One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
All I am is energy transformed.
I own nothing nor no one;
owe my soul and pay nothing.
Travelers know of what I speak.
We're moving through this world alone
to a brighter place we have seen.
I'm going there to see my ancestors.
I'll not stay here for too long,
aren't we all just traveling home?
Darkness will surround me.
comfort there is all I want,
come dark clouds and surround me.
The lights of Elysium show me the way.
I've paid my fare to cross the Jordan,
now, I'll be on my way.
Mother Mnemosyne will meet me there.
My nine sisters will write my song,
and I will become their morning air.
Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.
Cloudy eyes under folds of skin
charred by a life of sun and wind
by chance stopped me on the quay
awaiting transport to my next sin.
The needle of stone above his head
rang the morning call to prayer.
From arabesque minaret,
the Mullah called God's name.
Cloudy eyes, dark and sad,
knew the call was all in vain.
Yet, I stood transfixed
and tried to understand.
Why had I sailed to continents
and he the desert sand?
Were we not brethren
spirits seeking our adventure
across different lands?
He offered me a dried date,
a delicacy to him.
I took the gift of kindness
and saw a different man.
A wandering blood filled his veins.
Desert heat burned away his days
and dreams of youth passed on by
as bitter nights crept in his sleep.
No common language could we speak.
No sign was offered to be seen.
We knew our time was short,
for our souls would soon take flight.
Across the desert sand and seas
to other places we would go.
On starry nights in heaven's sky,
those cloudy eyes would gloat.
He had arrived in Elysium
while I swayed in Charon's leaky boat.
Twelve times the clapper struck the bell
as bow to shore gave jolt.
I splashed ashore and felt my heart
beat mighty with some dark dream,
and then remembrance came like song,
I was home in hell again.
In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.
It was a dark and stormy night. Little Gaston, a waif of a cat with ribs showing through lackluster fur, searched vainly for his Kibbles and Bits. The bastards forgot me again, he sighed. These were famine times and Gaston decided he would have to go out on his own into the dreary witch infested forest of the Swiss Alps and hunt for himself. Ha, Ha, Haaaaaa, he chuckled with a deep yoga-esque front stretch, his tail in a proper question mark position.
Gaston loved a bit of drama. It made his life more interesting. But today he felt more like adventure down by the lake. He hadn’t seen his otter friend Jefferey in a while. He needed a change. The girl, Charlotte, kept him up most of the night. She had a peculiar habit of caterwauling late at night.
She would wail; oh, oh, ohhhh god, repeatedly. His man-bro, Gunnar, tried to hold her down and comfort her, but she kept bucking him into the air like a camel jockey in a high stakes race across the desert. Humans, he thought, who can make sense of what they do? Anyway, I need to get away and have a bit of real cat food feasting. A nice mouse under the house will do. Maybe Ratatouille, the squirrel, will be out looking for a nut and we can have a game of chase. Now that is good exercise for a proper cat, such as myself, Gaston thought.
Now, sitting in the middle of his cat box prepared to purify his soul by dumping a bit of toxic waste, Gaston had an epiphany. What the hell am I doing? he pondered. I can take a proper dump in the wilderness like my ancestors did. Gaston stepped out of the box and flicked bits of cat litter back into the box from his paws. He hated listening to Charlotte complain about his only happiness in this stuffy house.
A good refreshing dump and then a lion like leap away from the spoiled ambiance of his private endeavor was the joy of the day and then comes Charlotte fussing about the mess. What did she expect and besides, his man-bro Gunnar could ruin the whole house with his force-fed vegan diet. Yes, she complained about that too. Females, there is a subject of eternal guess work, Gaston smirked to himself.
Escape was easy. Gunnar had long ago left him an escape hole in the closet with the water heater. The hole where the water pipe came into the house was big enough for him to squeeze through and drop to the ground below under the house where a magnificent mouse meal surely awaited. Gaston stood and pulled the door handle down. He made his way to the hole in the corner and peered down to sniff. Ahh, such a rich aroma; damp earth, wood, and the flinty oder of stone. It smelled like freedom.
Gaston dropped a tad unceremoniously to the ground, looked around to make sure no one saw his awkward landing, and proceeded to hunt with skulking silence and fierce intent. Not really, but it sounded cool to Gaston.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.
In flames and rivers of crimson, they lay,
With weary eyes, they saw their fate.
As the chaos of war reached for their souls,
Courage bid them rise and fight that day.
When the battle raged and wounded fell,
Death threw open the gates of Hell,
And good men carried the Brave away.
Remember Our Veterans
Gunnar parked by the cabin. It was just turning dark and the nightfall was clear with the lighted horizon behind the mountains reflecting off the snow giving everything a soft blue light. He knocked the sawdust off his coveralls and went inside. He removed his winter clothes and hung them up in the mudroom before entering the living area just like every evening. He stood by the small wood stove and stoked the fire. The heat felt luxurious as warmth crept back into his arms and legs. He drew a hot bath and washed the sawmill out of his skin, hair, and thoughts.
After a good hot bath, Gunnar fed Gaston, who was perky and looking royally indignant, happy to see Gunnar return home. He fixed a stew and pot of spiced tea, placed it on a wooden tray, and made his way up to the loft. The tray rested on the dresser as the room filled with the savory smell of the stew and wisps of spiced chai tea. The rustle of sheets broke the spell of daydreams held in the fading light from the mountains shining through the picture window next to the bed. The woman in Gunnar’s bed felt his warmth against her as his arms encircled her.
She turned into him. The silk shirt his models always wore fell open as she hugged him and mimicked Gaston’s welcoming purr. Gaston cocked his head. She is finally learning, he thought. She lay on Gunnar’s chest and wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him tight against her. She had felt the change in him; a metamorphosis that promised she would no longer have to leave him and reset his mind. He was no longer slow and reserved with his passion. She felt his wildness become a fervor. She had promised herself when he was ready, she would consume him like a forest fire with her love.
“I love you, Char. With every ounce of my soul.”
She held him tight to her as a tear fell from her cheek to his neck. “Let’s eat before it gets cold, and then I have a favor to ask.”
He smiled and whispered through his lips attending to her neck. “Tell me.”
“Paint me,” She replied with a sultry smokiness in her voice.
Gaston lifted his head and tail into the air and trotted out of the room. He was a Tom Cat, to be sure, but he was no peeping Tom.