The Thomas Problem

Wendell came in nervously, for nothing was more annoying than a good example, according to Mark Twain, and Thomas was quite annoying.

"You've upset her", he said, without tremor, unknowing fists of fear forced deeply into his pockets.

"I suppose I have."

"You drove her to tears."

"Easily done", Thomas replied, unmoved, continuing his work.

"Thomas, she says you berated her publically, humiliating her!"

"I am sure it could happen no other way. She picked a public argument".

"And you..."

Thomas, having heard quite enough, interrupted Wendell's planned diatribe. "Wendell! This is a Mary problem, not a Thomas problem. You may continue to try to fix your perceived Thomas problem, but it will remain a Mary problem no less."

"Thomas, you have created problems before..."

"Again, with making your Mary problem a Thomas problem. Who was it before me, Wendell? I believe it was a Duncan problem? You brought me here to solve problems. I am trying, desperately, to no avail. This game of Mary's is quite old and familiar. Truly addressing your Mary problem means admitting you have made some terrible mistakes, something you are clearly not wont to do, for as I discover them, you beat me with them. I tire of being your and Mary's scapegoat on whom you write all your problems, such that by solving your singular Thomas problem, you will have solved all of your myriad problems". Thomas stood abuptly, causing Wendell to step back. Thomas pulled quickly at his waistcoat, and walked up to Wendell as he made for the door.

"Wendell, your failings have created quite a morass. I suggest you find your courage, admit your failings like a man, confront Mary's childish behavior, and we can all get on with our lives. No one cares except Mary, and anyone she cries to, who seek to cover their own failings. Good day, sir."

Wendell watched him leave, mouth and mind agape. He had never known a more unreasonable man.

The following morning Thomas was sacked, and Wendell felt profound for having solved all of his problems in a singular stroke. He was quite proud of himself.

 

Potato chips

"You have come in from the darkness."

I nodded. He waited. I sat. He remained seated. 

"I wearied of discussing potato chips."

Vezio's expression remained expressionless, "Potato chips".

"Potato chips."

Vezio remained as he always was, hands lightly clasped in his silent dignity, no agenda other than to understand, patient to a fault, waiting. I sat as quietly, subdued by my trials, weary of my travels, and not entirely sure I had learned anything. He waited some more. I whispered.

 "A woman walks into a bar, sits, and without a word, the bartender passes her a ginger ale with a twist. He grimaces at the new bruise on her face, much like the older one on the other side. He moves away. She sees his discomfort, and unlike before, this time she talks, 'My husband beat me, and our children again'. A man, one of several in a suit, sitting a few seats away glances sideways at her, knowing her and this despot of a husband of whom she speaks. He pushes a half empty bowl towards the bartender and says without intent, 'Chips...'. 'BBQ or regular'? 'Regular. The BBQ taste like Tabasco'. He gets his chips, she finishes her drink, she leaves, the bartender removes her empty glass and wipes her place." 

Vezio sat for a moment, then ever so knowingly nods his head. "Potato chips."

"Potato chips."

On dying...

This is my end. It is a good end, to a life well lived in service. My reward cometh! He closed his eyes, feeling less with every moment. Archdeacon Ferrand and Father Ferdinand were annoiting him. A wave of fear and uncertainty passed through him. He shook inwardly as he heard Father Ferdinand plead, "Father, take our brother, Tomas de Torquemada into Your loving embrace, forgive him his sins, and give him life everlasting!"  Yes, Father, forgive me my sins.... He felt a profound grief with this for he no more wanted to die than he had wanted to suffer these end of days, and he had suffered geatly. He found this awkward, as he should be filled with the ecstasy of his rapture, but instead of looking with joy to being in heaven with the Lord and God he felt anxious, fearful. He was afraid of dying as it came upon him.  He was ashamed... surely this was no last moment loss of faith after a lifetime of sacrifice?  It was becoming hard to remain awake, the room beginning to fade, focusing into a bright light that came upon him, and took him in. With it he felt calm again, peace and warmth, no more suffering. He felt drawn into it, and lifted! He was on his way!

And suddenly, there was darkness, nothingness. Then nothing at all.

He felt a deep sense of disappointment...

Schoolyard

It was meant as a moment of derision. Outwardly it was insulting, inwardly rather farcical, but he had said it with such earnestness that one's attention was captured. One might have mistaken him for a six year old, were it not that he was clearly a man of seventy or so.  The others in the room awaited my baited response. At the moment I was concentrating gravely on not bursting out in laughter, so wasn't able to sharpen my witty reparte quickly enough, and the moment was lost. So I merely smiled and nodded, for it was all I could muster. This was seen by the muckraking watchers as an acknowledgement that his ludicrous statement bore merit, and I became less than to them in their small game of thrones. For the more thoughtful in the room it was seen for what it truly was, an unintentionally humorous engagement with an entirely humorless and angry old man, of whom thinking less would be ill mannered. And so the conversation moved on. His stare spoke that he felt robbed of an expected response from me, and was about to demand it. Alas, no one cared for they had already judged as they were inclined and nothing really changed. This is what passes for honest discourse today. We rearrange our prejudices, thinking we have given the notion much thought.

Monsieur Cuivert

A sharply dressed gentleman of means satchel in gloved hand, he walked along the clean, well lit, deserted train platform as an heavy snow renewed its fall. It crunched frozen where the cover allowed it to collect, and blanketed the city.

"Winter in Ghent is better than winter in Bruges, oui Monsieur Cuivert?"

"Robert, I will know when I get to Bruges, eh?", coins tinkling in exchange for the morning paper, "The train is still running?"

"Ah, we will know when it gets to Ghent, eh", Robert laughingly replied. As the seasons changed, so did this familiar conversation between gentleman and stationer, in temperature, if not in comfort. Cuivert glanced at the front page which told of the death of some Archduke in Sarajevo, folded the paper and began to walk to the end of the platform so he could board the train in the first car, usually the warmest. The large clock overhead read 5:30, behind it the dawn began as a thin blue line beyond where Bruges lie to the north. The train was late. The snow seemed to fall with passion, but thankfully there was no wind.

He took but a few steps when he saw a well kempt handsome boy, what you could see by his eyes, which alone could be distinguished wrapped as he was, sitting under the lamp next to the stationers fire. The stationer was burning yesterday's papers and some scrap wood for a token of warmth, the aroma of hot coffee hissing over it. The boy's bench was under the cover, the boy yet sprinkled with snow, unmoving as if not to dispel a layer of warmth hovering about him. Cuivert stepped over and stood before him.

"May I sit?"

The boy looked up expressionless, and after a moment realizing this man was speaking to him, nodded, returning his glassy stare to the quickly disappearing tracks. Cuivert looked at the stationer, the man replying with a smile as he poured a coffee. Cuivert sat familiarly against the boy. One could hear only the snow, the crackling fire, and soft breathing as steam rose from behind the boys collar. He was wrapped warmly, a knitted hat beneath a woolen cap, his scarf pulled up snug outside his collar, a brown shabby velvet coat buttoned over a thick sweater such that it seemed he could not move if he wanted to.

"You missed your train?", Cuivert asked to the same tracks. The stationer now stood before the boy, holding out the coffee. The boy hesitated, then reached with a grateful nod to the stationer, who smiled and walking back to the warmth of his booth, rubbing his half gloved hands together.

"I know your father died... I'm sorry to hear of that." The boy sipped the coffee, Cuivert shook out his paper. He continued his soliloquy as he read.

"I suppose that puts you in a bit of a pickle, no?" The boy continued to sip, his bare hands drawing the warmth from the porcelain, warming him inside and out. "Did you know I too am an orphan? Funny thing that, once an orphan, always an orphan, so one day you too will still be an orphan." He turned the page, and after a moment continued, "Monsieur your father was a good man, and one of my best friends. He worked for me for 22 years, Claude." Cuivert paused, turning the page. "I saw Madame Evereau at the funeral. She told me you were going on the train last night to somewhere in Serbia... I think I would miss that train too, given what I read in this paper."

"I do not want to go to Serbia, Monsieur Cuivert", the first pensive wisp of a voice escaping the scarf.

"Hmm... and what is there for you here?"

"It is more that there is nothing for me there. My mother and my father are buried here, at the cathedral. There is nothing for me there. Perhaps despair, I hear they are morose."

Cuivert, smiling, did not gaze up from his paper. Distantly the light from the locomotive of his late train struggled to make an appearance.

"Your cousins?"

"Yes.... they are Islamists, they are morose"

"Ah... I think you have them confused with Papists.", Cuivert replied, followed under his breath, "They seem always concerned someone, somewhere might be happy..."

"Go to my house, Claude", the gentleman speaking gently to his paper. The train whstled, its light burning through the snow competing with its own distant cacophony for attention. "My carriage is waiting out front of the station to take you to my house. Miss Vivian is expecting you, and my children will keep you company. We will talk when I come home tomorrow from Bruges." The train was now forcing its way into the station, all light and noise, it would not be ignored

The boy remained still, his coffee becoming cold. Slowly, he stood, picked up his suitcase, and walked wordlessly, exhausted, towards the station house. Without changing pace, his hand held out as he left the cup on the stationers counter. A few steps more and he stopped with tears beginning to brim, turning wordlessly back to Cuivert still reading his paper.

"Go Claude. There is always hope, as long as you do not eat more than one of my pain du chocolat. They are my favorite." The boy watched as the train stopped and Monsieur Cuivert stood gracefully, gathering his satchel, tossing his paper into the fire and without a glance at the boy boarded the train with a private smile and a shake of his head saying to himself, "I do love my pain du chocolat".

The Tassel

The soft light of the winter sun leaned into the street and through the pane, misted by the moist air in the warm cafe. He sat before a half empty cup of tea, looking without purpose or focus at the passing tableau outside. Christmas was near, and the street was filled with the city's denizens in top hats and woolen cloaks seeking comfort in the collection of gifts. He felt no particular need for comfort having no one whose favor he sought, or whose happiness he wished and his spirit was ambivalent to the season, for no particular reason than this was his mood.

His gaze passed into an impeccable private Hansom drawn by two horses, nearly motionless across the muddy street. It was the subtle movement within that caught his attention. A tassle moving to and fro at the bequest of a string from which dangled a small doll figure, flicked from time to time by a young girl, wholly bored. She became momentarily focused quickly untying the string from around the doll's waist, and sitting back, disappearing into the cab. The change of heart had been brought on by the doorman opening the cab to allow in a well dressed haughty woman of middle age who sat with much drama next to the child. Seamlessly the door was closed, the doorman withdrew, the Hansom driver turned the cab into the lane and drove steadily but unhurriedly away through the slush.  The cab disappeared thorough a heavy snow which had begun to fall, quieting the street. With that, the man returned languidly to his tea.

I am, for I was

I am the sun.

I am the moon.

I am the day.

And I am the night.

I am the light that sees into the darkness,

and the darkness that pierces the light.

The child that sees a vision,

forgotten, lacking understanding,

remembers a returning dream,

when as a man the understanding

remembers the vision.

I am everlasting for having been,

remembered by no one,

becoming the sun,

and the moon,

the day,

and the night.

The meaning of my life...

And so, the time came when my boys had grown to men and I to old age,

when our lives remembered seemed never to have been lived at all.

Since the moment of my awakening at their birth

I have lived with the great weight of knowing this,

this time, would come upon me.

I have lived each and every day of my life knowing…

In the photograph that hangs on the wall of my life

they are small, hand in hand, walking away from me even then

through the woods in autumn with no sight of this time to come

though I saw it watching me, looking at me with kindness and sadness

for even then they were growing and walking their own paths.

As we walk through now I remember times that I did not know existed

and some that I have visited often, as we walk one before the other

our separate but inevitable lives playing out their themes in concert

one moving apart from the other in the letting go.

I miss them so profoundly even as I hold them to me

striving to hold back time, this time, reaching up to push it away from me.

Each moment passes in a time that seems never to have been

filling my life with its wonders, the wonders of them, the moments of our time.

My life that seems never to have been lived in the remembering takes on meaning

and I know that every memory is a photograph of a life lived

of my life made real with them and the growing sadness of knowing

becomes the wonder of my life, my moments in time, my meaning.

I will see them forever walking through those autumn woods

on that day that was the same as every day before and after

as my boys grew to become men, and I to old age,

when I remember my life for having lived

and theirs for having lived in it.

Her eyes...

Her eyes tell a different story.

While she speaks in courage and strength,

her eyes betray her.

They tell me she trembles at night

when she sleeps awake, waiting…

Her frail infant in her arms

for yet another moment in the weeks,

between the fall into the despair

from the light of the joy of being.

She does not move

for fear of shattering the peace,

for fear of falling again.

The days and nights are one and the same

and time is measured by changing faces,

by bells and incidents, in ups and downs.

Today is a better day

for not being worse than yesterday,

but there is still tomorrow.

It is tomorrow she fears

because she knows yesterday.

Her joy on holding him

screams at her fear of losing him

and she is torn apart in loving,

pushing away to stay the pain.

So she cries tears of joy,

tears of unbearable sadness,

while sleeping awake, waiting…

And the day will come

when he leaves and the pain ends,

and the fear is changed,

a new light shines within.

Where he ends that wondrous day

will be the difference

between the joy of being,

and the joy of having known,

measured by the distances

along the way.

And though she will speak

in courage and in strength,

her eyes will betray her,

while she sleeps awake ever waiting,

crying tears of unbearable sadness and joy.

The silence of our friends...

He fell from the cliff to the sea,

onto the rocks below, in a silent fall from grace.

Those who watched from the far side of the ocean

proclaimed their sadness that he had fallen,

having walked interminably towards the edge

though they had railed from below,

that he should find another death

of their mercurial choosing.

How sad, they thought, wrapped in their cloaks,

that he had not listened to their enlightened grace.

They had seen him alone at the cliff’s edge,

and now he was gone…

Like the reed pulled from the water,

there would be ripples,

but then they too would pass.

And he would be forgotten.

They had seen this before

and had lamented then as they do now,

that this one had not availed himself of their greatness.

At the top of the cliff,

the coldness of the wind cut through

and revealed the evil beneath

as the unseen few smiled to one another

for the one they feared the most

had fallen to his end at their hand.

Though he fought a most noble fight

and for a time they had been afraid,

unable to move him or destroy him,

until the ones of the sea

pulled him down to the rocks with their hubris,

so they could lament his fate

for having failed to heed their rubric.

Evil unwittingly amalgamated with evil

had won the day.

In the shadows of the rocks

having walked the path from the edge,

avoiding the danger all around them

his many friends gathered near him in silence.

While sad, they remained silent,

as the few, unseen above, watched them,

as the emperors watched from the sea,

they looked upon one another

and at once agreed in the stillness,

that no one else would fall

if silence remained.

God watched with great sadness,

For the King had foreseen,

“We will be remembered,

not by the words of our enemies,

but by the silence of our friends.”

Hubris wounds

An echo reflected back

but he could not hear it.

The words left without truth

so could not return true

and thus he lost them.

He could not hear it anyway.

They landed where they were meant to

and they caused the pain he intended.

As he was not a scholarly man in all

he could not see

for he did not care.

His annoyance ceased

and he was done,

to see which was chosen:

with or against.

He never for a moment

thought of the third,

that perhaps

he was entirely wrong.

And so the echo

continued on its way

and tyranny once again

won the day.

The Emperor is naked,

for his blindness,

deafness,

and indifference.

have brought him hubris.

His life's reward (for my Dad)

He had lived a noble life.

That for which he had searched his entire life

had but now come into the palm of his hand.

He gazed upon it in wonder for a generation,

then, when his time came too soon,

it was taken on a wisp of wind,

just as he came to truly know…

Sadness comes in that

he had learned to love

and was loved in return.

The knowing was lost to him

in that wisp,

but in that lies the goodness,

for he had known it before he died,

and it had burned brightly.

For he had lived

a noble life

and this

his life’s reward.

I am a spirit...

   I am told in my dream

     that I am a spirit.

     A shimmer

     a rift in this time

     a ripple that falls

     crossing others

     moving

     through and beyond

     different and the same

     more and less

     a spirit

     that fades

     but maybe in a memory

     I will live forever

     in a wider ripple

     in another time.

A turn in the road

I came to a turn in the road,

one I had not seen before

though I have taken this path many times.

In the fog, I could see what I thought to be

signs of my past meeting my present

speaking to one another in whispered tones

to take me somewhere I had not been

in whole, but in part.

The trees lined the path and the fog my feet,

the smell of the field wafts across,

such as I thought it might.

In the darkness ahead

I could see not shadows,

but true forms of my being

telling me that I had taken myself away from myself

and in so doing had lost my way.

But I do not know this path,

and I do not know the people who walk it

though they call me by name

and reach out to touch me as I pass

as though I have meaning to them.

The turn in the road ahead asks me to know

who I am and what I choose to become.

Does it matter now, or at the journey’s end?

What I am is what I have become,

and in that I must find peace...

So I walk along, unsure

and more fearful still with each step

that in walking this way I mislead myself

but cannot know this for sure. 

Each step could move me further,

further towards or further away

from what I should become.

And in the end then, I might become nothing

and have made no difference for having lived.

Greater than I have asked,

but the following silence gives no meaning,

what matters? 

The journey walked

or the journey’s end?

Becoming myself

In time,

the path I take may lead me further away,

only to find myself with my soul in my hand

and in its place a requiem

for what I did not become

for becoming who I am.

It is this path,

this winding road,

this journey that I fear more than any other,

that has made me a better person,

for being what I truly am,

instead of what I thought I wanted to be,

what you wanted me to be.

It is this path,

that has made me better

than I had ever allowed myself.

In time,

I will make peace with myself.

But I am not yet ready for that,

as I am still traveling,

becoming who I am.

There, where you are...

There, where you are,

the days will begin to shorten

and soon the leaves with turn down

in resplendent colors, and fall.

As autumn comes the air will chill

and the morning fog will become an old friend

knocking at your door with your paper and coffee,

“The first snow is not long away,” they’ll say,

“and winter will be long and cold this year.”

Christmas carols come sooner than you know

and another year has passed unexpectedly

or so it will seem.

Here, where I am,

the sun will rise lower in the sky,

and the humid desert mornings will be cooler

as the wind blows the sand into the sea,

and I live another day.

There will be talk of autumn at home,

and of the coming snow and winter fog,

the loneliness of missing the morning with you.

“She’ll be waiting for you on the pier,” they’ll say,

“and it will be like seeing her for the first time…”

It will be silent for awhile,

as we all dream

and think of Christmas soon to come,

there,

where you are.

My hope...

In this place there is a portrait

drawn of innocence in love,

of naiveté in fervent hope.

A starry shadow framed by light

colored by imagination

allowed but to dream.

In the warmth of sunlight

it is nurtured and it is boundless,

and by the cool of night

it returns to this place

here inside of me.

Caressed and comforted I drift off

finding solace only in sleep

as I take this portrait within

and I nurture it in this place,

colored by my imagination,

allowed but to dream…

Men who would be kings

In this dire time of much concern

we spirit angry thoughts and words

in spite of our better nature.

One man of small courage and great wrath

another of astounding self-importance and façade,

have brought a heavy heart to bear.

Those who would be kings are but paupers,

yet the paupers would be kings,

and burdens such as darken our dreams

lay waste and all becomes naught.

Frustration and near hatred course these veins

that want but for the smallest of respect,

and the gentle child becomes frightened

and the man becomes the child.

Neither speaks and neither dreams

of being its solemn own.

So times move forth as days die

and the crucible chars its charge.

And the prophet and philosopher

find solace only in their sleep.

Such great men in such great times

would such great things become.

But in these dire times of much concern

the crucible chars

and the great men sleep.

In search of dreams

What man is this

that casts away dreams

in search of dreams?

Seeking some contented part of life

which may be neither here nor there

he searches always higher above

for some exalted order.

A tree ruffles as the summer evening sets

and the water moves past New River.

This summer evening sets in his eyes

a sound reverie awakens, the sunlight prances

and the shadows cascade through the air.

Fragrant winds and laughter spins

and a new life in her eyes.

Dance lightly on her skin as the evening cools

flowing gently, abridging time

and seeing something old and expected.

It moves on sweetly still as silence

when the clouds move before thunder and rain

and a blue sky reigns over all,

dance ever lightly, dance lightly.

It dawns quickly now as

memories become explainable

and the distant ripples meet

falling over becoming still.

Old dreams surface and the moment

becomes forever, not for the moment

but because of the past.

What man is this

that casts dreams away

in search of dreams,

moving through time too quickly

feeling but a moment in spite

and never known by one?

Patty's Poem

Come a time to autumn our lives

we can see the path our leaves will line.

It winds through our past and we can see so far,

and we watch as remembering,

a small child of great energy and laughter

bounces and plays along the path,

stopping from time to time

to rustle the leaves and gaze at her reflection

in some puddle or in the eyes of a friend.

The sunlight prances through the golden trees

and washes her hair with joy and love,

lighting softly the late afternoon in these woods.

I can watch you here, from my wooden porch,

leaning against the rail of my boundaries,

as you dance unfettered.

You are beautiful to behold on my path.

You have danced and graced the paths

of all who share you,

and the love that tags along beside you.

The Battle

The sound of a distant trumpet

and the flash of cold sunlight off armor,

the color of the heralds

the violent uneasiness of the warriors

and the smell of fire before my eyes.

I turn on my horse facing westward, away,

my thoughts, my mind but for this moment

very far away from here,

this place high on this hill,

no place for thoughts of you.

Gazing down, I raise my reins,

I draw my sword remorsefully,

and I wonder where I will be when this sun sets,

where I will be a fortnight hence…

I raise my eyes into the sun

feeling its light upon my breast

and the deep sorrow within it.

And I raise a cry across this valley,

a cry from deep within that echoes for millennia

as I lead this stand to challenge fate,

caught between this life I live

and the life I dream.

And for a moment I am afraid,

then I know,

a fortnight hence

I will be home.

On a park bench

It was unusual cold, not too dark

but lonely and simple all the same.

No time, if any,

to be left on a park bench

by yourself with anyone else.

Wrapped in holes he had left himself there,

next to her cold eyes,

covering her from the night’s snow

his own tears frigid.

Her clothes were as expected,

but she had worn them.

She had found most of them herself

except for the blanket he had given her,

a shawl he’d called it,

a birthday some year ago.

He had clutched it in his fingers

his open eyes so very sad

for not having been able to cry enough,

enough to wash away his agony

of having failed her.

He had tried, oh, how he had tried,

but he had failed because she was here,

left on a park bench.

His eyes had remembered other times,

laughter and happiness,

before that, fear of being alone.

But she had changed all of that.

Her dark hair blew in the wind,

brushing against his face,

she had touched so delicately

a month,

a few nights ago.

It was streaked with gray

and now embrittled by the cold.

She had not been left alone.

They at least had that.

Rich as they were they knew better

and had been happy

for being so poor

they had each other to hold

and it meant so much

to hold.

Her skirt was fluttering

where his coat, thin and frosted

crossed over too late now

to keep her warm,

because he did love her

and she knew it too, had known it.

But his small coat hadn’t been enough,

and he had cried

because it was all he had,

and so sadly not enough.

So he tried again

and it did work, or so it seemed

and his cold, icy tears proved it.

Love had worked for them

bundled together there

so close,

you could see how much he had,

still,

loved her and she him.

He hadn’t failed her,

her smile

forever would tell you this.

He had tried so hard.

But he was too old, too tired

and hungry,

too cold,

but not alone.

Did anyone else care?

“How did I get here?”, he asked silently,

a question larger than the words.

There they are silent and still now,

together,

loving one another.

Left there,

there on a park bench.