A desert poem

Here is a poem for summer, I have never published. It has been buried in a file cabinet for years. The handwritten date at the bottom of the typed page is 11-11-1987; this is when I still lived in California.

The Desert Dance

Around and around we spin in the sand.

Single and double headlights flash

preceding our intersecting paths, as if they were flashlight beams crossing in the dark.

We leap the hills, our tires bouncing as we land.

We scream and yell as if we are children riding roller coasters.

Some nights, the desert is like the endless Sahara. The sand and dust is thick in the air, and we wake up with grit in our teeth.

Other nights, after rain, the desert is damp and still as if it was the surface of the moon. The world exists only as far out as the headlights shine.

The motors rev and hum much like the growls of wild animals. The noises terrify the desert creatures, which do not understand. Cowering, they have taken refuge elsewhere, not knowing if their dens are being destroyed while they are gone.

Our bodies unconsciously tense and relax, contract and release with the bouncing, turning, and bucking of the vehicles. We hold our breaths, then breathe fast and explode with laughter.

Once we stop, all is still. The desert night twinkles with a thousand stars lighting up the dunes. The moon glows like a nocturnal sun.

Although distant in our daytime lives, we are compadres of the night. Giggling, sharing secrets, we are fearless with drink.

When daylight comes, tracks reveal the past shenanigans of the mechanical animals. The tracks begin to erode in the wind, and the memory of the night fades, for us and for the desert creatures, cautiously returning home.

-SLG

Baton Recital and David Byrne

It starts out as something simple. You think you are going to your daughter's baton recital, or whatever it is in which your child is performing or playing. You're not even that present at first - you've been rushing after work, trying to quickly prepare dinner, get everyone ready, get the child into their costume or uniform, tying down the hair, finding the equipment.

Then you're sitting there - it's hot in the bleachers or at the field, the seats are uncomfortable, you're crowded by the person sitting next to you. You're ready for it to be over with so you can go home.

Then it starts, and you're watching your child. And this strange transformation happens - you're watching this wonderful child, and you go inside your head and you say to to yourself, "Who is that child?" "I KNOW that's MY child, but how did we get to this point? How did I get here?"

And you seem to be living the David Byrne of the Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime. You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. Or you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, and you may ask yourself, 'How did I get here?'

And you're sitting there with your family all around you, and you feel tears streaming down your face. No one else around you is crying - it's a baton recital. Kids are twirling and catching and dropping batons, and shaking pom poms; parents are cheering - there's nothing to cry about. And you have a memory of your strong father, a military veteran, doing the same bewildering thing as he watched YOU on stage, many years ago. Oh, you understood it then, because you had a certain depth, an intuition, but you really get it now. Tears of joy. Of the water flowing out, underground. And you are awake again - this is a once in a lifetime experience. This is the only time you will be at this baton recital, and she will be that age, and you have all the people alive in your life you now have.

And all the lyrics to the David Byrne song make sense, in many ways -

Letting the days go by - MY GOD! What have I done!

Time isn't holding us, Time isn't after us. Time isn't holding us; Time is a pony ride.

You realize everything you've ever done, and everything you are, has led up to this moment. That's how you got here. This is the reality - this endless, eternal moment in time. You've been waking up worrying, about lots of things, including that horrible, nightmarish oil disaster spewing into the beautiful, fertile gulf of Mexico. The images come up in your consciousness, making you sick and scared for the future. But there's really not much you can do about that. Or maybe there is.

And as you sit there in the hot gym, you feel the love flowing out of you until it all flows together, as the waters find each other and become one. And you're connected again, to the gym, the recital, the audience, and the joyous little girl who is very present, a radiant smile on her face. And I think of all of you who have felt this moment; you, my family and friends, many of whom are now grandparents and are really seeing their connection to these things.

same as it ever was, same as it ever was. same as it ever was, same as it ever was.....

Let the love flow.

Skunk and Raven

I wrote this piece of prose today. I think that's what it is - not poetry. With this I give a nod to one of the best short pieces of fiction I ever read in our award-winning high school literary magazine, JAVA. The piece I liked was called "Fresh-Squashed Squirrel on New Fallen Snow." To you, Pat (?), the author.

Skunk and Raven

Skunk. Unmistakable.

It rousts a person from a deep slumber. Walking by a bedroom window, with a little pfft, phsst, ffiisffptsh,

off it toddles, and you begin dreaming of skunks.

You are smelling it while you sleep. You nearly taste the smell on your tongue, almost becoming intoxicated by it, needing to sniff it just a little bit more. Then it wakes you, the blooming smell of skunk overriding all the pleasantness of your bedroom.

So pungent, almost edible. A complexity of aroma, almost a flavor. I am reminded of the people who describe wines:

"Notes of moldy cheese blended with week-old b.o. Aerate, waft, and sniff again, open-mouthed; feel it expand up into your sinuses and there take residence."

Once, Pally spotted a skunk while we were in a rented house for a family vacation. He took all the children out and they chased it from a distance, fascinated. This young skunk had soft and pretty fur, bobbling and rolling as it loped along. Not terribly afraid of people - no need to be.

The kids had fun scaring themselves and each other, chasing it. The adults had fun chiding Pally for his risky behavior. "What if it had stopped and sprayed one of you?" they said.

Later, the little one appeared at my bedside, and woke me.

"Mommy, I can't sleep."

"Why, Honey? What's wrong?"

"I dreamed the stinky cat was chasing me!"

I comforted her. "There, there. The skunk doesn't want to get you!" We laughed about the 'stinky cat' story later.

That was a long time ago. I am driving today - and too late I see it - had I more time, I would have turned off all the vents and air conditioning in the car.

Instead, the smell will fill the car, permeating it. I will be tasting it for days, a companion in my vehicle.

What I am struck by today is that as I pass the road kill, a huge raven stands astride it, piercing and eating it with great relish.

I think this is the most intense, powerful, most awful skunk I have ever smelled. The reek of it nearly burns my eyes. It's an odor with many levels. Yet the raven is a machine -so absorbed, tearing and swallowing chunks with such gusto - I guess it really likes the way it tastes, consuming all that rude smell.

What I want to know is this: can the ravens and the vultures not smell it, or do they choose to wear the odor as a calling card, a carrion's personal badge of honor?

-SLG

The Joy Killers

Here is a poem I started a year ago, and set aside - I felt like it lacked something, and I don't usually use a sad tone. I picked it up this morning and finished it. It's written on a ripped out, lined sheet of paper from a spiral bound planner.

The Joy Killers

They are circling the school yard right now - the joy killers.
They don't realize it shows in their eyes, their hard faces, their posture. Born without joy,
or having had it wretched from them - by the unfulfillment of their parents, the unrighteous jealously of their siblings,
the needy rabble roaming the neighborhood.

Now they patrol, joyless. The emptiness within has left them seeking to fill the gaping hole, the void.

And what is SHE doing right now?

So little, so sweet -

On the school yard.

I have taken no time to think about her all day -
selfishly involved in my own petty thoughts - working - the excuses we make to say what is more important.

But then driving somewhere else - passing the school yard at a distance -
a glimpse, flashes of children, running, bright colors, the little high screams and shrieks.

She's in there, somewhere.
What is SHE doing?
And who is try to steal her joy?

I wonder why the thieves don't have their own. What happened to them, what words or feelings were they not given, that my child has it and these others do not?

Were they simply not born with it, unlike her?

After all these years, my heart still pulls hard for her. Yet I'm grateful it's full, and glad it pulls.

-SLG

Synchro hikes Mt. Sorak

This is the latest adventure about Synchro, my friend from Fort Wayne who became an air force officer and was stationed in South Korea in 2000. Here she writes about time off from the base and exploring beautiful Korea:

This weekend I went to Mt. Sorak National Park. The parks are beautiful especially with the fall colors (Oct.). The parks were extremely crowded. People of all ages were hiking. One of the hills was 1000 meters straight up. We had to climb staircases along the face of steep rocks along sheer cliffs. It was a little scary at first due to the crowds.

Despite the number of people it was fun. Once at the top I felt like I was on top of the world. Midway on the hikes were 'hut' restaurants and vending areas. It was nice to stop and buy noodles and a drink instead of carrying food on the hikes. The Koreans dressed funny for hiking. The old people wore red vests and leg warmers. The young women wore high heel shoes. The young men wore suits.

You asked about religious preferences - On base, the chapel has six chaplains of different Christian denominations. Off base, I have seen Mormons and Buddhists. Koreans tend to be either or both. There are very few Muslims or Jews in the service here. The Koreans have lots of Buddhists temples in the hills and mountains around the base.

Postcard photo is of a standing Buddha in Mirukni, Korea sent in July, 2000

Synchro is stationed in South Korea

So, in the Air Force now as an officer/eye doctor, Synchro had her basic training in Florida, and was shipped over to Korea. Here is an excerpt from her postcard, July 2000 -

I wear a flak vest (bulletproof) helmet, gas mask and play war games for a week at a time. There are jets screaming over my apartment day and night. I hang out with fighter pilots. They are interesting. It's like Top Gun. None of them go by their given names but go by their call names. So I hang out with people called Mojo, Ranger, Craps, Nickel.

Every day at 1730 the national anthem is played and everyone must stop and stand at attention. I was given a couple of days to adjust to the time change with R & R when I first got here - I went to Seoul and went shopping. I went to the night clubs here which are wild. Men like to dance here and they dance with other men. Not Koreans - I'm talking about American men. I'm told it's socially acceptable here and there aren't any women to dance with.

The off-base cops are called the Town Patrol. If you are off base past curfew the Town Patrol arrests you. Each night the MPs patrol off base and arrest drunk military personnel. Every night they play the US and Korean National Anthem through the base and city, followed by a jet fly-by. The jets are loud.

One of the religions in Korea is Buddhism. Kyongju is the home of Buddhism there. It was also the capital of Korea from 37 BC to 935 AD. I visited and there were lots of temples, tombs and statues (postcard photo above is from temple there). It's a very old city.

Next time - some hiking and nature in Korea

My long-time pen pal from Northside Park Pool

We met on a ski bus trip to Sault St. Marie, Canada. As unaccompanied women, we were seated as roommates and ended up cracking jokes about the loose women on the trip.

Later we met again at the Northside Park swimming pool in Fort Wayne, where I took a lunchtime break from my corporate communications job, and she started her day before working on second trick. A graduate of of the University of Michigan, she had a big job at the Kraft Plant in Kendallville. She knew a lot about the mini-marshmallows that were put in Lucky Charms cereal, among other facinating things.

And during those lunch times at the pool, while she religiously worked in her sets of laps, and I read and planned next to the pool, we bonded. We clicked.

She had been a competitive synchronized swimmer in college, and could still do all the moves. She liked that I was a dancer and a skier, and how I was brave around dogs. Growing up, she had spent a lot of time in bad parts of Detroit with her family's grocery business, and all the dogs around there were guard dogs. Not exactly friendly.

After school age, women sometimes have trouble connecting with each other as friends. It's like there is an unwritten rule that all other priorities are more important. Whatever it is, the rule didn't apply here. We weren't just alike, but we made a connection -one that has lasted some 22 years, over a great distance.

You see, Syncro, as I'm going to call her, got bored with her Kendallville job - It wasn't like working for Ben & Jerry's. So, she went back to school at the lovely Bloomington campus of Indiana University and became a doctor of Optometry. Then she enlisted in the Air Force, and has been all over the world, traveling and serving our country. She has worked on American Indian reservations in the United States, and was stationed in South Korea for a while.

It was from Korea she wrote me and sent me a series of stunning postcards, detailing her life and impressions of the area. I always wrote back, and we have now been pen pals for about 20 years. She moved back from Korea to Arizona, then to Washington State, and now San Antonio. She dated Top Gun pilots and servicemen, but never married. Still, she wrote, and I wrote back, and told her about my children when they were born, and our home and our life.

I will share some stories about Synchro in the next installment of the blog - observations she made about people in Korea, and her ideas about the risks to the freedoms of our country. But for now, just know how great it is to have an old-fashioned, snail-mail pen pal, and how thrilling it is to get that next card or letter in the mail. The image above is one side of an actual postcard from Korea. Tailwind out, until next time.