A Sense of Wonder
Year Of The Rat 4707
March 14, 2008, AD
Friday, 0244 AM CDT
Stormcrow Ranch
Boone, IA USA
'Squirrel Corn Capital of The World'
Sorry. I've been away for a bit. My focus has been divided. To be sure, I am busy with all elements of my learning.
I've had a bad couple of weeks--the monkeys left and I wandered empty rooms, picking up left-over toys and pretending not to cry because I missed them so much. Maudlin sentimentality, I'm sure. It will pass, buried and filed away only to be re-lived in nightmares of loss and regret. Nitzche said it first, but Bruce Willis sang it better: 'If it doesn't kill you, it only makes you stronger.' Smart boys, both these hawnyackers. See also Jimmy Buffet's album 'Fruitcakes.'
Aside from my cooking, wood-shop commisions, and goofy antics, I also get many requests for some of my words. Dunno why. I suppose one more thing I can be teased about on my death-bed. Anyway, to fulfill one of said requests, I offer the following:
And Call Her Name In The Night
I speak her name
In the dark of night
Between dreams of others
Lost souls who call to me.
My soul can stand on the Sun
Dance on the rings of Saturn
But I cannot tell the Lost
How beautiful Life is.
Through it all, I think of Her
And call her name in the night
A bed with one pillow
And the tangled sheets of the sleepless
Can she truly be so far away?
Does she think of me,
In the purple, pre-dawn light?
Or am I alone?
~~unfinished rough
08/31/05
My Grandfather's Dream
Green and yellow and brown,
Colors of late summer
Slipping into fall
Fields of harvests and hopes.
Long, straight rows,
Near-perfect squares
Bound by wire, wood and road
And hard-won sweat.
Care-worn, laugh-creased faces
Eyes, sun-faded but alive
Hearts etched with worry
Souls seared by hardship
Tall, proud and alone
A figure walks toward
The quiet light in the gathering gloom
A glimmer where family dwells
The sun casts long shadows
On a broken combine.
A sigh, a shrug, a small smile.
Tomorrow is another day
In the heart of Iowa.
~~C. Hob Wear
09/02/05
Of these two, I like the latter the best. It is my hope, I captured a farmer coming in from his chores, seeking sanctuary in a haven called home. Being a city-ish boy, I only saw these moments a couple of times when my brothers and I visited Grampa Olson on the farm, but I know it was always dark--dawn when he went out, and dusk when he came in. I also saw it when my father would commute to work--a soul dedicated not to himself, but to his family. Ye gods, I wish I was half the man these men are/were.
My journals and notes are littered with elbow-edited things loosely akin to poetry. There are many, but there are two more--one in particular--I would share. Look for 'The Good Ship Fate Mountain' in the near future("...booted heels thumping on decks of polished bone...").
But not today. I turn exactly 45 years of age in two hours(at least in this life). My ex-father-in-law took me to dinner tonight(we share the same birthday oddly enough--along with Michael Caine, Billy Crystal and Albert Einstein). Afterward, I hiked up to Wilson's and began my celebration as I have for the last seven years--alone with my cigarettes and rum, reflecting, and actively avoiding well-meaning friends who would leave the birthday boy puking on his hard-traveled boots and sleeping in an alley after countless shots. I am still awake, and a jug awaits on the side-board, but as Robert Frost said: "...And miles to go before I sleep."
I will leave you with this though--a pun, of sorts, especially for food-ies:
"I like old recipes--we can have archiac and eat it too."
~~C. Hob Wear
Rage, rage,...
