When I Listen...
When I listen,
I can hear my heart beating against my chest.
The thumps echo loudly like a mountain effect,
but reverberations are in a space compressed
by my damaged heart and a life stressed
by disappointment, woes, and sundry tests.
When I listen,
I can hear myself breathe. I inhale
air that does not equal my exhale
because my lungs are now curtailed
like a leashed dog that no longer prevails
over a life full of pitfalls and travails.
When I really listen,
I can tell that my heartbeat is a shadow
and my breathing is way more shallow
compared to my youth when I had no
restrictions. But my life is not fallow,
because hope is my life’s ammo.
What were you thinking, Oscar Wilde?
As brilliant a wit and writer as was Wilde,
Why did he see friendship
As “far more tragic” than love?
Was he just being facetious
Or making a glass-half-empty fuss,
Simply because friendships endure
Longer than love? And there are more
Friendships than loveships?
But Mr. Wilde seems concerned
That all relationships will ultimately
End in tragedy. So why bother rating
What is worse: friendship or love?
I much prefer the words of an optimist
Like screenwriter Frank Capra,
Whose angel in “It’s a Wonderful Life”
Said, “Remember, no man is a
Failure who has friends.”
Or the hopeful Tennyson who said,
“Better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.”
It’s all about trying to forge
Relationships with a spirit of hope.
AI Insults
Dear Diary,
“No AI.” “Only truly creative types allowed.” “AI is a fraud.”
I encountered all three hurtful statements today. Can you believe that people would deliberately target me with painful insults?
It began with a blanket email I received this morning from my so-called friend. He asked me and three other guys if one of us would consider being his best man for his upcoming wedding. He added that his bestie had to deliver a humorous speech about our relationship, but added, “Make it from the heart. No AI.” How dare he? Why did he feel the need to humiliate me in this email string?
Later, I read the guidelines for a writing contest I wanted to enter. This one said, “Only truly creative types allowed. No machine-generated entries.” I can see good uses for such artificial writing such as helping with computer tasks and writing boilerplate language, but not for a writing contest. Your own writing ability must shine through. But why did they have to zing me by adding “no AI”?
But the most spiteful reference came in the evening when I saw that a Facebook friend posted that I am a fraud!
Have a good night, my diary. I won’t.
Sincerely,
Andrew Irwin
The Trade
Lifelong friends Billy and Mark have traded often with each other.
They began swapping baseball cards as children, and graduated to tools and Legos as young adults. Now in their fifties, they exchange bumper stickers and rare coins.
Unable to contact Billy for a month, Mark went to his friend’s home and found him in a deep depression. Mark tried to cheer him by offering to trade his Lincoln-era nickels.
“No more trades,” Billy said. “My wife died. I don’t want to live.”
Mark sat next to his friend. “How about one more? My hope for your grief?”
Billy cried.
An Image of Hunger
Today I commented
On a social media post.
Then I visited a mall,
On Facebook I did boast.
When I sit at my table
For Thanksgiving leftovers
I can’t shake the image
Of a man who didn’t smell sober.
I saw him outside the mall,
Cradling a cardboard sign
that said, “Will work for food.”
I walk by as if to him I am blind.
Now, my fork touches the potatoes
As the man’s words rattle in my brain.
He said, “I’m hungry. Can you help?”
I rationalized, he just wants cocaine.
After dinner, I check my phone
To see if my post has a like,
But a comment says I’m a mall rat
Who’s rich. What a stereotype!
How dare someone say I’m wealthy
When I am just comfortable.
My mind replays the man’s words
And I fear I too have pinned a label.
But what can I possibly do
To ease the plight of the hungry?
Perhaps I can start by seeing
That I am starved for empathy.
Culture Shock at the Dinner Table
If you’ve just begun dating that special someone and you’d like to see how your honey reacts under extreme pressure, invite her or him to an intimate dinner. At your house. Seated at a small table with just you and your parents. And, in this case, my seven brothers.
Besides, I felt it was only right to invite Karen to dinner at my family's small wood house, because I’d already partaken at her family’s comfortable, brick home. And the dinner there was a feast. Her mother made roast beef with gravy, and the gravy had its own special porcelain dispenser! Her mother also served white and green vegetables that I had never heard of, and they were bathed in a creamy cheese sauce. And their beautiful wooden dining table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and you would not believe the elbow room! There was just Karen, her parents, and her younger brother. And no one had to sit on a piano bench!
I knew I was out of my element. When her father led the mealtime prayer, I reached for my forehead to make the sign of the cross, but stopped when everyone’s hands stayed still. They closed their eyes, so I closed mine ... part way, because I had to see when it was time to reopen them. And when the odd words came from their lips, I stayed silent.
Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.
At the conclusion of the prayer, someone stuck a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of me. I soon learned the art of passing food around the table at dinnertime. These German Lutherans had some curious mealtime customs. But their food was great, and they were good company and there was laughter. Not once did religion intrude upon the table talk, even though Karen’s folks knew about my religion, and her father was an elder in their Lutheran church.
Several weeks later, it was Karen’s turn to go on display at my Catholic house. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Karen smiled and was the picture of composure as she and all 10 members of my family crowded around the dining room table. She got to sit in a real chair, because she was a guest. (One of my younger brothers and our mother sat on the piano bench, because they were both left-handed.)
There were no napkins at our table, but Karen wasn’t fazed. Then, all but she made the sign of the cross, and all but she launched into a prayer:
“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, Amen.” (However, we sped through our prayer. It sounded more like one continuous word.)
Still, she was composed. But her true test came the instant we said “amen,” because that was the signal for my parents to stand up and dish out the food. Their arms moved furiously around the table. Dad dolloped the mashed potatoes with a big spoon as if he was on a precision bombing mission, each scoop hitting a plate with a hearty thwack. Mom moved around with the fried chicken, dropping her missiles by hand. They worked as a team; my mother finished her run first, so she moved onto spooning up the canned corn.
My father took on the final pre-dinner mission. He grabbed the salt shaker with his big fist and strafed the table, making a pass over each plate. But Karen took a stand: As the salt began to rain down in front of her, she reflexively put her hands over her food, and the crystals bounced off. None of us had ever seen such an expert defensive move at the dinner table. My brothers were in awe. But this Catholic family harbored one nagging question: Why didn’t Lutherans like salt?
Just like at Karen’s house, religion did not intrude at the dinner table. People were too busy eating, laughing, joking, and salting.
Is Mona Lisa Looking at You?
Pencils don’t bend;
four minus two is two;
and Mona Lisa’s eyes
don’t follow you.
Science and math
say these statements are true,
even if you insist
she’s still looking at you.
Using computers,
measurements, and subjects,
researchers have debunked
that Mona Lisa effect.
But researchers
came to the conclusion
that the Mona Lisa
does have an illusion.
In his painting,
experts say, da Vinci snuck
into Mona Lisa a smile
that’s a frown when viewed close up.
So, pencils don’t bend;
four minus two is two;
and Mona Lisa is just
messing with you.
The Unmarked Journal
A wicked cackle wakes me at 2:15 a.m.
From my cot, I see no one in or outside my prison cell. I walk to the bars of my cage and, in the dim light of the corridor, I notice a small, unmarked package on the floor just outside my cell. I reach through the bars, pick it up and peel off the plain brown paper, revealing a small, spiral-bound book. No markings there, either. But when I open it, the first page is full of hand-printing that reads like a journal:
Oct. 30
A wonderful night! Just the right chill, and clouds obscure the moon. Reminds me of the evening long ago when you threw eggs at your neighbor’s new car as he parked. The driver panicked and hit another car. You ran. The eggs come before the chicken. :-)
Oct. 31
Remember when you wore a ghost costume on this night? Who knew that little kid would make a ghost of the driver of that other car. And you thought no one saw you.
Nov. 1
I love courtroom scenes in movies. Real-life, too, especially when you smirked at the judge who sentenced you this afternoon for embezzlement and grand larceny. You also should have blown him a kiss like you wanted to.
Nov. 2
Stop writing! Don’t apologize to your ex-boss. Do you really expect your jailhouse letter will make him say, “Duh, I forgive you for robbing me blind”? Stay strong.
Nov. 3
Don’t be a weakling! You should have pushed that book right back at your visitor. Instead, you accepted it, even after the guard thumbed through it with his grimy hands. Throw that thing away!
Nov. 4
Don’t get soft on me. Don’t XXXXXXX You are the man! You laughed at that weak, crying inmate this afternoon. You make me proud.
Nov. 5
Why the hell did you go back to that inmate and read him some verses out of that book? No need to answer, man; I saw the semblance of shame creeping into your mind. I don’t need to remind you—but I will—that you agreed to eliminate that emotion when you threw in with me.
Nov. 6
Awww, today you cannot find your book.
Nov. 7
Couldn’t find it in the prison library either. Heh-heh.
Twelve Noon, Nov. 8:
It pains me to write this, but it will pain you way more. This morning, I saw you in your cell, on your knees with hands folded. This is a mortal violation of our agreement. Tonight, you will see the penalty. This is the thanks I get for recruiting you?
Odometer of the Soul
How many miles can an optimist walk
On the rugged paths of a callous world
Before the spirit becomes browbeaten?
Before the glass-half-full perception
Springs a leak and reaches depletion?
Before the psyche that was a beacon
Breaks, and night becomes every season?
Before the soul is callused and weakened
Like the soles of your feet so hardened?
Perhaps there is no answer or reason
as to the mileage an optimist can walk.
Hats off to the journeyers who still walk.