Rising Hope

The sun rises on a cold and frosty morning
It brings hope and joy that illuminates the inky world of the unseen
A circle in a circle
Spinning and twisting in its flight of beauty
Casting a fever on winter's desolation
Showing the path
Pointing the way
Telling us it's okay
She'll be back tomorrow

A Great Idea

Many times I've found that I have a great idea, way of living, or change of pace that would allow me to strengthen my beliefs and become a stronger man. I have tried these ideas and attempted to incorporate them into my life, however, only to find that after a short while I've reverted back to what I once was. For a time I was vexed at this, unable to grasp exactly why I've been unable to permanently employ my idea. But upon much reflection of the various tried and failed attempts made on my part, I believe it to be for lack of fellowship. For instance; rendering my own lard from scraps of fat that were going to be thrown away and using it for cooking and making my own soap seems like a frugal change of life. Not only that, but I also know what exactly is going into my product vice buying these things at the store and being ignorant of these facts. But when everybody else in the house is disgusted by the fact that I'm cooking with lard and look down on it like an inconvenience, it quickly becomes much more difficult to continue with. This is just one example of my failed ideas and why they do in fact fail. So, my new great idea is to find other like minded individuals who share in my eccentric thinking and are willing to share their own great ideas to keep mine alive. No man is an island.

Just a Man

Just a man

Just a song

Just a verse

Listen well, cause you won't hear it again

Decay surrounding the dreams of the future

Then fulfilled

Presently unwrapped

Unraveled like a hand knit sweater, so warm

Perceived

Performed

Paraded

Haughty eyes grasping for more than a lion could devour

A string of lies which boil over cauldron cold

Worn out

Despised

Forgotten

Now in a darkened corner of an unknown basement

No light of life or warmth of words

Just frayed fibers of longing

To love

To leave

To lose

Without a vision...

     People are dying!

Go ahead and wear your life on your sleeve

Already those knitting hands are crippled by arthritic holes which show forth the gauntness beneath

Can a hole in a soul be patched by mere man?

And if so, how long to last the redemption of self glory?

You dream

You fly

You die

The Captivated Mind

False fetters of a captivated mind

Feathers plucked and meat in grind

Greatness strived for, pittance gained

Thy failed achievement is life disdained

Breaking, crushing, severing nerve

In tow, the life of you who serve

Yet hope isn't lost, light shines nearer still

Not by thy shattered dreams, but by God's Holy will

Abandon the path and traipse out in the dark

For to shelter your soul neath the wings of a lark

Though glory is lost, take comfort in this

Your life has been plucked from eternal abyss

And safe in the fortress of death to thyself

A new life emerges with riches in delfts

A servant you are and a servant you'll be

But a servant submitted is a branch on the Tree

Coffee & Cigarettes

     I still remember it like yesterday. He was sitting at that old table; the one with the corroding chromed legs and chipped plastic veneer. The chairs were salvaged from an old out of business buffet. They didn't match. He was wearing his favorite worn out jeans and faded blue tee shirt he got from the hospital after his second heart attack. His long white pony tail was facing me as plumes of blue smoke magically appeared from the other side and dissipated in a flurry of spirals and streams.

"Hey Dad!"

"I told you not to be in the house while I'm working."

"What are you doing?"

"Building a new tower for a client of mine. What do you want?"

     Just then a sizzling sound emanates from the backs of both of us. Waters boiling. He stands up and shoots me an annoyed glance; then walks to the stove, picks up the pot, and pours the scalding water into a dingy yellow plastic coffee maker.

"Sit down and let me show you something. Everything inside this tower has a purpose. The shell protects all the parts from dirt. The motherboard is where all the components plug into. Then you've got the memory cards, video card, sound card... Everything has a purpose."

"Why don't they just make them all one piece? Wouldn't it be easier?"

"No. Everybody that owns a computer has a purpose for using it. Just as the parts have a purpose, so do the users. And you have to make the computer to fit the purpose of whoever is using it. Hold on a second, and don't touch anything."

     He walks back to the coffee maker with its ready brew and pours black tar into a black mug. As he lights another cigarette, he stares out the window of the single wide trailer to his dying tomato plants. Dissatisfied with them, he glares at me.

"What do you want? Shouldn't you be outside playing with your brothers?"

"It's hot, so I came inside for a drink. Can I have some coffee?"

"No. It's not good for you. There's a hose outside. Why didn't you just get a drink from it? You can see I'm busy in here. You're disturbing my work and you're going to get the computer dirty since you've been outside. Just go back and play."

"Can you build me a computer?"

     Snickering, he inhales deeply the half burnt cigarette and blows a stream of blue into the already saturated air.

"Why do you want a computer?"

"It's neat! Can you show me how to build a tower?"

"Tell you what; if you can answer this one question, I'll build you a tower. What would you use a computer for?"

     Stupefied, I awkwardly grasp for an answer. None come.

"I don't know."

"Then I won't build you a computer. But if you ever come up with an answer to my question, you've got a deal."

     At that moment he accidentally bumps the mug and soaks the scattered components with coffee.

"Dammit! Get out of here! I told you not to be in here! Get out!"

     I start crying and run for the door. As it creaks open, sunlight floods the room, illuminating the smoke filled trailer with blue suffocation.

"I'm sorry Dad."

     The door shuts.

Just Wondering Around

A lot of time I find myself sitting and thinking what in the world I'm doing. I read to learn; I learn to do; I do to be better. But I'm going to die just like everybody else. And in truth, nobody cares how hard I try or how well I do, so why do anything at all? Everybody I come across is either trying to prove their worth, hold on to their riches, or trying to become more than they are so they can accomplish one of the other things. The only neutral conversation is about the weather, but you can only talk about that for a maximum of 30 seconds before it fizzles out. If you try to help somebody, they'll soon forget it. It doesn't become a lesson to them so they can help others. They just become dependent on others help. If you try to create art, everybody starts trying to dissect it so that they can brag about how smart they are. No matter how much you create and give away, it'll never be enough. It always results in death. But you know, I like to eat and sleep. I like to breathe fresh and crisp air and watch the birds and blue skies. To smell flowers and listen to music is very enjoyable. And I love to create art in whatever form and enjoy my own handiwork. I suppose I just wish that we could all just enjoy life together without trying so hard to beat each other. Maybe I'll make pizza tonight.

Another Poem

Night waxes
Eyes drop
Strength fades
Coyotes howl
Hope yields
Fear grips
Out of time
Out of light
Out of life
Denial
Acceptance
Forgiveness

Day breaks
Pupils gleam
Flesh ripples
Vanity calls
Sun blinds
Glamour awes
No time
No light
No life
Acceptance
Denial
Forgetfulness

“The Case of the Missing Pork Chops”

Westminster-Canterbury.

Retirees live here.

They’ve worked hard, and now they’re only duty is to relax.

In this building they live and thrive in safety.

But when that safety is shattered, I’m the one that cleans up the shards.

I’m a Security officer.

My name’s Osberg.

My partner: Popovich.

It was a night like any other. My partner and I were making our usual rounds of the towers when we got a call from our manager, Joe.

“I need a 10-25 in my office,” Joe chimes in on the radio.

“10-4,” I respond.

As my partner and I make our way to Joe’s office, we notice an elderly lady having trouble with a door. “Allow me, ma’am,” I say, and hold the door wide so she can pass without incident.

“Hey Joe,” Popovich says as we enter the office.

“Yo, I need you guys to come in and close the door for a second; we’ve got a problem.”

“What’s the trouble?” I respond, as an uneasy feeling envelopes me. I’ve had this feeling before. It usually precludes an incident involving some low life scum that doesn’t know the difference between right and stupid.

“Have a seat,” says Joe. “I just took a report from the Mrs. Hershey in apartment 772. She says she was cooking up a couple of pork chops for her and her dog, when she needed to leave to deliver a parcel to the front desk. She was gone from 3:30 P.M. until about 3:50 P.M. When she returned, the pork chops were gone. All that was left were a few bones and a grease stain on the wall.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” I say as I stroke my beard. I’ve been letting it grow for a couple of months now. It’s a little itchy and some residents don’t like how it looks. But when you’re in my line of work, it helps to cover up any emotion you may be showing. Residents depend on me, and I can’t let that get in the way of professionalism.

 “I’ve already taken a statement and a couple photos. Just need you to review it,” says Joe. “We also have a slight description of a suspect. It’s a lady, 5’11” with curly brown hair and glasses. A resident down the hall said she saw the suspect walking away from the room in the same space of time.”

“Is that all we’ve got so far?” says Popovich.

“Afraid so,” says Joe. “We can’t do a lot for the victim. But I’ve spoken to my boss, and the pork chops will be replaced.”

“Yeah, but what about the time to cook ‘em,” I say as we leave. Crooks get under my skin. And this one’s under; way under.

Back at our office I look up Joe’s report on the computer, finding it in the missing items folder. In the report is everything Joe told us, including the witness’ name, apartment number, and telephone extension. Name: Mrs. Troubedour.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello?” an elderly female voice answers.

“Yes, this is Security Officer Osberg. I’ve been informed that you may have witnessed a robbery. Can you tell me what you saw?”

“Oh, thank you for calling back so promptly!” she says with delight. “I’ve been talking to all my neighbors about it. Just terrible! It’s getting so you can’t even cook dinner without these crooks grabbing it right from under your nose. Say, just the other day I was in the dining room and saw a visitor take the last chocolate mousse just as a resident was getting ready to purchase it. Terrible!”

“It would be advisable to keep open cases under wraps until they’re resolved, ma’am,” I say. “Could you tell me what you saw concerning Mrs. Hershey?”

“Oh, yes!” she says. I can tell she’s taken a seat and is reclining as a sigh of exultation escapes her breath. “It was around 3:45 P.M. I was taking my trash out when a lady was walking away from Mrs. Hersey’s room. I thought she kind of looked like a friend of mine from when I lived in Vermont. You know, it’s funny how some people remind you of others.”

“Just the facts, ma’am,” I say.

“Of course,” she says, a little annoyed. “Anyway, I kept looking and she kept just right on a’ walking. I thought I should say hello, but didn’t. You know she was walking away from me and all. She got on the elevator and that’s the last I saw of her.”

“Can you think of anything else about her?” I say. “Was she carrying anything on her person?”

“Well, yes!” she says. “She was carrying a broom and dustpan. That’s why she reminded me of my friend so much; always sweeping that porch. I never seen someone clean a porch so carefully.”

As I hang up the phone, Popovich returns from parking a car. He’s wearing his jacket, as its cold outside.

“What’d ya find out?” he says.

“The suspect is a housekeeper,” I say. “Name: Trish Kimble.”

At 8:07 P.M. my partner and I find the suspect in the 3^rd floor janitor’s closet, rinsing out a mop.

“Good evening,” I say cordially.

“Evening,” she responds hesitantly. “Something I can help you two with?”

“Yes ma’am,” I say. “We have reason to believe that you were on the 7^th floor earlier this afternoon around 3:45. I understand that it’s not your assigned area. Would you mind telling us what your business was on that floor?”

“Well,” she says. “I was checking to see if the janitor’s closet had an extra broom and dustpan. I couldn’t find mine, and I knew that the assigned housekeeper was already done using it. I borrowed them and had them returned as soon as I was finished.”

Her story checks out. We say thank you and leave her to finish her work. A hunch is burrowing its way in my gut; the kind that doesn’t go away. You swallow hard to drown it, but it shoves its way back just as hard. I make my way to Mrs. Hershey’s apartment.

After ringing the bell twice and waiting, it’s apparent that the victim isn’t home. I radio down to the front desk that I’m entering and use my key to open the door. A chill runs down my spine. I can’t shake it. The grease is still on the wall, the pork chops are still missing, and there’s a stench lingering in the cozy apartment air. The shades are drawn and the antique lamps dimly light the apartment. I pull out my flashlight and start looking.

There on the floor lay the dog; dead. Part of a pork bone sticking out of his mouth with vomit stained carpet surrounding it. It had been lying there for a couple of hours.

I pick up the phone and let Joe know about the deceased dog and the pork bone.

Popovich arrives soon after I finish on the phone with Joe. He looks sad and disgusted.

“At least we know one thing,” I say.

“What’s that?” he quips.

“I don’t know about rolling old men, but you don’t give a dog a bone.”

Wolverine 1000 Mile Boots

I've been needing a new pair of shoes for quite some time now. The problem is, I hate shoes. They're terribly made, don't last, and look like a kid should be wearing them. I mean, think about it; a grown man wearing a pair of sneakers around town. Doesn't really emanate professionalism does it? And even so, most people are content at buying some neon coloured pair of synthetic fiber shoes that won't last a year without looking like you just pulled them out of the sewer.

So I've been doing research on shoes that last and continue to look good. First of all, the best material suited to fulfill that purpose would be leather. You can polish leather over and over and it will continue looking good. Another prerequisite is that they must have soles that can be changed. Inevitably soles wear out. Most shoes have glued soles, so the options are waning. Another thing about the shoes is that they must be comfortable and provide substantial protection from rain and other substances that feet come in contact with. If sneakers get wet, so do your feet.

After some time of fretting with brands and cost, not to mention my wife chiding me about how bad my shoes look because I was unwilling to buy another pair of miniature garbage bags to cover my feet, I settled on the Wolverine 1000 mile boot. The brand has been around for quite some time (1883 to be exact... Hey, that exactly 100 years before my birth year!). To add to the scrumptulesity of this, the 1000 mile boot has been around for about as long. Made of the finest american full grain leather, these boots are hand sewn in the traditional cobbler way with all leather soles. Triple stitched, they won't



unravel. When I first tried them on, they were immediately comforting. No break in period necessary! One last thing to mention is that they take shoe polish very nicely and aren't very hard to get a lustre on.

To finish up my thoughts, I'd like to point out that shoes provide the foundation of your body. It should be a solid one, don't you think?

One Of My Poems

Through misty mountains calls a dream
It merely whispers, doesn't scream
And if you press your ear to earth
You'll see the sound and thus give birth
To truth as it was meant to be
Through resonance, thus never seen
The simple folk trust in their eyes
And all along believe the lies
That devils spin within their head
To propagate the mounting dread
Of reaper's sickle ever looming
And countless tolls from hell's bells booming
But wise men understand the truth
And though it may appear uncouth
They close their eyes on bended knee
So that with spirit eyes can see
The glory of the living God
Who washes feet and makes them shod
To mount with strength upon the rock
And give safe dwelling to the flock
He reaches out His hand to thee
If only you had eyes to see
It may be fate, yet I beseech
Salvation is within your reach
Just say and trust and walk in love
And thank the Lord from up above

Vibration

"Then God said..." It started everything that we perceive and experience from then until now. If you've ever read the book, "Who Censored Roger Rabbit" you know what a dopple ganger is. In the book it's described as an exertion of energy to produce a copy of one's self. However, it only lasts for a time and then disappears and dies. Walter Russel wrote that everything in our universe is based on resonance and therefore we are not seeing or hearing or touching or tasting. We're simply responding to resonance. If God spoke the universe into existence and we broke off communication with Him by our sinful acts, it would stand to reason that our lives are simply the leftover vibration of His spoken voice. And when we die, our vibration stops. Now, since the pitch was broken, this physical body must perish. However, through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ (a sinless Being) we are able to once again vibrate (live) with a new resonance (being). Now, to think of sin. Satan is described in the book of Isaiah to be master of the choir before his fall. Perhaps the vibration was adulterated to produce an off pitch that made what we call sin. Since Satan's pitch is an adulterated version of the true tone, the righteous resonance of God must always drown out the resonance of sin. So, when a person submits to God and confesses their sin, they have broken off the resonance of Satan's pitch and struck the chord to once again resonate with the Creator. This produces a different pitch, yet still true and righteous. And that's about all I've come up with thus far.