Empty Coffee Cups and Overflowing Ashtrays

Published on by geriatric pilgrim2 Comments
Dad with his coffee and cigarette

Sipping decaf latte with oat milk

at my local coffee shop, watching

the interplay of light and shadow

on granite-colored walls, I recall

growing up with empty coffee cups

 and overflowing ashtrays

in the kitchen, the dining room,

the living room, the bathroom:

flowered cups with curved handles 

tipped over in saucers, stained by years of use, 

and ashtrays mounded with 

Camel, Kent, and Pall Mall butts,

curtesy of my parents and my grandmother,

who often used her saucer as an ash tray—

cigarette smoke and the smell of old coffee

wafting through the house, like 

the resentments and repressed anger

passed down by generations of depression and alcoholism,

not to mention the shame and worry about money

and what would the neighbors think—

a miasma so pervasive I never noticed,

any more than I noticed a house empty

of spontaneity, security, and joy.

So why wouldn’t I start to smoke and drink coffee

and wallow in anger and shame,

until emphysema and heartburn and divorce

said, “Had enough?”

And here I am,

an old man, parents and grandmother

long gone, drinking my latte and 

checking my iPhone (another addiction,

even the size of the cigarette pack 

I once carried in that pocket),

working my 12-Step program,

and practicing gratitude for the life I have.

This too is grief.

◊

When the Voices in the Attic of my Head

Published on by geriatric pilgrim11 Comments

~

When the voices in the attic of my head

(that dim, dusty place of cobwebs and splintered beams

I know so well) crank up, like a scratchy LP on the

record player I had in high school, their taunts— Sissy! Loser! Clumsy! 

You should be ashamed of yourself! My son, the educated fool!—

I know it’s time to open doors and walk out

under cathedral pines—and listen to their choirs 

of finches, chick-a-dees and tufted titmice

sing, “Good enough! Good enough! Good enough!”

~

Life Smells

Published on by geriatric pilgrim4 Comments
Illustration by Lisa Keppeler. Used with her kind permission.

~

It’s September, 2019 and ten weeks after my heart surgery and I’m taking my first walk in the woods since then and the first thing I notice is the fecund smell of fallen leaves and pine needles and dying trees…

and the scents of hay and cows and horses in my great-grandfather’s barn, and the waft of fried onions and potatoes in Nanny and Grampy Lufkin’s house, and the whiff of perfume and cigarettes in Nanny Cleaves’s apartment, and the aroma of Mom’s fresh baked bread on Saturday mornings…

and a few years later: the earthy odors of the market garden where I worked summers, the pungence of wet towels, dirty socks and jockstraps in the locker-room beneath the gym where I spent so much time… 

and the fragrances of my Aqua Velva, and her White Shoulders blending in the back seat of the family Ford …

and later still: the salt smack of ocean breeze thru the spruce trees around our camp in the early days of marriage when love was new and life’s possibilities seemed endless…

and because autumn is when things die, memory sniffs the acrid smoke from the Old Town Paper Company as I drift, bitter and aimless, across the university campus, no longer the high school bigshot and no idea who the hell I am or where I’m going…

 and then the dank reek of the dregs of the pipe tobacco I used to smoke during the last years of that first marriage…

and the stench of shit and disinfectant in the hospital where my daughter lay dying, when I learned how life and love can also waste away and die… 

and thoughts of shit spark smells of steaming cow flaps in Scottish pastures through which Mary Lee and I hike, and aromas of shawarma, spices, and pita bread mingled with the dust of pilgrims in the Old City of Jerusalem, and the sweet scent of apple tea in Turkey and animal musk on the Serengeti and incense wafting up from the altar into the stony steeple of Iona Abbey—reminders that I not only didn’t die, but flourished—

and the smell of Mary Lee lying beside me in the morning, and the fresh, slightly sweet scent of our newborn grandchild, and before I know it, going into the school building to pick up that grandchild where the fragrance of chalk and cleaners and young bodies take me back to my years as a public-school teacher—intimations that love is stronger than death…

and although I’m surrounded by the smells of dead and dying vegetation and the lingering sickly scent of Mupirocin with which I swabbed my nose prior to and after heart surgery, the decay upon which I walk and which I smell teems with the bouquet of resurrection.

~

Coach Bale

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

°°

In those days, 

while I went to church each Sunday, my religion was basketball.

I worshipped Fridays in the high school gym, my saints the Eagles’ starting five. 

°

As aspirant, I tacked a round Quaker Oats box on a wall 

and rolled a pair of socks into a ball. 

°

And when I received a rubber Voit and Dad put up a hoop,

I loved the feeling of release, the sense of my soul’s rising from the driveway, 

the “swish” that said, “My son, I am well pleased.”

°

My god became eighth-grade coach Bale, who baptized 

me with sweat, shame, and submission.  

°

Lap after lap, disciples ran around the gym until we thought we’d puke. 

We heaved leather ten-pound balls, ran three-man weaves, learned to pivot

and set picks, while Coach Bale, arms across his barrel chest, thundered, 

“Move, you sissies! Move!”

°

The joy when learning I’d made the team

soon switched to fear when Coach Bale turned his wrath on me: 

“Hey, kid, you waddle like a wounded duck. Run!”

°

I started to jump rope at home, do sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups, 

but nothing seemed to rectify my offenses.

“I said go here after you pass the ball,

not there, dummy! Clean out your ears!” 

I added running to my day, lost ten pounds. 

°

And lo, I made the starting five.

Sometimes I starred; sometimes I stunk.

If I scored early, blocked a shot, no one could stop me; 

if I threw the ball away or dribbled off my foot, 

fear of Coach Bale’s wrath multiplied my sins.

°

 Still, by the season’s end, he’d stopped his yelling at me; 

but neither did I hear his praise—no blessing for having worked my ass off.

Which made me want to work the harder.

°

The next four years—from freshman ball to junior squad to bench warmer to starting five— 

it was Coach Bale and not my high school coaches

who inspired me to dive for loose balls, outjump other guys.

Although I still played inconsistently, my passion helped our team to win.

°

After a game, when asked to sign a program, 

I realized I’d become the saint I used to glorify. 

And when a junior high kid told me Coach Bale had used me 

as an example of how hard work leads to success, 

I knew the blessing I’d so craved had been bestowed.

°

I also knew I didn’t give a shit.

The years of sweat and shame and anger had defiled the sport I’d once so loved. 

After our final game, I filched a pack of my father’s cigarettes,

and taught myself to blow smoke rings.

°

Four years later, home from college, I ran into Coach Bale.

Shorter than I remembered, his jowls hung like uncooked dough.

His handshake weak, his clothes reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.

He slurred his words as he preached his gospel of sweat and tears.

I said I needed to be somewhere else.

°

Oh, how powerless our gods become when we have lost our faith! 

°°°

The Highways

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments
Nova Scotia highway

~

‘Be not afraid.’ Those words don’t say ‘Have no fear.’ Instead, they say I don’t need to be my fear.—Parker Palmer

~

So much to fear,

so I fled to the caverns

and sat in the gathering darkness

 around my tiny fire.

I heard the earth, consumed 

by fire and poison, cry out in agony.

Insane voices screamed threats.

The air reeked of corruption.

Gunshots echoed in the canyons.

Grieving parents wept.

I felt my strength ebbing as

I sensed the valley of the shadow below.

How I longed for the sky to light up 

and a voice from the heavens 

thunder, “Be Not Afraid!”

and an angel descend to

sheathe me in unconquerable courage.

But in the silence amidst the tumult 

and the suffering, an old friend 

I’ve never met said, 

“‘Be not afraid’ doesn’t mean ‘Have no fear,’ 

but rather, ‘do not be your fear.’”

I raised my eyes and looked back at my journey,

not only at the deep crevices of death

and quicksands of despair,

but at hilltops of hope,

ponds of trust,

forests of generosity,

fields of strength,

oceans of love,

and saw fear was but part of the landscape.

Therefore, I have risen from the ashes,

left the caverns,

and resumed the journey,

resolving to live on the highways

and not in the hollows,

cherishing each rock on the road.

The sun has not yet set.

Arizona sunrise

~ ~

Mid-December’s Black Ice

Published on by geriatric pilgrim10 Comments
Photo from Wikipedia (but it could have been in front of my house)

◊

Yesterday’s snow became rain

before the temperature dropped

back into the teens, so that

this morning, sunshine glistens 

on the icy road over 

which I walk—an eighty-year-

old man trying to find his 

way during this season of 

Joy to the World, while he grieves

the anniversary of 

 his child’s death, and ponders what’s 

next with curiosity 

glazed with fear, poking along 

flat-footed, carefully pick-

ing his way, concentrating 

on not falling, focused on 

keeping that icy balance. 

◊

Curiosity

Published on by geriatric pilgrim11 Comments
A poem about curiosity has got to have a cat in it somewhere, right?

~

… has become a joke between my sponsor and me.

“And, as always,” she says, “be curious.”

And I laugh because I’ve learned she’s right,

and she laughs because she knows I’ve learned she’s right:

that a shot of curiosity is vaccination against

all those viruses that have infected me for the past 80 years: 

resentment, shame, lack of self-worth, 

judgmentalism, co-dependency…

.~

Nothing defuses solipsism like a dose of “I wonder”—

wonder why that email from my old high school pissed me off for days,

wonder why I felt it was my responsibility to keep the meeting on topic,

wonder why I took an instant dislike to the woman ahead of me in the checkout line,

wonder why yesterday I felt that I was God’s gift to humanity and today that I’m a urinal cake—

shifting attention from self to subject,

neutralizing judgment, anticipation, awfulizing, expectation, and resentment.

~

Curiosity keeps me from remaining curled, like a caterpillar in a cocoon,

counsels me to explore the landscapes of my past, present, and future,

with no destination, only an appreciation for the journey.

Curiosity exercises senses I’d almost forgotten I had,

gives my racing mind a needed pit stop.

Curiosity exposes shapeless anxieties to light

where they evaporate, or (and be honest here)

sometimes spew pain previously lying dormant for years beneath denial,

erupting now in spasms of anguish until—son of a gun!—

melting into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Curiosity is what keeps the people I admire these days young,

what brings me awe,

and yes, what keeps me laughing.

~ ~

Broomstick Season

Published on by geriatric pilgrim12 Comments

~

The trees that can have given up their leaves—

the reds and golds you see in magazines,

(though dry and chewed and rotting with black mold)—

standing outlined against the sky: broom sticks

whose branches seem about to sweep the clouds.

~

Hard not to recall those who died this month:

a grandmother, father, mother-in-law,

Thanksgivings when their absence filled our plates.

The Ronald McDonald House Thanksgiving

of turkey, fear, anxiety, and tears,

as my wife and her sons saw my daughter

for what we all knew would be the last time.

~

Well into the November of my life,

I mourn the green and teeming dreams I had,

The gaudy colored leaves of happiness,

chewed by anger and blackened by misdeeds.

Now naked of ambition, strength, shame, guilt,

but rooted in the rocky soil of Grace,

supported by my friends and families,

I raise my bony, brittle arms to sweep

away remorse, and cry in gratitude:

Thank you, thank you, and thank you, for it all.

~ ~

Desert Labyrinth

Published on by geriatric pilgrim7 Comments

**

Entering:

Heel…toe…heel…toe

trying to focus on the boots

that walk this path lined with

tan, gray, white, russet

stones snaking its way

over copper-colored gravel.

Still, the mind twists, bends, curves

with the path going around, back, between

the blue of the sky, labored breathing,

the inhaler back in the room, 

past mistakes, future apprehensions,

prickly pear, barrel, saguaro cactus,

fantasies, “if onlys,”

scrunch of footsteps.

Following the narrow road of stones

toward the center of what looks

like a petrified brain

which is right ahead

and then it’s not,

spiraling further away.

Turning a corner

torso teeters, trips,

boot kicks

a rock into the path.

Voices from the past snicker

Clumsy klutz!

Kicking the rock back into place.

Walking on.

*

The Center:

Finally

three red rocks triangle

a flat altar stone

spilling painted stones, shells,

ribbons, bracelets, a plastic flower,

a wooden plaque that says:

“Too much of anything is bad,

 but too much good whiskey is barely enough,”

left perhaps by someone hoping to leave 

both plaque and whiskey behind.

Sitting on a red rock wondering

Where is my center?

What do I need to leave behind?

Brown rumpled hills dotted with saguaro,

prickly arms lifted as if in praise,

reply with silence

punctuated by

the cooing of a distant dove.

*

Returning:

Heel…toe…heel…toe

trying to focus on the ground beneath the maze,

the silences between 

the ripples of wind, a cardinal’s whistle,

yellow palo verdi blossoms, azure sky,

sunlight on sweaty skin,

overhanging mesquit branch that 

grabs a shirtsleeve like a past sin.

Stumbling again

kicking another stone again

booting the rock back into place again,

breathing to Thich Nhat Hanh

(breathing in, I calm my body,

breathing out, I smile.)

circling, looping, spiraling,

remembering the center—

The soul? Love? Divine Spark?

Face before you were born?—

circling, looping, spiraling.

Gazing over russet, white, brown, tan

stones to the exit

except it’s also the entrance—

accept it’s also the entrance—

to life’s labyrinthian journey.

**

The Goat

Published on by geriatric pilgrim8 Comments

Feral goat somewhere in the north of England. Probably has nothing to do with my dream (although who knows?), but I thought I’d post it anyway.

~

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of…

—Shakespeare

~

I Dream of a Goat

chewing grass

outside the sunroom

of my house.

Which is strange,

because I live in a development

and the only animals

I usually see are

cats and dogs and birds.

But then,

I not sure I’m in my house:

it’s darker, emptier

—only my chair and a bookcase.

Oh, 

and the glass doors

through which 

I watch

the goat 

are bigger,

 and in a different place.

It’s a large goat,

probably female,

although I don’t know

much about goats—

I think 

that’s an udder

back there—

brown, white chest and legs,

 and two small horns

V-ing down

into white stripes 

until they meet 

in a white mask

over a long nose.

At first, 

I’m curious,

but the goat starts butting its head

against the glass doors.

The damn thing’s trying to get in!

I can feel its

 onyx eyes drilling

into my soul.

I lock the glass doors

but one is loose.

When I try to 

tighten a screw

with my Swiss army knife

another screw loosens.

I go from

one sliding door to another

trying to keep 

the goat out.

But when I turn around,

the goat is in the sunroom,

its hoofs clicking 

like some Flamenco dancer,

chewing,

either finishing the grass

or the leaves of a book,

I don’t know.

I worry about shit

on the floor

(like pebbles, right?),

but so far, nothing.

I don’t even smell anything.

From a closet

that seems somehow familiar

I find a broom.

I wack 

at the goat.

It runs away,

but whether 

back outside

or deeper 

into my dark house

I don’t know.

For some reason,

I don’t care anymore.

Actually,

I’m tempted

to open

the doors and windows

to see who else

might come in.

~~