Boosha

My clock reads 4:01 AM.
Six hours before the Honda
arrives, bearing my father
With the difficulty of seeing his mother
Difficult not because of who she is
But because she has been for so long
And he doesn't want it to end
One could sing her praises
And ignore the faults
But she wouldn't let you
One could feel that she felt her 90th
Was such a fuss, at first
Before the waves of love
Wore down her long built defenses
But her heart has room for us all
Even down here, two generations away
She loves even the ones, like me, who arrived
Not at birth, like most, but through marriage
She loves us all, even though
none of us had a picture perfect life
and neither did she
She was in grade school when the war ended
Her kids were at the end of the boom
She's seen men on the moon
She's seen the nation change around her
She's been addicted, and cured
And known pain as an old friend
She's seen
A husband shoot himself
A son lost
And still, she refused to quit
Because we needed her
And she needed us

Gonna Walk

Eight years I ran
Full tilt
Nose to stone,
Brain taxed, straining
Through breakups and falls
It was the paper that mattered
The program
Then, that spring came
More than a hundred and twenty earned
And that at a three
Married
In debt
Sick, incurably
Still made it to the finish line
Waiting in line, standing
Hot, sweating in black
Square hat holding in the heat
Halfway in, I stumbled and fell
But I was gonna walk
Even if I had to crawl
I made it sound like a joke
But, I was serious
I would have crossed the stage
With legs and hands bleeding
Eighteen years since my last chance
I was not missing this one
Nothing ans no one
would have stopped me

I think you knew
I think you felt the same
You earned it as much as I had
And I was proud to be there with you

Hiding away

A year has gone by, almost
Trying to hide
Like a child in a game
Breathing quiet in a stuffy closet
Friends racing around
Hoping both to be found
and not
The only sound the blood rushing
Trying not to laugh
not to cry out
not to give away where one is
Yet craving the moment the door opens
And 'It' is standing there, laughing
Saying, "Found you!"
But this is a different game
We are adults now, with lives
And I am not hiding
from my friends, or my love
I am not in a closet, under a table, behind the bed
I am not crouched, waiting to be discovered
Because I am hiding
not from others
but from the world itself
and myself

Tugboat

Sometimes, I need a tugboat.

I am a cruise ship,
One prop dead, dragging in the water,
other at no more than half speed
So many docks, so many rocks

Snarl

A pup, brought up to value love
Fed on seeing it in the eyes
Watered with the tenderness inherent
Bedded down and comfortable

Yet when the pup grew strong and tall,
Going out to seek the familiar warmth
Found one after another
Spiked collar, tight against the skin

Inward curling spikes to train the pup
Food infested with worms
Foul water
And a cold bed

Over time, the pup
Began to become accustomed
to the evil world
Living in it, but not becoming it

A snarl on the lips
Even bared teeth from time to time
But never a bite.
Never a rip to the throat

Until, one day, after so many abuses
One found the pup, skinny
tired
with a snarl upon his lips

She present him with good food
clean water
warm bedding
and more

After so much abuse
The pup did not recognize
the feast before him
Seeing worms where there were no worms

Even in the face of kindness,
secretly feared the spiked collar
he knew would come
But hope had not be beaten from him

And so, he existed on the knifes edge
Waiting to fall to abuse or to the desperate hope
of love and kindness
Seeing the stink of the first, and the aroma of the second

Years upon years
Good food, good water
Yet, the fear remained
The snarl softened, but did not leave

A sickness grew
Within him
And the kindness she showed
He finally let the snarl fade

Even now, the fear echos
Through his mind
But, for once,
His heart does not want to run.

Frozen

Being frozen can be comfortable, if cold
Being aware of the outside flowing past
Can't touch, don't want to
Safe and static

Until the fingers ache again to move, to do
The muscles beg to move again, despite the cold comfort

Oh, but the inertia, moving and not
Punch a hole or an immovable post

Peacemaker

The peacemaker stands
With all the various ribbons from all the various directions
They tug and pull, some with sharp edges
his hands seep with wounds, some fresh, some not
the ribbons are metal and silk

Sometimes, the peacemaker
is held steady by the pull
And sometimes
he has to pull back to keep from falling over

But what of the ribbons he lets go?

The Perniciousness

I'd like to take a moment to talk about a subject that has been on my mind for most of my life.

I was raised Presbyterian, with a relaxed view of God and religion, a God that was a kindly father figure, someone I could turn to in times of crisis and need. God was not a tyrant to be feared, but someone who cared about me, personally.

He was just strangely quiet. Well, he did speak from time to time, offering advice when I focused on a problem.

At ten, the first chink in my faith was forged when I could control the "gifts of the spirit" my church was practicing.

At eleven, I had a friend who was a Satanist. I told her I would pray for her, and she just laughed.

At seventeen, I met a woman who did not worship my god. I didn't quite get it, but it opened a door in my mind.

At twenty, I found myself on the streets of Seattle. I went to a church, and felt like I was in the wrong place. It was the last time I went to church at my own choice. I began to look for something else.

At thirty, after spending a few years as a pagan priest, I began to seriously examine my beliefs, ejecting all that I could not back up with evidence or logic. So, I found I had become an atheist.

I spent several years very angry at religion and the religious. But, after a year as an admin on a "Atheist Versus Theist" debate group, I decided to really think about the nature of religion. Starting from the position that religion was from Man, I began to ask the big question, "Why?

Why religion? Where did it come from? Sure, there was the explanation that it was true, but what if it wasn't?

The easiest thing was to try and explain the origin of the idea of God. One thing I learned in examining human constructs is to look at it as if I was observing a single human, and in humans, our behavior is governed by a variety of things.

Part of the evolution of humans is an ancient drive within our branch of life that causes the young to trust their parents. Tell a three year old that you have their nose and they will believe you, even though the evidence directly contradicts it. We look upon out parents when we are between three and seven as if they are divine, supermen and women who can do no wrong. It takes quite a bit for this drive to be defeated. Even those who have been sexually abused by a parent have to fight against their natures to testify.

As adults, we begin to see that our parents are fallible, they are human. But that deep desire remains, the desire to have an infallible super-parent looking out for us. Combine that with the evolved trait of finding patterns and the human drive to anthropomorphize the world in order to understand it, and you have the basis of religion.

Add to that the big black wall we are all hurtling towards called death, and our fear drives us to try and build something in that dark unknown. We don't know what is beyond death, and probably cannot know, and therefore it is the ultimate fear. What better way to deal with this than to attach it to our created super-parent? They can save us from the darkness, so that is where we put them.

We hate being out of control, and the world is inherently out of control. The super-parent can handle that, too.

Other people are mean. Our super-parent can punish them for us. Oh, but if we are bad, the super-parent will punish us, too. Someone, thousands of years ago, realized that, and so figured there must be an escape clause. Enter the concept of forgiveness., of sacrifice for atonement, of the need for someone to save us from our super-parent. Well, why can't our super-parent save us from our super-parent?

So, we are left with a clear chain of reasoning and human nature pointing at the human source of religion. Every time religion has been challenged by internal issues, it has evolved into something that seems to fit better. However, like any misconception, the longer it is used, the more footwork is required to keep it from falling over. The more patches, the more solutions to the issue appear. There are close to 40,000 versions of Christianity, for example. Islam claims to only have a few, but I would hazard a guess that even within the various branches are wide divisions between various philosophies.

In the end, what makes more sense? That we fill in the gaps of what we don't understand or that we fear with the spackle we call God, or that all of the inconsistencies within the various religions are just misconceptions?

Still up

I don't like to sleep
Unless I have medication
When my eyes close, I dream
of running
Not running away, or even running to
Just
running

with both feet, legs pumping, arms swinging
like I used to, when I was in grade school

before my leg stopped
before my balance left

I miss flying into the wind

Cold

Until now, I didn't like the cold
The chill of the air
Snow, ice, and grey skies annoyed me
The days of youth with puffy clothes and ice hardened knitted mittens were far behind
Snow was beautiful, on the other side of the glass
a hot cocoa in my hand, and a blanket around my shoulders

But now, heat has become an enemy
Anything more than a warm spring day
and my body rebels

I still hate the cold

By the sea

Having MS is sometimes like living by the sea
On some days, the view is wonderful
I can see for miles
Walking to what I can see
Well, that is another story
The water is always there
weighing me down
stopping my legs

But, every morning, the fog rolls in
Leaving the land a soft grey fuzz
Nothing can be seen
At arm's length, the hand vanishes
Sounds seem distant, disconnected
The raw salt bite of the sea
Stings the nose, filling it

The best option is to curl up
Inside the lighthouse
With a coffee
a book
a cat
and a fire

The coffee to be awake
The book for escape
The cat for a kindred spirit, far from the savannah of its dreams
The fire for light
Each providing its own warmth

Some days, the fog never retreats
It clings to the shore
A cold, wet blanket
Passive oppression
A constant, immovable force

Some days, the storm comes
Battering the sea and the rocks
Slapping against the glass and shutters
Whining and raging
Howling and crying
Leaving behind devastation
Flotsam and jetsam

Few boats come, fewer stay

I can feel the seasons change
The grey coming more
The desire to hide increasing
In the end... what?

Fog forever?

Crying for the dead

I cry for the dead, for whom tears cannot come.
I cry for those killed to bring a swift end to the war.
I cry for 70,000 souls snuffed out in a flash of light the world has seen only twice.
I cry for those who did this.

I cry for a race that had to be brought to this point before it would stop.

Death and destruction has happened since, to be sure.
But none like the surface of the sun being brought to Earth
to end a petty squabble

I cry for the dead, for whom tears cannot come.
Some leaving only their shadows in silent remembrance.
I cry for the generations that lived, fearful, of the hellish fury's return
Fingers bleeding from their furtive digging
Trying to get away from the light

Trying to find peace in the cold earth, that so many had already found.

Dancing the Dance

I've danced your dance
Over broken glass and pins and needles
Weaving between the jagged barriers you put up
On broken legs and fueled by hope for compassion
They scanned me, and stabbed me
They took life, and gave me pills
And still I dance

I cannot walk
And still I dance

It's hard to think,
And still I dance

The heat and cold bite
And still I dance

I itch, and hurt, and cry
And still I dance

As long as I have breath
I will dance

As long as my heart beats
I will dance

Creaking Gears

I turn the handle
Stiffly, it moves
Dust falls from the cracks, the dust of time
From deep within a moan of mechanical pain
A squeal of protest, before the machine moves
It is an ancient mechanism
Worn, but cared for
I hear the creaks of disuse,
smell the congealed grease spreading thin
The wheels and cogs slowly thunder to life

Inertia is all I need,