The Answer is.....

Geronimo

Goyathlay ("one who yawns")

Geronimo - His Own Story

---

Quotes from Geronimo

"I was warmed by the sun, rocked by the winds and sheltered by the trees as other Indian babes. I was living peaceably when people began to speak bad of me. Now I can eat well, sleep well and be glad. I can go everywhere with a good feeling.

The soldiers never explained to the government when an Indian was wronged, but reported the misdeeds of the Indians. We took an oath not to do any wrong to each other or to scheme against each other.

I cannot think that we are useless or God would not have created us. There is one God looking down on us all. We are all the children of one God. The sun, the darkness, the winds are all listening to what we have to say.

When a child, my mother taught me to kneel and pray to Usen for strength, health, wisdom and protection. Sometimes we prayed in silence, sometimes each one prayed aloud; sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us... and to Usen.

I was born on the prairies where the wind blew free and there was nothing to break the light of the sun. I was born where there were no enclosures."

#1 reason Your Book will never be Published

You have not written it (yet).
from
" 78 reasons why your book may never be published and 14 reasons why it just might"
by Pat Walsh (Penguin books)

Get going people - let's publish something ! Frank

P.S. Write everyday and you just might write something
worthwhile.

Quotes from Paul Gauguin

Quotations by Paul Gauguin (from Wikipedia.com)

* "In order to do something new we must go back to the source,
to humanity in its infancy."

* "Art is either plagiarism or revolution."

* "I have tried to make everything breathe in this painting:
belief, passive suffering, religious and primitive style, and the
great nature with its scream."

* "How do you see this tree? Is it really green? Use green,
then, the most beautiful green on your palette. And that shadow,
rather blue? Don't be afraid to paint it as blue as possible."

* "To me, barbarism is a rejuvenation."

* "I shut my eyes in order to see."

* "Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge."

* "Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?"

* "How long have I been here? Henceforward for? I shall not
know. For I have been traveling for too long. My bones too weary to
remember my age. Hence, how long have I been here? Thou shalt never
know."

* "It was Europe, the Europe which I had sought to shake
off....Was I to have made this journey, only to find the very thing
which I had fled?"

* "I must confess that I am myself a woman."

I do not know what you might do with these but feel free to write
something with them------Frank

[edit]

Paint, Primer, and Procrastination

Things I was thinking of instead of painting my bathroom:
1. Smooth walls and ceilings are underrated.
2. If you think a job will be an easy one, it won’t. It always costs more and takes more work than you ever imagined.
3. Sometimes, if you think a job will be a major one, it seldom is and you have the fun of saying “That was so much easier than I thought it would be! Why didn’t we do that years ago?” This does not happen very often, so enjoy the moment.
4. Engineers should not do home improvements. The previous owner jerry-rigged EVERYTHING.
5. Don’t let the cat in to help you paint. It’s not so funny when his painted tail is now painting the doorframe, the kid’s backpack, the rug, etc.
6. I find it very touching that my tadpole sprouted arms on Valentine’s Day. Nothing says “Be Mine” like growing a limb.
7. Paint takes a few washings to get out of your hair.
8. I couldn’t remember who said “My father couldn’t paint a damn, but that man could clean a brush!”, but it makes me laugh every single time I clean a paintbrush.
9. When I was younger and more agile, I had no money in which to do projects. Now I’ve got the money and the body is unwilling.
10. I should have married for money. Love doesn’t paint the walls.

New class assignment

I have an assignment for next week.

"I cannot think that we are useless or God would not have created us.
There is one God looking down on us all. We are all the children of one
God. The sun, the darkness, the winds are all listening to what we have
to say."

Who do you think said that. And what did this person mean. I will
reveal in class the answer but I would like to hear your ideas and
thoughts.

Mom/me

     Will my mother be sitting beside me when she's dead?  Like she is now while I'm driving and she says I made that turn too quick and should have waited for that car to pass by?  I hear her voice so often when I least expect it.  Don't buy that roast; it's too expensive.  That dress is much too revealing for you to wear to the reunion.  What have you done to your hair?  You look like a boy!  Aren't you going to call your aunt Marcella soon?  What about all those thank you notes?  Shouldn't you be losing a little weight--you could be pregnant with that stomach of yours.  Sometimes I can't remember the difference between what she actually said and what I think she said.  It doesn't matter.  Her voice cuts through all the same.  How old do you have to be before it stops?  I'm _______.  Wouldn't you think that it would stop by then?  When do you get to be your own person?  When she dies?  She's ninety and doesn't show any signs of letting up with the judgements.  Does she really need to do that--sit next to me while I drive?  She has a life of her own; now I want mine.  Let me drive ninety miles an hour if I want.  Divorce my husband if I want.  Love my neighbor if I want.  Cut my kids out of my will if I want.  Run naked through the woods if I want.  Yell "shit" and "damn" and "I hate you" if I want.  I may not choose to, but I just want the option. I want to make the choices; let me be free; let me. Me,me,me.

Grief

There is a woman I know, not well, but enough to know her story. She is one of those people I try to avoid, and secretly, I think she avoids me too. She’s kind of pushy, opinionated, and way over the top with her kids. She’s one of those moms who know everything about family and kids. She was always there at everything her kids did, front row, dead center. She always had her children dressed just so, bought them the most current toy, and overall just held them as the best. Having been labeled the same type of mom, I wince when someone attacks her behind her back. Knowing her story, I have always given her the benefit of doubt and I think on some level we are very much alike. Maybe that is why I avoid her.

We met in a Mom and Tot class when the boys were 2, maybe 3 years old. On the very first day of class, we would introduce ourselves and our children and then share an activity. There were play stations throughout the room and the idea was to meet the other moms and kids by sharing some fun. She somehow found the mom, who at the moment was alone, corner her, and drop her bomb. As each of us stood there in uncomfortable silence, she would go on about how her daughter had recently died and now she needed to find friends for her son. Her daughter was only 4 years old when she contracted a weird viral infection and died suddenly. Apparently this was very recent and she was still not only grieving for herself, but she also knew her son was grieving as well, and joined the class to find a companion for the boy who was too young to understand why his sister was no longer there. Most of us didn’t know quite how to handle this strange confrontation. She was met with awkward compassion, and after a few “I’m sorry’s”, nearly all of the women hurried away to tend to their children. It wasn’t the time or the place to talk about her loss, but I could remember asking myself what I would do. Could I possibly be “normal” again if I ever lost a child? I cannot imagine the pain, the complete loss that comes from the death of a child. I think something snapped in that woman the day her daughter died. Something snapped, a part of her died and she was never normal again. I cannot judge this mom because I’m not sure I could get out of bed more or less join to a Mom and Tot class if something happened to one of my children.

I have been thinking of the parents of the NIU students that were killed this week. How do they go on? How do you explain the loss of such young people with their futures ahead of them? How do you say goodbye, kiss them one last time and shut the casket? How do you ever return to a normal life or any semblance of one? I cannot imagine the pain, the loss, the” what if’s” after such a crime. The idea that I could not protect my child or that I could not spare them from pain or fear in their last moments would haunt me forever. The thought that they died alone or terrified is incomprehensible.

I lost my father when I was 7 years old. I know that this jolt in my life has formed me, made me who I am and what I fear. I walk with trepidation through this life; knowing how fragile it is and how quickly loved ones can one day be gone forever. I control my fears of being separated from the kids, but I do admit they are there. There isn’t a time when I get in the car with my husband, conscience that the kids are alone, and they could be parentless in one fell swoop. I push these fears from my mind and go on with life, but they are there. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t consciously think of death more than the average person. It is who I am. I grew up wondering if my mom would be taken from me too. Loss. That’s a tough one at seven years of age. Maybe for any age.

So, 13 years later, I watch this mom from across the room, and I wonder—I wonder if she ever got over the loss of her daughter. Is she “normal” again? Does she still bring her daughter into every conversation? Maybe not, but I bet not a day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think about it and how painful it is to be a survivor.

Emotional chord from NIU shootings

The shootings at Northern Illinois University recently have rattled me. I went
to school there and feel that personal connection. I feel deep sorrow for the victims,
and have empathy for the shooter as well. When I found out he had psychological problems and had stopped taking his medication because it made him feel like a zombie, my stomach twisted into knots. My own father had battled bipolar disorder much of his life and would often stop taking his lithium medicine because he didn't like how it seemed to throw him into the depths of despair. He would lay around all day, listless and full of apathy. When he wasn't taking his medicine, he seemed full of life, the world was his and sleep was not even a possibility. So I look at this shooter and I read about him and see pictures of him as a young boy and hear his teachers reflect on his bright mind and "gentle" manner and I ponder. My mind asks questions. Were these shootings premeditated? Did he sit in his hotel room in DeKalb on Monday and know he would kill on Thursday? Or was he really going to his Godfather's to chat and catch up on old times? The hard drive out of his laptop is gone, so those thoughts he may have written on the computer provide no clue. But yet bits and pieces of his slide down out of the depths of reality emerge. His mom died 18 months ago, last year he had transferred from NIU to UIC Champaign because......criminology classes had been downsized in his chosen career, he failed several classes as well at NIU (this from a 4.0 very bright student), we believe his girlfriend had broken up with him recently and he had gotten some rather "dark and ominous" tattoos on his arms. Certainly it appears he had been under some stressful circumstances and his behavior clearly deviated from his normal life. I find it ironic that he was all for the criminal justice system and wanted to continue to study this particular field and yet he left this world a "criminal" himself in a sense. And going back to the medication. When one abruptly stops taking medication for a psychological problem, the body and emotional system can be thrown out of whack, enough to drive one to do the most irrational behaviors. His girlfriend said Steve was getting a little irritated lately, but nothing erratic as the press was saying. I know, though, that sometimes we downplay a loved ones behavior, perhaps deny it, in order to cope with and continue living with that person. I continue to devour all the news, (perhaps to an obsessive level) every detail about these shootings and the shooter. I feel anguish that it happened and yet, perhaps, I will get some clues about my own father and his mental illness. I always wanted to save my father from his mental illness so I went into psychology career hoping to find magic cure. But I never found it. Instead, I learned about myself and began to have more compassion for me. And now I can say my heart has compassion for Steve, my father, and any others who struggle with mental problems. Thankfully, my father never hurt anyone during his lifetime. He seemed to have angels protecting him in that way.
I wonder where Steve's angel was on Thursday. In a classroom of students that day, I'm sure he felt all alone. I wish he had gone to see his Godfather and not taken the wrong turn to Northern Illinois. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to. Unfortunately, those inner demons got the best of him.
I pray for the families of the shooting victims. I pray for those who are mentally ill. I pray for myself!
Bev

NIU shootings have struck emotional chord with me

I mistakenly posted this as TaoMaster. I have reposted it as me,
Butterfly Woman (see above)

a poem that just came to me now

Dysthymia
First arrives the sadness
singing the blues:
'Melancholy baby'
on a bloody wednesday
What is a poor boy to do ?
Blinded by whiskey, snake eyes, and smoke,
I learn the song without playing a note.
Times bad times two, times shared without you,
O'song o' my heart
you left and I covered it up
(or was it the other way around)
No matter
I have learn to live without
pretending I never had it
I am not depressed
no that ends too quickly
I savor my sorrow

Frank Coughlin Feb. 17, 2008

Why I wrote the crabby old woman story

I wanted to give a contrast to the woman inferred to by Mutti in her story. Unlike her heroine, I wanted to paint mine as a no nonsense pioneer type woman, one who was raw and still upset that she was murdered. One who may not have had the best relationship with her daughter simply because they are two headstrong women. I like what Mutti has done with her story and I did not want to take away form that.
I would like anyone else or mutti even to come up with a reply or rebuttal to my story. I will say this though, I felt as if I were channeling someone when I wrote it. I think it was the crabby side of my own mother. But I did not intend for this to be a serious piece of writing, either.

Yours in the Tao, Frank

Answers From a Crabby Old Dead Woman

My name is Donna Humphrey. I have heard the sighs of people wondering about me. Now I realize that I am dead but I also think that people are getting the wrong ideas about me. I have asked this nice young man to channel my thoughts, organize them and print them on his blog. I was a simple western woman.
I chose my man because he could provide for me and because in those days he was the closest thing I was going to get to 'true love'. We had some damn good times on the ranch and we had some piss awful ones too. I had me a daughter who I'm damn proud of but what did happen to me because of her high-faluting job ? I'll tell ya - I got killed by some nutcase who wanted to get to her. Ain't no justice in that.
But getting back to my writing, I thought when I was a young pup that I might become a writer or a poet and I might have if I hadn't listened to them know-it-alls, you know the people who tell ya their ain't no money in poetry and that your man'll commit ya if youse write crazy stuff like them other poetesses - you know that one Sylvia something and her friend Sexton. Both of them offed themselves. They are not a pretty sight up here either.
But getting back to my writings - the reason I never showed them to anybody was that I didn't think anyone would care. Hell, they are what kept me sane on the long winters when I was cooped up with inside with no one to talk to 'cept ma kids and the old man. They were my trip away from there, my release. I tried to make them good and honest but to tell the truth I never thought they was good enough, ya know, ta be in a book or anything like that. And I never would have shared them with the kids or the old man. They was my private property and they was oasis. no, I would never let the family see them. And I never would have 'cept I died before I could get rid of them.
And now I hear that daughter is trying to get them published. Well don't that beat all hell. I guess she thinks it's a good thing but I don't and I would tell her so if I was still around. Not that it would do any good. She never did listen to a word I said. I told her to quit her job. And do know what she said ? She said 'it not just a job, its a career'. Yeah and its one that got me killed that's what.
Well, thats all I got to say. I hope that them pretty little women stop thinking about me and go about their own business. Whew. All this talking to living folk has me all tuckered out. I'm gonna go lie down. St. Peter says hello. bye.

Nicholas and His Spoon

With quiet resolution, Nicholas sat down on the edge of his bed. He could hear the ruckus in the distance and he knew they were coming for him. The thundering of the horses hooves warned of the unwanted excitement that was to come and he looked up at his wooden spoon resting on the table. Would no one come to their senses? Wouldn’t the king in his supposed wisdom see how ridiculous this had all become? He sighed heavily and waited.

It all began when Nicholas was ten. His family lived on the edge of the wood at the far end of the kingdom. They were peasants living, if you could call it that, from day to day. His father was gone from early dawn until late after dark, toiling in the fields of the king. His meager pay offered only the bare minimum in the way of food for this family of four. Nicholas learned at an early age to set the traps his father had made and to visit them regularly to see what they had ensnared. His mother cleaned and prepared the animal hides that they would then barter to the townsfolk for the essentials to survive. The small amount of meat that the wayward rabbit or squirrel would provide was the only meat that they saw on their table. His brother was only four and was just learning how to bait, set, and clean the traps with Nicholas.

Nicholas’ family had settled in the wood, away from the village and its confines. His father resented the control the king had over his life, and living in his village was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t live with the constant presence of the knights, the watchful eyes of authority just waiting for an infraction. Neighbors turning on neighbors in the name of the king. Life was hard enough, and the threat of beatings and being thrown into jail was just adding to the nightmare. So before Nicholas was born, his father built a two room cottage at the very edge of the forest. The forest was dangerous so the already terrified peasants didn’t stray too close its edges. Rumors of ogres, ferocious beasts, and bandits guaranteed a solitary life for Nicholas’ family. They lived a quiet life in their little abode.

They came in the night and surprised the family. His father and mother were startled awake by the thin wooden door crashing in. Splinters flying, the bandits quickly clubbed his father instantly killing the family’s only chance of survival. His mother was next, as she stood screaming. Nicholas cowered behind the table and watched as his brother was gruesomely murdered as well. The bandits rummaged through the room, finding nothing but a few measly animal hides drying near the wall. Two of the three left in disgust, and Nicholas could hear them leave on horseback. A third bandit remained, greedily eating whatever little food there was left on the table, when he spotted the boy hiding by the table. He swooped to grab Nicholas, who wielded the only weapon he had, a long handled wooden spoon. As the wild-eyed beast lunged for Nicholas, he thought to thrust the handle into the bandit’s eye to stop him. The bandit caught his foot on the table leg and fell, full weight, onto the spoon and its long handle. The spoon went into his eye and straight past, directly into the brain of Nicholas’ attacker, and killed him.

Nicholas pushed the body off of him and reclaimed his spoon from the cavity of the deceased bandit. He wiped the cranial remains off on his pants and stood there holding his unusual weapon. The gruesome sight that lie before him made Nicholas physically sick, and he ran outside to catch his breath. His world was destroyed. What would become of him? Whatever pathetic life he lived, he knew it was going to get worse.

Word of the killings came early next morning and Nicholas’ extended family rushed to the scene. His maternal aunt and her family took Nicholas in unwillingly, but they couldn’t leave a boy to fend for himself. They resented another mouth to feed, another body to clothe, and they made their feelings known in harsh tones. He did as he was told, kept his head down, and tried to ignore the things they said. He was a survivor, unfortunately, and he did what he had to do to acclimate himself to his new life.

Days and months went by and Nicholas grew tired of trying to adjust. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he wasn’t wanted. He couldn’t ignore that his whole family was brutally taken from him. And he couldn’t ignore the whispers--whispers of fantastic stories about him. Everywhere he went, children hid behind their mother’s skirts, women quickly shuffled into their homes, and men glared in his direction. He’d heard the rumors, the made-up stories of his true past. He’d murdered a man with only a spoon. They said he not only slays helpless rabbits and squirrels with the spoon, but that he also separates their soft innards off of the pelt with the same. They even went so far as to say that he killed an ogre and scooped its brains out with his wooden weapon. Each story was more ridiculous than the next, but nobody ever dared to accuse him directly of these hideous claims. How could they believe such nonsense? He was only a boy--a boy who committed no crime other than to survive a vicious attack.

After a year or two, Nicholas realized that he would never be accepted. He would always be the outcast, repressed by the repressed. He was fodder for ridicule and scorn by peasants who were hopeless. They, themselves were held down by the king, and they needed someone less fortunate than they to feel better about their own sad lives. Unfortunately for Nicholas, he was the chosen object of attention. As time went on and the stories became more elaborate, Nicholas ran away, back to his old cottage, on every opportunity. The uncle would come to retrieve the boy, forcefully removing him from the cottage, and beat him with a stick all the way home. One day, disgusted by the ungratefulness of this child, his uncle quit retrieving him and Nicholas was left to live alone or to die.

Another Writing Assignment,
The title is:
Nicholas and his Spoon

Write a story, an essay, poem ... using that title

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Nicholas and His Spoon

The highlight of the writing class tonight, for me, was writing about
Nicholas and His Spoon. Hope to hear more of his antics! What a Kid!
Bev

His Special Tea

The coffee was in my cup, the tea was for my guest. He had popped in
unannounced saying he wanted to talk. 'Uh Oh', I thought. The special
china was in the cupboard high over the fridge, a hard to get to place
which where one puts things seldom used. He either wanted or demanded
to be served,I don't remember which, in fine china his tea. He brought
it with him calling it his magical brew. I just hoped it was not
illegal.
"Heat the water," he commanded, 'seven minutes and be careful not to
boil it. If you boil it, you'll have to start again."
I tried my best to please him, well because, you know, he is who he is
and one seldom gets to meet a person of his standing, let alone serve
him tea. I hoped he might talk to me. I hoped he might look into my
soul and tell me some wonderful thing about myself. Some way to make my
dreams come true.
"The water is boiling," his deep voice interrupted, "Start again. With
NEW water. Better yet, Use that that filtered water. I do not want to
taste chemicals in my tea."
I dumped out the hot water and filled the pot with new filtered water
as he had prescribed. I turned the burner down so it would not boil.
"Remember," he called out from the parlor, "heat the water for seven
minutes. Stay focused this time."
I eagerly watched the pot of water, thinking of the old saying: a
watched pot never boils. I vowed to myself that I would make it right,
I would make it the way he wanted me to.
"Bring me something to read while I am waiting." His voice seemed to be
stifling a yawn.
I ran to my bedroom and got the day's newspaper. I glanced back to the
pot as I neared the parlor. The water remained unboiling.
"No, I want something you wrote to read." he said in tones of 'I
thought you knew what I was talking about'. "Now, hurry and get it." He
waved his hand as if to dismiss me.
I had been writing a story about a little girl who lives in a box. She
was content to live in this box and she had made it quite a cozy place
to live in. She had many visitors but she liked the box so much she
never left it. One day, a butterfly landed in her box. "Why don't you
come out and play with me?' it asked. I had stopped there because I was
not quite sure where to go next. Oh my god, the water! I ran back to
the kitchen to find the water on the verge of boiling. Large bubbles
were beginning to form. I quickly took it off the burner and turned off
the heat. I grabbed my story and walked back to the parlor where my
guest was sitting in the air chair, drumming his fingers of his right
hand on the armrest of the chair.
"I'm waitng." I presented him with my unfinished story. He sighed and
looked at me as if I were a child. "For the tea." He said the words
slowly, enunciating each clearly. As I was walking away, I heard him
again. "Oh, and bring some honey and biscuits. And milk. Don't forget
the milk."
Biscuits, I thought, where am I going to get biscuits? I knew I did not
have time to bake any but he seemed to think that I had some on hand.
What in the world, should I do? I could go back and ask him what he
meant or what he wanted but I did not want to hear that condescending
voice again. Suddenly, it came to me. He was British and British people
call cookies biscuits. Well, in flash, I got down my silver serving
platter (also nearly hidden above the fridge), I opened a tin of butter
cookies imported from the Continent (I had been saving them for a
special occasion but what the hell - this is a special occasion - he
has come to visit). I poured some honey from the plastic bear it came
in into a china cup, I put some sugar in its proper china setting
placing the lid. Next, I gathered some milk from the carton and poured
it into another china piece specifically made for pouring. I went
outside, picked a red tulip, placed it in a bud vase and set the vase
squarely in the center of the serving tray. I was ready. I poured the
water into the china tea pot, placing his tea leaves in a strainer.
Seeped them for one minute and them removed them. I was ready. I took
the tray and walked proudly into the parlor anticipating his awe.
"This stinks !" he proclaimed as I placed the tray down
on the coffee table. "It is not fit for the human eye." He stood up and
began tearing my story in half. "I am going to do you a favor and rid
it from the world. Better you never write again than write like this."
He tore the pages in half again.
At that point, I am not sure what happened. Something tore inside of
me, but instead of breaking me, it released me. I felt anger and
passion and I was not going to let him do that to me. I grabbed his
cup, poured his tea, put some milk and some honey in it all the while
describing what I was doing out loud. "Here," I said, "is your damn
tea, your sweet sweet mystical brew. Oh and did I forget the milk?Oh,
and yes your highness needs some honey too. But something is missing,
what can it be?" I danced around in a circle pretending to be looking
for a missing ingredient. "Oh, I know what it is." My voice was
contorting its tones trying to mock my guest. "My own special
ingredient, something to let you know how special you are." At that
point, I moved his cup to my mouth and spit in it.. I placed the cup in
his hands and said with most bitterness I could evoke: "Enjoy."
He looked at me, looked at the cup and drank the tea in one gulp. The
entire cup.
"That was the best cup of tea I ever had." He looked me straight in the
eyes. "Do you know why ?" I said nothing, I was in shock. "Because you
put some of yourself into it."

A Fable of Tea

How about a fable :

There was a man named Jack Straw who was obsessed with tea. Not happy
with just the ordinary teas you can buy in the grocery store, Jack
wanted to know everything about all teas. He traveled the world in
search of exotic and rare teas, which is why he was in the house of one
Jill Traber who claimed on the internet that she had several teas that
Jack had never seen or tasted before. She had just sold several pounds
of Kwanzaa Tea to Jack.
"Quite a nice flavor." said Jack. "I would like to know what it is
made of."
"It is a special brew that comes only from Kenya during the Kwanzaa
season in the USA. I am afraid it never became popular despite its good
flavor." said Jill. "I bought a lot of it and I am quite afraid to say
that I have so much that I might never drink it all."
"Well, I say," said Jack because he was English and English people say
that alot. "I think I'll take some of it off your hands. It is quite
good."
So as I said before Jack bought several pounds of this tea and as he
was paying for them he noticed a small bag of tea hidden in the corner
of the room.
"I say, what tea is in this bag," asked Jack.
"That is my rarest tea of all." replied Jill. "It was given to me by
an aboriginal shaman while I was in Australia. I have had only one cup
since then. It is quite strong. I'll share a cup with you right now if
you like." Jack agreed simply because here was another tea he had never
tasted before and for a man obsessed with tea the idea of finding a
rare tea was, well, a slice of heaven.
Jill warmed some water and placed a very small amount of the tea
leaves in a cup.
"Its very strong." she said as filled the cup with the hot water.
Jack smelled the brew and was surprised to smell the odor of fur, wet
fur.
"Oh, how astute," squealed Jill, "you see this tea is made from leaves
the Koala bear uses to make its hiberative bed. The shaman told me that
Koala bears are such rich dreamers that this tea can make you see
things you have never seen before. I've only had this tea once before.
But I assure you its effects are wonderful."
A meeker man might have had some trepidation about drinking this rare
strange brew but Jack Straw was not an ordinary man. He was a tea
adventurer. This was his life.
He drank a small sip but not because he was a mousey man. The tea was
simply too hot to drink anymore than that without burning one's
tastebuds. The taste seemed strangely attractive to his mind rather
than his tastebuds although the taste was not unpleasant. It was as if
he was having a mental aftertaste, and this aftertaste was quite good.
Well, better than good, it was becoming sensational.
Suddenly, Jack's mind began to open up. He saw his whole life in front
of him. Everything he had done so far had led him up to this point. He
was meant to be here. He was meant to taste this tea. He was meant to
meet this woman. This lovely woman whom he could not take his eyes off
of. He knew she was the woman he would happily spend the rest of his
life with. He looked into her sparkling eyes (her eyes were sparkling
because she too had taken a sip of the tea) and fell into a prolonged
embrace of her body.
Well, not too long after that, the two of them went down the hill
(because you see Jill lived on a hill) to fetch a marrying minister.
Jack, you see, had fallen down, deep in love, and Jill had come
tumbling, head over heels in love, happily after.
And they did live happily ever after.

The moral of this story is - that although having a lot of Kwanzaa tea
is good,
having a little Koala tea is better.
"You're telling me," said Jill, "I was almost single at forty-three."

Frank Coughlin Feb. 6th 2008

The Bored's Prayer

The Bored's Prayer
Oh Brother!
I started shooting for the heavens
but hell, I got blocked
so the realization has come
This'll never get done
as it is way past eleven
and I face my daily dread,
so I forgive me my laziness
as I think of ways to pass the time
And deliver me a pizza from the Hut,
Just let me not be tempted to add anchovies.
Amen.

Frank Coughlin feb. 12,2008

Donna Humphrey

     I keep thinking about Judge Lefkow's mother.  I picture her writing in her notebook, maybe after she had finished her chores on the farm.  Is she sitting by the window with the breeze gently blowing the yellowed curtain near her face as she thinks about a world much different from her own?  Does she hope her husband doesn't ask her to start the separater to divide the cream from the milk she has just prayed into her pail?  Would she dare tell him that she could not do it now because she needs time to write?  I see her smoothing her hands over the big oak desk . 

She searches for just the right word to finish her poem.  Will she show it to her husband?  Or would he only laugh and say, "Donna Humphrey, you're a crazy woman.  You know we haven''t got time for such foolishness!"  

     Did anyone read her writing before her poems were found "in boxes, folders, desk drawers," as the paper said after her brutal death in the basement of her daughter's home?  Did it matter to her or was it enough just to get the feelings out on to the paper of her worn notebook?  When she wasn't writing, did she hide the poems somewhere in the Kansas farm home?  In a cupboard, maybe, next to the kitchen sink where she could quickly retrieve them after the house was quiet? I wonder where her ideas came from--the scenes outside the kitchen window, or Sunday church gatherings of farmer neighbors, or just her own mind after reading a book that thrilled her?  One of her pieces was titled "Frustration" and began: "I long to be a poet; and once, I thought I would..."  Who knew how she felt about herself?  A girlhood friend?  A hired hand?  Was she tempted to become close to someone who understood her better than her hardworking husband? Who even praised her for her penciled dreams and told her she was special?  I can't help but wonder.

Marriage: a discussion

     She asks me how did you meet your husband?  Oh, dreaded question.  I was lonely; he was lonely.  Is it enough, I hope?  No, she persists.  Did he propose?  I can't remember, I say, but I think so.  What did he say? I don't know, other than that he did not say that he was lonely.  Did you have a big wedding?  We stole the flowers from potted plants, as I recall.  What do you think makes a good marriage?  I wouldn't know, I say.  Maybe a loyal pet.  A dog or cat that one can ask about.  Is he in?  Is he out?  Has he been fed?  That might keep the man and woman together.  She is not amused.  She has a formula--part this, part that, part sex.  I'm finding it hard to listen.  Does she have any idea what she's talking about?  But I remind myself that this woman is 26 years old.  She is dating my son.  Does he fit her formula?  She tells me that her own parents were very good looking and that is why they married.  (They are now divorced.)  I glance at my son.  Yes, he is handsome.  Yes, she is attractive.  Will it be enough?  Pour me another glass of wine, I say.

It starts out innocently enough, one small flake followed by another. The snow falls in rhythmic, almost hypnotizing patterns from the sky, slowly at first, and then increasing in its intensity. The first flakes melt instantly on whatever they touch, and the only reminder of their existence is the drop of water. It doesn’t take long, though, before the dirty ground disappears and the world is white.

My husband groans as he watches the weather report on the evening news. The kids are excited as they run to the windows with visions of a snow day in their minds. The streetlight illuminates the spectacle of winter, and slowly, the neighborhood is transformed from January drudgery into a dreamy world of white covered everything. Pushing the thoughts of having to shovel to the back of my mind, I stop to admire the beauty of winter. I’m actually thinking how clean everything looks.

I think of Minerva Louise, a silly children’s book about a naïve chicken who sees the world through innocent eyes. She looks out of the barn one wintery morning and envies the snow hat that everyone is wearing. From the light post to the barn, she admires everything’s snow hat. I notice that everything has a snow hat in my yard too and each has its own individual style. The birdhouse has a snappy 3-peaked hat of white. The fence has perfectly repeated hats of snow on every post. Even the BBQ grill is decked out in its wintery finest. I secretly thank Minerva Louise for pointing out this perspective to me.

Hours pass and I notice the skylights are covered. The angry whirring of snow blowers has started as their owners are dismissing the layer of white from their passages. They are robotic in their quest—must remove snow. Nobody is going anywhere yet, but like dandelions in the spring, it has been dictated to us to remove the beauty. Clean up the clean. Oh, I wish it could remain undisturbed at least for a little while. The world is cozy, blanketed in a momentary silence as the neighbor moves to the other side of his drive.

We go to bed as it is still snowing, each with the next day’s scenario playing in our minds. Joe sets his alarm extra early for he will be in charge of snow removal. He anticipates the snarled drive to work and the multitude of faux sick calls in to work. I’m hoping tomorrow is one of the few days Em has the activity bus in to school so that I don’t have to slide her there myself--forget that the kid will be waist deep in snow at the bus stop. The cats have resigned themselves to yet another day in the house, and tuck their noses into their tails for more sleep. The kids, well, they are still holding out that the world (and the school) will be shut down.

The dream of dreams—a snow day. What kid doesn’t snug into bed anticipating the early morning phone call from a neighbor or the chance that your school will be mentioned in the long list of school closings on the radio? There is nothing as surprisingly wonderful as a snow day. The only thing that comes close is putting on last year’s coat, reaching in your pocket and finding a dollar bill. It’s like winning a mini-lottery. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, your world is changed! Isn’t it glorious?! What luck! What joy! Such freedom! You can probably count the times on one hand that you’ve actually had a snow day, but the joy is immeasurable!

As adults, we don’t get snow days. Our job, our paycheck, determines that we show up to work every day. We can’t indulge in the possibility that we can be stopped by those tiny frozen flakes. We are delayed, but not stopped. The sad truth of becoming an adult is that we lose our hope for snow days. Instead, we dread the never-ending onslaught of whiteness and the mess it creates in our routine; our cars are dirtied by road salt, driveways have to be cleared for our assault on the day, kids have to be shuttled to the day care. It becomes a hassle, a pain, an annoyance. At what age does our mindset shift? Is that the day we are officially adults? I’m glad that I don’t remember the day when I looked out the window and dreaded what I saw.

I wake to find the white deeper than had been expected. There are a few remaining flurries tickling the deep belly of snow on the lawn. The plows haven’t even graced our streets yet. The neighbor, an early soldier, readies his snow blowing weapon to battle the driveway. The kids’ alarms are singing them awake as I am heading to the coffee maker. I’m standing there sleepily watching the machine brew when the phone rings. I smile to myself knowingly. Snow day.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree
Wait, I can'say that this verse is mine. That would be plagerizing. That would be wrong,unethical,immoral, maybe. But it was done to me. The SOB made a few dollars off of my rhetoric, too. This has caused me much bitterness and created a real writers cramp. Writers whatever. Writing is a passion of mine but this resentment lingers.

Childhood's End

It was 4:35 on Saturday afternoon,
"Dinner" Mom cried, "time to put away your toys!"
But someone had to get Dad 'cause he wasn't back yet from the gas
station,
So my sister Mary and I do the dirty work,
Mary because she can drive and me 'cause she doesn't want to go alone.
She is mad, feeling put upon
"Why do I have to do this shit?" she asks rhetorically,
she knows the answer - she can drive, mom cannot.
Mom needs to watch the supper, protect it, nurture it
keep it from catching cold, save it from burning.
Someone needs to be home in case HE comes back .
Mother must be that someone.
So we drive somewhere
maybe its the tavern
maybe its his girlfriend's apartment
maybe its the police station
Nowhere this ten year old wants to be.
Nowhere this ten year old hasn't been.
"How damn long does it take to get gas?" Another rhetorical question.
"I mean, hell, it's been four and a half hours. Does she really believe
it takes 4 and 1/2 hours to get gas." I don't answer.
I am hoping that he will have a story -
Something with spies and secret agents,
Something that cleans the ugly obvious,
Just like on TV.
I go alone
Into the bar
And I see him through the smoke, he laughs -
his place, his bar buddies, his other woman
(without a warning word, my perspective shatters)
And as I clear my head of childish illusions,
a new world appears
One in which,
I lead this middle aging drunk man out the door,
And I know it is time to put my toys away.

Frank Coughlin April 2006

one of my early poems

Alike, The Swan and I

A fluff of white on a grey winter day,
her virgin beauty stood out.
She floated gracefully by,
leaving a path of ripples
in the otherwise placid water.

Bands of geese and ducks,
Camoflauged in browns and greys,
disturbed the quiet
with their endless honks and quacks,
determining who would
rein master over the preserve.

Oblivious to this commotion,
the swan continued her quest,
meandering from east to west,
and then north to south.

No destination in mind,
just a meditative trek,
encompassing all areas.

Occasionally dipping her graceful neck
into the liquid mass below her,
to catch a morsel of food here or there
and then continuing on
her seemingly aimless trek.
No destination in mind,
no quest to overcome,
living in the moment.

I watched her and felt
a peacefulness pour over me.
Her movements hypnotized me
and I became the swan,
melting into the grey-blue liquid
as she had done,
my reflection merging, creating
a duality with
what lay below me.

Society, humanity,
the world,
like the ducks and geese,
loudly voicing their demands,
exerting power and control,
I, like the swan, need to
continue to stay true
to self and listen to
internal voice within
which yearns for peace and solitude.

Not worrying about what others think,
or my place in the pecking order,
but just floating, floating, floating
to my true self.