up a string or two and then sat down on a hard wooden stool by the piano and began to play the old tune. Then he began to sing and the children and his wife joined in..."Jesus our brother, kind and good, was humbly born in a stable rude, and the friendly beasts around Him stood, Jesus our Brother, kind and good." The song went on and on. Thargs eyes were wet. He’d always like the last verse the best, "Thus every beast by some good spell, in the stable room was glad to tell, of the gift he gave Emmanuel, the gift he gave Emmanuel.'' When he finished Mr.Belanger said to his wife,"Hey hon,let's bake that cake for Old Saint Nick right now and perhaps a little pudding for Baby Jesus too." They all shouted and cheered and went into the kitchen. Tharg put away his glasses and wiped his eyes. There was a full moon, lighting the night snow. The smell of the fire from the log cabin filled him with a nostalgic joy he always felt at this time of the year when he went to steal Christmas from some family. If held had a family of his own he’d build a little cabin like this for them too. But a long, long time ago he had stopped marrying and having families because it was just too hard saying goodbye time after time. Worse was watching little infants, childhoods, youths vanish before his eyes in the brief passage of their lives. Tomorrow night,Christmas Eve he’d come back once more, to see what he could see.
He got back into the sled and powered off. He sped through the night over the snow-covered landscape for hours, under old pine trees ,down frozen river banks, by the relics of old farmsteads that had held stone farmhouses. He stopped by one great chimney still standing by itself in a field and took a photgraph of himself by the chimney with the Moon overhead. He was wearing a pair of old blue denim jeans,a red and black flannel shirt and an old soft leather Bomber jacket, of the kind worn by pilots in the early days of aviation His head was bare,but he had on thin leather gloves.Cold didn't affect him much except to make him miss the old days a little more. After a while he gathered some old pine branches and some kindling, and built a little fire at the base of the chimney.The smoke rose in the windless night straight up the chimney and out to the Moon. The old spaceman stayed there until daylight took the Moon home.He went back to Lapstrake but not before he’d carved his initials into the bark of a big old pine. ST-1999. He always used that date when doing something nostalgic on Earth. He ate and then, slept. He had to rest up for tonight, after all it was Christmas Eve!
The Belanger family had an old-fashioned sing-along until about 11;30 PM. They'd been drinking hot cider and chocolate all evening. Some presents were already placed under the tree and the watchful eye of the beautiful angel with her silver wand all lit up by miniature lights. Tharg watched from his distance in the grove of pines. He watched as the father finally opened the front door and the little girl with the golden hair and red cheeks placed the tins containing the fruit cake for Santa and the pudding for Baby Jesus on the step. Just before her dad closed the door she looked up into the night sky, eyes on fire with wonder and curiosity. Then she kissed her palm and threw the kiss up, up, up into the sky to welcome the magic visitors who were to come.Tharg looked on, seeing the holy and magic event. Then the door closed and night tucked in the little family. The Family.Finally all the lights in the house were out and there was just a glow from the embers burning in the iron stove.Tharg crept over on the path to the house and took the two tins. In their place he put a Carettian Asca Globe. It looked like a small ball of glass, but inside there were two tiny dancing creatures that resembled the beautiful Carettian Ascas themselves.It was an optical illusion thanks to a highly skilled artisan on Carett. Tharg knew the crystal couldn't be broken. The two crimson creatures never stopped their eternal dance as long as one held the little globe in the hand. The tiny gift was held inside a square little crate of pine Tharg had whittled last night. He'd engraved Merry Christmas Belangers in the wood. He leaned forward and kissed the front door of the log cabin and whispered the words himself.
Tharg never ever stayed after midnight, Christmas Eve. Lapstrake catapulted into skipjack almost as soon as he closed the landing bay doors. Below Mr.Belanger rolled over in his sleep, his mind telling him there was no such thing as thunder in the winter.
Tharg sat in control, munching on homemade fruit cake, listening to The Friendly Beasts as sung by the Belanger family pouring out of his onboard speakers.
"Jesus my brother,kind and good ...

My idea of a great teacher

2009-02-02T21:57:00.004-03:30

A Message from Mrs. Leonard
By Mary Ann Bird
I grew up knowing I was different, and I hated it. I was born with a cleft palate, and when I started to go to school, my classmates-who were constantly teasing- made it clear to me how I must look to others: a little girl with a mis-shapen lip, crooked nose, lopsided teeth, and hollow and somewhat garbled speech. I couldn't even blow up a balloon without holding my nose, and when I bent to drink from a fountain, the water spilled out of my nose.
When my schoolmates asked, "What happened to your lip?" I'd tell them that I'd fallen as a baby and cut it on a piece of glass. Somehow it seemed more acceptable to have suffered an accident than to have been born different. By the age of seven I was convinced that no one outside my own family could ever love me. Or even like me.
And then I entered the second grade, and Mrs. Leonard's class. I never knew what her first name was -- just Mrs. Leonard. She was round and pretty and fragrant, with chubby arms and shining brown hair and warm dark eyes that smiled even on the rare occasions when her mouth didn't. Everyone adored her. But no one came to love her more than I did. And for a special reason.
The time came for the annual "hearing tests" given at our school. I was barely able to hear anything out of one ear, and was not about to reveal yet another problem that would single me out as different. And so I cheated. I had learned to watch other children and raised my hand when they did during group testing. The "whisper test" however, required a different kind of deception: Each child would go to the door of the classroom, turn sideways, close one ear with a finger, and the teacher would whisper something from her desk, which the child would repeat. Then the same thing was done for the other ear. I had discovered in kindergarten that nobody checked to see how tightly the untested ear was being covered, so I merely pretended to block mine.
As usual, I was last, but all through the testing I wondered what Mrs. Leonard might say to me. I knew from previous years that she whispered things like "The sky is blue" or "Do you have new shoes?"
My turn came up. I turned my bad ear to her plugging up the other solidly with my finger, then gently backed my finger out enough to be able to hear. I waited and then the words that God had surely put into her mouth, seven words that changed my life forever.
Mrs. Leonard, the pretty, fragrant teacher I adored, said softly, "I wish you were my little girl."

Air on a Prayer from Saint Francis of Assisi & Bob Dylan

2009-02-02T12:32:00.005-03:30

Let me be an instrument of peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

Oh, let it so be that,
I may not so much seekto be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born .

For if we are not busy being born,then
we are busy dying.

My favorite poem

2009-02-02T12:26:00.004-03:30

listen beloved i dreamed
it appeared that you thought to escape me and
became a great lily atilt on insolent waters
but i was aware of fragrance and i
came riding upon a horse of porphyry
into the waters i rode down the red horse shrieking
from splintering foam caught you clutched you upon my mouth

listen beloved i dreamed
in my dream you had desire to thwart me
and became a little bird and hid in a tree of tall marble
from a great way i distinguished singing and
i came riding upon a scarlet sunset
trampling the night easily
from the shocked impossible tower i caught you
strained you broke you upon my blood

listen beloved i dreamed
i thought you would have deceived me and
became a star in the kingdom of heaven
through day and space i saw you close your eyes
and i came riding upon a thousand crimson years
arched with agony
i reined them in tottering before the throne and
as they shied at the automaton moon
from the transplendant hand of sombre god
i picked you as an apple is picked
by the little peasants for their girls

by E.E.Cummings

My Books

2009-02-02T12:12:00.003-03:30

Steep Nap Graffiti
Sacred Bone Rank
St.Jude's
The Akaholic
Scry Tharg
The Boy In White
Child From The Village With The Voice Like A Sky