Ballon Meta

I jumped up and down on the front seat of my dad’s car as he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the small amusement park near our home. My eyes grew wide with excitement.

Almost every time we went anywhere we passed the white wooden structure with the bright waving flags but he never stopped. “You have to be four before you can go. It’s too expensive.” But today was special. He was taking me for a pony ride.

Tears streamed down my face. I was afraid but wanted to ride at the same time. The urban wrangler lifted me onto the back of the well-worn pony. My crying subsided when my dad put one arm around my back and followed along as the pony walked around the circular dirt path. I was thrilled and wanted more and more but three times around and the ride ended.

As we walked back to the car I saw them, the massive bunch of balloons floating high on strings. My dad had just returned from his stint in the Navy. World War II was over and for the first time in my life there were balloons. 

“Hi little lady. You want a balloon, don’t you?” The balloon man smiled at me.

“Oh Daddy! I want one. Pleeeeease!  Pleeeeease!”

My dad frowned at the man as he continued to hawk his merchandise. “I’m sure your dad will buy you one. What color do you like best?” He grinned at my father who reached into his pocket fumbling for the last of his amusement park money. My dad paid and the man handed a bright red one to me. I grasped the string in my small hand and gazed at the orb as it blew back and forth in the breeze. It was beautiful, like a giant crimson raindrop. Better than the pony.  We walked back to the car, my spirits soaring. Then, the disaster! My hand lost its grip and I watched my treasure go up, up and away. “Get it, get it!” I screamed. But it rose into the sky, became a tiny dot and then disappeared.  My screaming became desperate. “Daddy, daddy. Go get my balloon.” 

“Your balloon is gone and I can’t get it back.” My dad’s expression was one of hopeless desperation.  I continued my tirade as my dad tried to explain.  The balloon man saw what was happening and shrugged his shoulders.  My dad continued to search his pockets coming up with some coins. He held out his hand filled with the coins showing what he had to offer. The balloon man looked at my dad, frowned, looked at me, smiled, and handed me another floating ball.

This time my dad intercepted. He took the string in his fingers and leaning down spoke softly. “Look. Navy men learn some important things and this is one of them. This is a slipknot. From now on whenever you get a balloon we’re using a slipknot.”  He made a tiny circle out of the end of the string making sure it was tied securely. Then he pulled a piece of it through the tiny hole. He placed it around my wrist like a bracelet. We both laughed as we watched balloon number two float into the air and stop, tethered and secure. My dad was a hero. From that day on I knew about slipknots and balloons and how the two were partners, just like my dad and I. 

Meditation John Field

Picture a violin snug in its case,

A nest of Russian wooden dolls, 

The inner sanctum 

Of an unencumbered life.

To get there fall silent but not down, 

Go in and pass through 

The constant chatter in your brain 

Until you reach a sanctuary

Where the outside simply isn't 

Unless a dog barks 

Or a truck rumbles by.

Then dive 

And if you meet your inner stranger 

On the way down 

Introduce him to your mantra 

And watch them improvise a dance.

Fold into your Self like a parachute 

Collapsing when you land

By breathing in and out 

With the slow and steady rhythm 

Of a metronome 

Until time stops turning on your wrist 

And you lose the drift 

Of what your thoughts are thinking.

This is it. Yes. This. 

Such stillness, such bliss, 

So much invisible beauty to explore. 

Bury yourself in it up to its hilt 

And be glad you exist 

Because even slow motion 

Moves a little faster 

When the hands of a clock 

Knock on your door.

Graveyard Michael James

Drawn bay-ward, by thoughts of a cool evening, 

to a marina where sea breezes will have 

penetrated miles inland without restraint,

I drive through vineyards, down winding roads 

into a world I haven't seen for years. 

Little houses, nestled into shrubs and small trees, 

huddled between road and river,

look west across the marshes and sloughs 

to the setting sun which reflects in their panes 

like dying fire. They look east as well, 

their finger docks lining the river, 

stretching from mooring post to bank, 

regular as piano keys.

In my memory of the marina, twittering barn swallows 

flit through the berths of cruisers under cover, 

busy bringing beakloads of insects to their messy nests on beams.

And sure enough, as we leave the car,

Swallows swoop over my dog's head and make him flinch, 

unfamiliar as he is with aerial bombardment. 

And I saunter along the docks inhaling cool moist air, 

passing gleaming motorboats snugly at rest in their berths.

Out past the docks, in the gloaming, dozens of 

silhouetted sailboats, 35, 45, 50 feet long, 

propped aloft as if on stilts, await what commands 

their missing owners have to bestow.

Where did they come from, all of those boats, 

And where are their skippers? 

Have they all jumped ship?

Even at dusk, the hulls tell a story of abandonment, 

their bottoms fouled, their paint all faded,

dry rot visible in keel and rudder. 

These were the stuff dreams are made of:

sleek bow to breast Atlantic waves, 

full belly to ride the big seas of the Southern Ocean, 

high freeboard to keep the roiling breakers at bay.

A few show signs of current work: 

a little paint here, sanding being done there. 

Some spars lie aground and but most are still stepped,

a veritable forest of spars 

attentive to the expected call that never comes.

Where are all theses owners? Where are the captains of yesteryear? 

Gone like the snows? Or just resting, 

awaiting the big check to buy the wood, paint, and work to fix the boat? 

Or is it energy that's wanting?

Have their owners, like the boats, 

Arrived at the impasse of age, reached the dead end of their story 

put their dreams on permanent "hold"?

My road too is running out, as l find when I turn 

yet again away from home, towards the bay 

Coming out of the marina to explore further. 

But the road I have never taken till now peters out 

with a notice identifying its end: No Exit.

I turn around before a large gate 

telling me of privacy 

and head for home.

The deep orange western sky stretches far across the sloughs 

till it vanishes behind the hills at Blackpoint. 

I'll be home late and have to face a reckoning: 

"That was a long visit to the dog park."

Yes, well memory's lane goes on and on you know. 

Who is to say where it will end?

Stairway Robyn Makaruk

Ribbons of fog painted the rails with a lip gloss shine

That beat out the brilliance of the full moon.

The cable car announced its arrival at the bottom of the hill

with squeals of iron-on-iron, and the ratchet of the gripman’s pulling on the brakes.

In the damp night air, the driver rapped out his signature tattoo on the bell.

It was the last run of the night to pick up the handful of bloodshot eyes

coming out of the Buena Vista.

The bartender had listened to the same old stories about 

glory days of conquests and failures.

He responded to calls of “play it again, Sam” as they 

nursed glasses of broken dreams all the while 

dressing their damaged hearts in camouflage. 

“Last call, ladies and gentlemen,” 

and when the trysting hour approached

he purposely mixed the last “one for the road” on the light side.

A repeat of the tattoo from the cable car’s bell

drove all who might ride, across the street.

A deep baritone voice rang out

“All Aboard on your Stairway to the Stars. 

Hang on tight, it’s a mighty climb,”

his voice merging with the melancholy sound

of the fog horns echoing across the Bay.

Some Have It John Field

When I was a child I was beguiled 

By the nimble way 

Older kids' double-jointed fingers 

Danced up and down piano keys

Like circus acrobats doing flips. 

They made playing the piano look easy, 

Like turning on a tap 

And then waiting for the music to gush out.

Not so. When I began taking lessons 

I was a pride-shy restless little fraud 

Who hardly ever practiced, 

My tiny paws bamboozled

By their inability to coax a melody 

Out of our upright piano 

Even though they knew 

How to shuffle cards

With absurd dexterity.

My imitation of a dedicated student 

Never fooled my teacher. 

She sensed I felt 

A strong commitment

To being anywhere 

But where I was. 

Stiff as porcupine quills 

My fingers spoke in tongues 

As they jaywalked

Up and down the scales. 

Worse still, 

Instead of illuminating the sky 

With moonlight sonatas

They cast a lunar eclipse 

Over Claire De Lune.

Once a week for years 

My teacher cheered me on 

Through gritted-teeth, 

Guessing perhaps that my thoughts 

Were preoccupied 

With knock-knock jokes 

And how absolutely giddy I felt 

When my lessons were finally over.

Birds of Passage Robyn

When I look up to the skies

And see those who fly with nary a care

Soaring in a freedom we mortals

Only dream of

An image comes to mind’s eye

Of an encounter with a Raven

Creature of myth and mystery

Descendant of dinosaurs

I see Raven as one of my ancestors

We’re just energy, after all

Birds of passage, so to speak

Touching down for a time

We think we’re putting down roots

But in the small window of a lifespan

They’re shallow anchors

And don’t count for more than

A hill of beans 

Upon which we alight for a speck of time

I know that while I exist

I am but a drop

In this vast ocean of livingness

And when I leave

I will join all the Birds of Passage

And return to Stardust