Power to the Poet

I remember a time when Albert and I were very young. I had read the story of Icarus and the waxwings and told my brother and friends the tale. Albert's eyes were wide with the possibility of flight. Never mind the moral of the story. It was the fantastical, the wonder of flight that captivated him. We were country boys full of dreams and possibilities, and Albert said, "Let's calculate," which was a word he had just learned, but it immediately set the plan in motion. We found a corrugated crate the railroad workers had tossed by the cotton gin. We measured and cut wings, glued chicken feathers, and attached rope and wire for hand and flight control. We christened the wings Icarus. We used an old outhouse as a launching station and surrounded it with mounds of loose dirt in case of an emergency landing, and we waited for a haboob, a dust storm prevalent in the Texas panhandle.  Weeks later, awakened by the rattling of windows and the smell of dirt, exhilarated by what ...

"I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies I no longer touch the earth with my feet." — Ptolemy

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. -- Mary Oliver

     Several weeks ago, my grandson and I drove to Rest For the Weary. Lost in thought, I passed the road to my brother's farm. We ended up going the long route from the opposite side. We snaked along a winding road until a worn and beaten path appeared. We slowly turned onto it. It was cold and wet; puddles were everywhere, and the potholes and ruts rattled our bones.       In the distance, we saw a cluster of trees. As we creaked towards the farm, memories flooded my mind, and my skull became a tomb full of ghosts. Echoes of the past reverberated in my head, but Gabey brought me out of my reverie. "I hope we don't get stuck out here, gramps."      "Especially with zombies roaming the countryside," I said, pretending to be frightened. We are obsessed with anything related to zombies, and it helped lighten my mood and ease my sorrow.       Finally, the road opened up to the abandoned farm. I said, "Keep your head on a...

"To get lost is to learn the way. "* I was chatting with Doug, a 92-year-old neighbor, and towards the end of our conversation, he said, "I wish I'd been a better human being. I have so many regrets." "Who doesn't have regrets," I replied. That's part of the journey. It's how we find ourselves, our soul." I sheepishly smiled because I thought, who am I to give a 92-year-old man advice? But he nodded and patted my shoulder.  "I'll talk to you later, Este," he said, "I have to take care of Thelma." His wife is 97. She's sharp, but her body is failing her. Doug walked away unbalanced, bent, and pulled closer to Mother Earth. One day she will embrace him as she does all of us. Anyway, that's life, Gloria. That's the journey. There's always conflict between mind, body, and soul. Sometimes you feel you're losing your mind, and other times you feel connected and in tune with God and His creation. Th...