Ducks and Rows

“Fine weather, if you’re a duck!”. That’s what I used to hear when the rain came down in buckets (ouch!) full. It is a sarcastic statement but, in a way, true. It was raining yesterday, off and on, in the manner of. I am an interested observer and noted that my neighbours had better fix the downspout or there will be grief, later on. I watched as rain poured out of the gap between pipes onto a recently painted deck, with full power and gleeful splashing. The scene was out of order but ah, the ducks love it!

There can be a positive and/or negative side to our current rainy weather. I live in the county and I hear of the farmers (usually from a non-farmer) and how “they need this rain” or “this much rain is really hurting them”. Depends on point of view? Everybody has an opinion about the weather. Nothing seems to line up in a total agreement. Everybody thinks things could be better if they were in order. If things were all lined up in a familiar way, we could all relax? Could we agree that the rows were in order?

Yeah, the ducks love it wet. I am not so sure they want it poured down on their heads but they do certainly claim water as their preferred locale, as their area of expertise. We love ducks. Ducks are part of our known universe. They are familiar. They are part of the order. We prefer ducks to be in a row, however. Sloppy, misaligned ducks are a botheration. Just as the misaligned downspout made me notice, a duck not in a row does the same for most folks. Do you think that, because we have a matching pair of most body parts, we prefer order in the universe beyond our fingertips? I look at one hand, then the other…it is sublime. I look at one set of fingertips, I look at the other…again…sublime. Order, simplicity, fingers in a row, arms, hands, legs, ears…all in place in the row.

There are some parts we only need or desire one of. A brain (on reflection, maybe we could use a spare one), a sex thing (doubled up sex things could create some decent chaos in the already-wild-space, so it’s best we only have one major sex part), an asshole. Uhoh. We only need the one asshole, that’s plenty. Though a great number of us are brimming with waste, we still only need the one solid exit point. The mouth does double duty enough at times, so any more would be overkill.

The thing about order and neatness and such is, y’see, just as an example, things could get pretty untidy if shit were flying from everywhere and not just a special place. Proof is in the way that metaphorical shit does fly from everywhere. See how untidy and out-of-line our world is with its metaphorical shit? Facebook spews shit. Fox News spews shit. The New York Times pretends its shit doesn’t stink but it is spewing the stuff anyway. I sit talking and what am I doing? That is correct! I am spewing shit. “Same colour, different day” as they say.

Anyhow. We shore do like our ducks in a row. We like our shit in neat piles under the outhouse. We like our skies blue, our lawns green, our grandmas to use ‘her’ as a pronoun, our politicians to say – “I never touched that woman”, in a way that would make us believe it. Yeah. Order in the chaos, ducks in their row, peace and quiet.

Ooops. No ducks anymore, they moved farther north because it is tooo hot. No grandmas anymore, the aprons and blue rinse died out (or never were ubiquitous?). The world isn’t white anymore, there isn’t a rotary phone to speak of, television is huge and flat (though just as empty as ever it was), the politicians don’t deny but instead, proudly brag about ‘grabbing pussies’ (not meaning cats at all, by the way)…And? We sure aren’t getting the kind of weather we thought we needed. The garbage spews out into our atmosphere (metaphorical and real atmospere, metaphorical and real garbage). Looks like we are going to have to adjust, kids.

It isn’t that bad, no. Not having things in their row will not be the end of us. Trying to force things back into a row might be impossible, really. Every new day is a ‘puzzlement’, of moving forward. Isn’t it? Anyway, it was nice to get some rain, the farmers needed that and the ducks just love it.

Labour and Work

There is
and was
and will always be
great distance between
this side
and the other.

At the moment of opening,
existence is a journey
from … to …
where
all travelers must move,
bound, as by blood-signed contract,
under order of
which God (and science is a God)
or ethic prevails.

A star can be a traveler,
a seed as well
though
the necessary steps,
from a place to one further,
are not made easier by high speed,
bright light,
smooth pavement,
gentle winds,
enough heat,
spring rain,
autumn colour,
spun-candy wishes
or dreams.

To each,
accordingly,
is offered enough work
or labour for his or her moment.

It is Labour which fills the heart,
makes of time
a fine memory.
Work
dulls the palate,
is a dead thing
choked upon
but
these two are one the same,
made by the traveler
into sweetness
or pain.

The Workhouse

It’s pretty human to shirk,
to shy away
from what looks like
work but
no matter his condition
or how late the hour,
sooner or later, on calloused knees,
each exits illusion’s bower
and punches a clock.

From first breath indentured,
don’t we all,
whether slaving for Peter,
for Paul,
or Joe Blow Commerce
down the block,
have misted life’s hard labour
sole on offer,
to answer
what a wandering dream forbode,
and fill time’s echoed coffer,
load upon tiny load?

Theories are
with schemes, in plenty,
none the one true,
concerned with where we go
or come from,
what a man
or woman is supposed to be
or do.

Hold my hand, dear chosen friend,
until we both corrode,
as in the front-porch swing we sit,
procrastinate a bit,
then ponder why the stars began,
when it all implodes.

Piano Lesson

Tiny vibrations crowd
the roof’s peak,
slide down
and splash across new-leafed trees,
midpoint of the half season.

In the beholder’s eye,
colour is rich yet,
a wet thing whose
layers are exposed,
shady green under excited yellow
under washed out, delicate blue.

A human, passive witness and
amateur scientist,
imaginary note pad in hand,
tries to understand this,
perhaps as sheaves of
impossible music,
wondering,
“Who authored bliss?”

God just sits,
pleased by its invisible grand piano,
tickling strings
via keys and other contraptions.

Birds and Stars

Sometimes, still,
I sing to hear the sound
and wonder if
our dusty-brown
birds do this, too.
Though worksong’s of
utmost import every day,
I’m sure birds also
play.

I’m certain they
might call each other
silly names at times,
sole to hear an
echo back
as summer’s sun
climbs.

Further, yet, my theory is:
life keeps an hour divine
to step aside
and game at love.

The proof of this glows
high above
home’s often sorrowed lane,
where all the million stars
remain,

patient until eventide
allows a twinkled shine.

Conversations About God

Earlier,
the birds had conversations
on the rooftop edge adjacent
to our window casement.
My simple heart imagined them Christians,
setting about their Sunday reflections
not
complex nature’s gentle wings,
whom,
feathered in a colour of complacence,
dusty brown,
communicate in private terms.

…then one
and two
and three flew down,
resumed their search for worms.

A day’s carefree dreams fly away,
as my talking Christian birds did do,
when splashed by cold-water fact.
For example; that sky above is empty black
and our atmosphere’s what sun lights blue.
…the garden of eden?
…probably not true.

Action Master Plan (partial instruction) 

1) Creating Stuff.

    To create something, assemble the necessary

     elements.  

          A) Elements Of Life:

               All life requires Earth, Air, Fire, Water.

  Human specific life needs specific sperm and egg.

               Chicken life, s s + e.

               Dog, s s + e.

               Whale, s s + e.

               Plant specific life needs bee and pollen.

       1) assembly of required plant life elements may

                         benefit from clever use of imagination.

                         For plants, modify the b + p arrangement as             

                         individually indicated.

  NOTE TO A):  See Addendum B6 for guidelines RE:

                             situations of autonomous same-sex

                             attraction.  There have problems

                             in the laboratory.

          B) Elements Of Art.

               There are two elements, the Maker and the Witness.

               Art is subjective and requires the

               eye, ear or tastebud of a beholder,

               in order to exist at all.

               Art is an endeavour of the Human hand, the human heart.

               Birds, trees, etcetera do not require art,

               their souls burn without synthetic flames.

                     1)  Art Is Love

          NOTES TO B):  1) Don’t over-think it.

              2) Be cautious RE:  psycho-active plants and art creation.

Act Three

You are still,
almost part of the chair,
before a drawn curtain
and wondering, “Is there not an act three?”
while those around are standing,
offering applause,
putting on coats,
gathering purses,
hats,
scarves,
excitedly chattering about
what a great show it was.

Over time, the theatre clears
of friends and neighbours,
dear ones,
lovers, dreams,
but you remain,
for what must be an eternity,
pondering.

Have you not
understood the joke?
or learned the lesson?
Are you expecting
cleansing fire
when only houselights struggle to life?

Me, Pussycat, God

If I were the Pussycat
and He
were
me,

I wonder exactly
how that
would
be.

I might sit,
contented,
my own simple business
to mind and,
suddenly,
find

my whole self lifted in air,
to be cheek by jowl
and ear pressed to ear.

I’d struggle,
push, lean,
and rather
not be there

but I’d have nothing to fear.

All powerful,
the Pussycat’d
have no reason to be mean,

I’d feel loved
and He’d rub my chin,
whispering, “Tell me, Pussycat,
where have you been?”