Archives for August 2016

A Conversation With a Tree

I’m sad to say, the end is here.
A poet I’ll never be, so to be
fair I have to quit trying to string
together words in proper form.

Don’t expect another poem to
be mailed from me to you.I thank
you for reading what I have written
as poetry, but I know it’s not.

Conversation With a Tree

Ain’t no use, don’t wrap ribbons around my trunk or try to give me a hug.
I’ll tell you why, I’m adverse to you and your kind. You know I don’t think
well of those of you who come into our world with axes and saws to massacre
trees like me.

You don’t believe and can’t conceive we can think and have minds better than yours.
We don’t have vocal cords to afford us sound and can’t speak as loud as you. Humans like you don’t realize we have a language of our own that you’ll never understand.
Our entangled minds communicate underground with a network of roots.

We take care of our own and watch our babies grow, until someone
like you cuts them down before their prime. They don’t have a chance
to replicate or to reach for the sky. People like you don’t care how
young a sapling is, and only see wood.

Humans think the forest is here for you to slash and burn any time you want.
I’ve been here a thousand years, growing tall, and giving all to other trees.
I can’t count the bird’s squirrels, and bees that have made homes in my leaves
during the years I’ve been alive.

We’re a community you see, not just a plant you can eradicate if you want.
Put your ear to the ground and try to decipher what language we speak.
If you continue to ignore our rights as living trees, we’re going to make you pay.
Your world will become devoid of vegetation and trees.

That’s what may be, if you don’t agree that we have a right to live our lives.
If you don’t, all of you may acquire a malady called hylophobia and will think
twice about coming into the woods and cutting down a tree. Saplings bushes
and shrubs will develop misanthropic attitudes toward binary beings.

Before long every man alive will suffer from biophobia, and never come to the
woods or walk in a forest. God forbid they should ever try to reside in a jungle
with nourishing soil and more than enough rain to grow cannibalistic floras.
Humans will become aware how every tree in the world feels about them.

It doesn’t have to be that way. If people practice conservation and refrain from
killing so many fledgling trees. If protection doesn’t arrive, trees and other plants
will release so many seeds and pods that’ll grow on your streets houses, buildings,
and cover the entire sphere.

So many shrubberies and trees will force cities to return to their roots, and become wildernesses again. Afterwards any men left alive will live like Tarzan and swing on vines to find Jane, if we allow her to stay alive.
We know who has been kind to us. They’ll be selected to stay alive and never die in our dominion where they’d never hear the sound of a chain saw, or lumber mill. The world will become green again as it was meant to be.

The Light

Every time I had a choice, it wasn’t hard to make.

I’d drink beer whiskey, wine, gin, or what have you.

It wasn’t for the taste, it was to forget everything in my life..

All the people I knew didn’t get along and never sang a song. Where I lived no one

ever cried in despair. They’d drink more than I without regret. With so many numb

brains stumbling around, it’s no wonder arguments became daily fare.

Without a thought passing through their alcohol soaked brains people

there stabbed and shot one another when an argument wasn’t enough.

It was sad to see so many I knew get killed, but what an excuse to drink.

I never saw love where I was. Couples were always the first to fight with delight.

Their kids thought that they had to be like them, so at a young age they began

to follow the path to a criminal’s life. Everyone in the neighborhood served time.

If by chance you never went to jail, you weren’t part of the brotherhood. You became

the one they’d express their anger at and try to make you fight to become like them.

Only a few refused to change and join the overbearing group of misguided boys and girls.

How they knew there was a better way to live, I’ll never know. Some even went to school,

even though only a sissy did that. It was long ago, and I continue to drink

beer whiskey, wine, gin, or what have you. But the problem is, I know better now.

Time has passed, and I wonder how I could have been like one of them. Living without love

I find hard, but not to argue and fight when the chance comes is harder yet. If I never got shot

and died, I’d still be just like them. I changed you see once I went up there,

where the white light shined day and night. I was only dead for a minute before I came

back, but while in the light it seemed so peaceful and nice, I didn’t want to leave. A voice

told me I had to live because my life wasn’t done. The light shut off and I dropped back

to where my dead body lay. When I slipped inside my corpse, pain returned and hurt more than

ever before I died and went up there. I knew I couldn’t go back, so I had to endure everything meant for me,

so when I died again, the light would be there waiting for me, and while in that bright light, I’d never have to argue or fight

An America writer

An America writer
in the 1800’s was unable to read his own script, his hand always slipped. He couldn’t hire a man to copy his words as laborers during that time were rare. He didn’t think it fair that he’d starve because he couldn’t copy words. Creative thoughts blossomed in his head, pleasing him and because he wasn’t dead, happiness filled his brain

He meditated, plotted and then pictured how to press a key on a ribbon coated with ink to print a letter like Gutenberg’s printing press. Using letters made of metal he exchanged was his idea. The writer dropped his wife’s hair ribbon into ink and discovered by pressing a letter onto the side without ink, a copy appeared on the paper covering his desk so the ink wouldn’t stain.

With his wife’s ink stained ribbon, he printed out his name. Expecting fame and everybody would know his name, he quit the writing game. Becoming wealthy when he sold his patented device to Remington by taking royalties instead of cash . Remington improved upon his design, using men who made his guns.

They held sway and invented a way to make them better by manufacturing plenty every day without getting distracted or dismayed for not taking time to play. Not even on the seventh day when Remington said it was okay. The writer felt better, when he became a hero to others who scrawled ineligible words when using a pen, and couldn’t hold a or write a book about the darkest light,

until they learned to look up when tapping the keys with ease, because it made sense to print out words instead of using pen and ink. Then Remington bought a book and he gave his wife that look that she mistook and thought he was pleased to see the first author to submit a typewritten manuscript was more famous than Remington or any other man. Mark Twain wasn’t vain. He enjoyed and made use, without an excuse, of the device Remington made.

Crime A Day

“Historically important, insightful, and hugely entertaining”
— Debra Di Blasi, author of Drought and Prayers of an Accidental Nature
“Bold and frank, Crime A Day tells Joe DiBuduo’s story of growing up poor and hungry, of the redemptive power of love, and one man’s ability to change his life of circumstance to a life of choice. A fascinating glimpse into the seedy underbelly of mid-20th Century America.” — Michaela Carter, author of Further Out Than You Thought

By turns unsettling, witty and tragic, Crime A Day exposes the harsh consequences of childhood poverty, educational deprivation and social marginalization. DiBuduo went from a hard-working 6-year-old paperboy to a 22-year-old ex-con with a history of incarceration spanning nearly a decade. An unforgettable memoir about tough gangsters and hard drinkers, corrupt police and cynical judges, and the hungry, hardscrabble kids who survived “Hano”— once Boston’s roughest and most impoverished neighborhood.

This memoir is a sometimes harrowing, sometimes funny, thoroughly engaging account of DiBuduo’s impoverished upbringing in the Hano neighborhood of Boston in the 1940s and 50s. The narrative is brisk and deceptively easy to read (I literally almost couldn’t put it down; finished it in two nights); “deceptively” because the writer takes a matter-of-fact, unsentimental, and unapologetic look at the brutal effects of growing up poor and hungry. Most of us have an intellectual understanding of what “being poor” means, but this story hammers home the raw experience of being born into a disadvantaged environment and a dysfunctional family. What struck me as most chilling about DiBuduo’s descriptions was his nonchalant, that’s-just-the-way-things-were, we-didn’t-know-anything-different tone throughout the book. Theft and violence and deprivation and hopelessness formed his ideas of “normal,” with no context or clue that a better life might be somewhere outside his immediate neighborhood. And unfortunately, it translates to our modern times: poverty in the world’s wealthiest country remains an ugly stain on our national pride, we’re still having discussions and mixed emotions around the tactics and prejudices of police officers, we still use our prison system to warehouse rather than rehabilitate. That DiBuduo survived his childhood and adolescence, and has even thrived in his later years, is a testament to his core decency, his resilience, and his open heart. This is one of my top five books of 2015. It’s not a pretty story, but it’s a necessary one.

5.0 out of 5 stars Understanding the “Other Life”
By Nancy O. Nelson on December 29, 2015
Format: Paperback
The title of this memoir reflects the irony of this narrative, which follows in detail the path of a young boy who spends much of his first two decades of life committing petty theft and felony. Happily, the narrator never experiences the electric chair, but he tells of men he knew who faced it in the Cook County Jail in Chicago. The narration is in an unabashedly direct and colloquial voice and relates the hunger of his childhood which led him to steal as young as six years old. The narrator emerges throughout the narrative as (ironically) a kind-hearted person who loves children and animals but who will not turn away from a fight when challenged. We see him gradually give up the life of crime for a life of family, art and writing.

Art is everywhere

It’s always nice to see blue skies with gray and passing white clouds
turning into more shapes than our population. In anticipation our imagination
and some speculation creates forms without explanation or description.
It’s even better when day turns to night and the moon and stars brightly shine.
We see so many heavenly bodies we wonder if they are another world or just
a burning star?

Our sun is only a close by star that we can see and love. It rises and sets, unlike the stars we see in the dark. We wonder how many worlds there are. Are they rare, or are there others like us out there? It won’t be long before we’re prepared to see many species coming here. In time, we’ll have to claim and settle on every planet out there.

Right here we can see so many miracles appear in only a year. Our minds can’t grasp the meaning of that. There are trees with leaves that change color. Giant redwoods in the woods where trees grow. There’s too many species to count.
How many things grow on them and below, we’ll never know. Colorful as flowers in a field, the number of birds that make their homes on a tree branch, we’ll never know.

It’s a pleasure to behold vast expanses of grass and weeds that are bold to grow where they do. Imagine how many animals and bugs dare to make their homes on or below, and around the ground where trees grow. Vineyards produce grapes of different heritage for flavoring wines and brandy too. Farmers grow corn and everything else we need to eat,
so there’s always enough when the ground is covered with snow.

Colorful fish we love to see, or eat. We’ll never tally the many species in rivers lakes, and the seven seas. The ocean bottoms are still a mystery. If we could only see what kind fish are living there. Flowing rivers are a sight to see when water and rock meet. Lakes are great when one cannot see the other side. Some are small, but still a pleasure to behold.

People are bold and colorful too. We’re all different, but have a desire to love and to be loved. Love too is strange and there’s no way to tally up how many ways we love. Theirs’s love between men, women, children, and friends. But the strongest love we have is for our pets that return our affection with interest.

Dogs are a wonder and our best friend. There are so many different breeds helped along by humankind to make them more like us. It’s no wonder we love them like we do. Cat’s are as varied as can be, from those who roam the jungles to the pussycat lying on a couch soaking up the sun. Animals live around the world and there’s too many to count.

Everything above I consider great art, created by someone much greater than me.

What!

I’m not sure what it was, maybe I’m a nut, or maybe because
of my seclusion it was an illusion, or a vision of another dimension.
I’ll give odds it was sent by the gods to show me the way during the
day. Perhaps I slept and dreamed of the things I saw, but they were
as real as me.

It makes me think that I’m on the brink when I think I’m awake, but
I dream that when I awake, I’ll forget everything that occurred. It’s
difficult to tell what world I dream and what one under the sun is real.
Could it be they’re both factual and when I sleep, I take a leap and go

To a place that fills my mind with immeasurable pleasures so when I
return to the world filled with grief and pain, it’s plain there’s a better
place. If that’s the case, why can’t I stay in the pleasurable place?
What’s the difference between here and there?

I wonder, but think I’ll never know if it’s so until I’m dead in bed,
and can see both worlds so I can make a choice. That’ll be hard to
do because how can I be quick to pick if I don’t know if what I see
is real and will set me free, or if what I see is only in my mind?

Is anything here, or is my mind a spirit floating in space and when it
sleeps, it dreams it’s me, but when awake, it takes me to a different
world it made just for me. Is there a way I can take control of a thing
I know nothing about?

Is this an unsolvable mystery of life, or am I seeing heaven when I’m
in the world without a care, and I’m in love, and never get hurt by a bitch
who goes out while I’m at work, like the one in my other world full of grief
that hurts like hell when I’m awake?

It’s complicated underrated, and I don’t know if I’m really in love in one
world and not the other. Maybe what I see is only a reflection of my soul
that goes out while I’m at work to torment me when I believe I’m awake.
No one knows why we’re here, or if we really are, maybe I’m a star.

I’m starting to believe there’s more to life than I can see. Why bother to live
a life where the one I love searches for another. In the painful world
I awake in, I see to love is to suffer. I’d like to take a permanent sleep in that
painful world and awake in the other where there’s pleasure, and no pain.

Be Nice To Your Wife

When death takes you, don’t overload loved ones with funeral costs.
Donate your body to science, and once you sign on the line, your
corpse will get a free ride from the place where you lost your breath,
and met death, to a place where any remains in hand are in demand.

Students, doctors, and some who join in for the joy of dismembering
you to even the score, will slice and dice you without thinking twice
until there’s not much left. If your family is bereft and wants to have
your remnants returned when everyone is through cutting you, have no
fear. All your parts not used or lost, will be sent to them.

Cadavers sold without organs won’t do. Science needs your body intact
before they act. No license is required of those inspired to sell a cadaver.
The price they pay for a corpse is low, but if sold piece by piece, they are
worth much more. So to even the score if you’re not nice to your wife, she
may research and discover legal ambiguities that allow body parts to be sold.

If she decides you must die, she’ll sell your knees, elbows, head, and other parts.
She always said you had no brains, so she’ll only get $600 for yours, $850 for one
elbow, and $850 for each hand, and it will only take her an hour to entirely dissect
your remains, but don’t worry, you’ll feel no pain. If you want to stay whole, you better
be nice to your wife.

I’d Rather Be Blind

I’d rather be blind than see on TV, places where
kids are tortured because of an archaic belief.
Do I have to see hospitals destroyed with kids inside
whose time is brief. Babies smother and die when
oxygen is destroyed by bombs aimed at hospitals and tents.

I’d rather be blind than have in mind how we treat animals’ and,
grow them for daily food, and how baby cows are kept in a dark
pen by hired men to become veal. Dogs and cats in a cage waiting
to be executed because their owners dumped them on the street
without anything to eat, or they got lost without a chip.

I’d rather be blind than see a wounded dog who has just
fought another in the dust. Because the dog lost he’s about
to be burned alive. Puppies are born only to be sold to people
who have no clue they can be cruel. They think it’s okay to beat
the pup if it doesn’t learn to be perfect and do what’s expected.

I’d rather be blind than see kittens in a sack about to be
dropped off of a bridge into the flowing water below. I never want
to see, but I do, cats and kittens set afire or thrown into a burning barrel,
or look into the back of the truck that comes to pick up the corpses
of euthanized cats for schools, so students can practice cutting through
skin, veins, and bones.

I’d rather be blind than see a cow forced to go into the
slaughter house where she and her daughter will die in one
of the many ways they’re murdered. Sometimes they don’t
die fast enough and are hung on hooks while still alive and
no matter how they cry, they’re skinned alive.

I’d rather be blind than see air filled with particles blocking the
sun and filling the air with elements that make it hard to breathe.
It’s upsetting to realize our world is overrun with people, and there’s
no room for wild animals, but always enough space to raise the ones
we torture, kill, and eat.

I’d rather be blind than see the animals and birds we eat crowded
into cages only big enough for one and that goes for pigs and
chickens too. Passing the meat section in a store shows me
parts of animals that were alive the day before, but no more.

I’d rather be blind than see you walk away from me because
you say we’re too different. You eat dead animals and I won’t,
but I forgive you, for you know not what you do. Most people
are like you and have never imagined what it’s like, and never
stop to think the meat they eat was alive and loved others in
their lives that were taken away and killed before their turn
came.

I’d rather be blind than see pets try to please their human masters
in every way, every day, because they know, they could be served
as dinner if they didn’t show love. They understand they could be
beat or worse by their owners who have very right under man made
law to torture and kill their pets if they don’t obey.

I’d rather be blind than see people go to church and pray that day,
that they’ll be good enough for heaven when they die, and almost all
believe they’ll go to that place in the sky where good people go, but
they don’t know, all the animals they have tortured, killed and ate
will be there to judge, and certainly won’t show love.

.

Asteroids deliver frozen Water and,

Asteroids deliver frozen Water and,

drops of it fall from the sky so things don’t die. Thirsty ground, animals, plants, and man
go to hollows to swallow as much as they can. It’s unknown when the next nourishing
drops will come. Some pray for rain, others dance in a trance, but sometimes prayers

by so many create storms that floods the surface, washes away plants, drowns animals and man. Like love, we cannot live without water that makes up most of what we are. Is it any wonder we’re drawn to the sea, lakes, and rivers?

Liquid water is like any mother who’ll nourish, entertain, give us joy, and let us
float on her when we want. It’s wonderful to see water flowing down mountains
and hills into rivers where kayaks can speed along wild currents over rocks, rapids,

and not very tall waterfalls. When many drops fall, rivers are resurrected and race to the sea where without a care they meld and become one. The sea has breaking waves and adequate room to sail or ride.

Full, lakes offer plenty for us to drink and play. If the temperature gets so high we’ll see melting glaciers and rising tides, there goes our way of having fun on rivers,
lakes, and oceans that will have dried, and left behind parched, powdered, ground.

The challenge to us is to stop the temperature climb, or rivers, lakes, oceans, and all that depend upon liquid to stay alive will dry, die, and turn to dust. Water that used to return to the sky to dribble down here can’t when it’s too hot for it to fall, so the water we need

will evaporate and return to the atmosphere to become asteroids from whence the immense amount came. That’ll leave the entire world dry, desolate, and a twin to Mars.
In years to come, will another civilization send a Rover to Earth to discover why it

became parched, and want to understand why there are no hurricanes, typhoons, or rain on a world that once had life, but died without an atmosphere. Those who helped it to become dry have died in shame, and now their souls have nowhere to go?

Singing the blues

Wasn’t it yesterday when we lay in bed
with me holding you tight?
The life we lived was okay. We didn’t fight and
you swore we’d stick together for the rest of our lives.

You said it was the only way, but I didn’t know only a few
hours remained before you’d tiptoe out the door and go away
without a word. Are you thinking of me?

If you were okay I’d be rich today. You spent every cent I earned
working night and day. When I asked you for some cash, you said,
“Get out and don’t come back until you’ve got a pocketful of dough.”

Memories of love are deranged after the way you arranged for me
to live like a snake after you slithered into my brain, and dashed away
any hopes or beliefs residing in there.

I didn’t care how you mistreated me., because I couldn’t see you didn’t love
me then, but when evil thoughts infiltrated, I’m sad to say, I tried
to make them go away, but they stay with me every day.

I try to perceive splendor spreading through the world, but my eyes
only see that I’m not happy with the life I have. I can no longer play, and
I’m beginning to believe that when the end of my life arrives, it’ll be a relief,

now that I understand, what was there wasn’t splendid at all, even
when we embraced. Wicked, wicked folks surround me, and they don’t know
how to love. Though they always treat me better than you ever did,

I’ve always desired you, but I’ve got to say, longing has put my mind
in an evil vein, and I suffer pain, so I try not to remember when you said,
“Get out of bed and don’t come back until you’ve got a pocketful of dough.”

Do you know if you were here, I’d hold you tight until your heart-beat
like a hammer and your eyes filled with tears. It would seem like a million
years before I let you go. I want to show you I can forget those words

that came from your mouth about being naughty and nice, because in my heart,
I knew how bad you were, and never any good. Now for every word you
spoke, you have to pay the price when I’m as naughty as you like.”

If you would have treated me well, in any weather, we’d always be together.
Part of the price you have to pay is to endure the pain when you watch me,
like you, tiptoe out the door and vanish too.