Photo Album Jean

Figures lie splayed in some careless space.

You peer through, sometimes centered on the page

or haphazard, stuck askew, and tucked with tape—

a beat, a blink, a tilt, a pulse, a phase.

Knives of light and spilled shadows haunt

each frozen plane. Angled borders frame

lifeless lines. With every click, your wide eyes

fixed beneath your shroud of glossy sheen.

How many mourners will take their time to stare

and will those moments die when strangers

cannot see or care what you were, and bound

heavy, locked in memory, never will become?

Now as I wane, my tears turn thick with every year,

though you grow younger when your face appears.

2013

Chosen Few Dave

Chester  reflected on his future.  His past, especially the last ten years, hadn’t been too great.  “Well,”  he thought, “I had better include two more years. That is when I committed the crimes that put me in prison for ten years”.

During the first half of his prison sentence he was bitterly trying to live up to the thug persona of a ten year loser.  He pumped iron to build up a formidable physique, he learned to cheat at most gambling games, he got tattooed just about all over to advertise his thug role. Now he had so many tattoos that he could recline naked on a Persian rug and use it for camouflage.  Out of prison, he realized he would look like a freak to normal people among whom he would have to make an honest living.  Another crime would put him under lock for life. He had gained two strikes; one for his original fraud and another for trying to escape.

With tattoos covering everything but his neck, face, hands and feet, he had to be thoroughly concealed.  That was his first challenge.  He also had to have a career that would support him – preferably without a pick, shovel, or hammer –  and not put him back in prison.

During his last prison days, as he was being indoctrinated for re-entry to society, he was given a lecture by a whey-faced clergyman. Chester was told about the advantages of being saved, having his sins forgiven, and eventual salvation.  Chester listened intently to  the clergyman, not swallowing the content but studying the man’s role and career.  He saw a man making a living propounding claims with no basis of proven fact and offering no tangible reward. Chester realized the clergyman was being paid and respected for doing essentially what had put Chester in prison!  Chester’s  Cyber-Ponzi scheme hadn’t promised golden streets, only $2,000 / ounce gold.

Chester had an insight of such brilliance that he was knocked off his feet.  He latter intimated the idea had some sort of supernatural origin.  In reality, his brain was just connecting the dots.  He realized he could still milk money from the wealthy and clueless just as he had with the Ponzi scheme; now he had found a way to do it legally – as a spokesman for the Almighty.

By the time he had boarded a bus to convey him away from the penitentiary,  Chester had a plan for his future.  The first item was to dig up the proceeds he had sheltered from his previous scam.  That would cover his room, board, and expenses until cash started to roll in. Then he planned a wardrobe: skin-tight, black silk, under-garments that covered everything except his neck and head, feet, and hands.That would be covered by black monk’s robes with a deep cowl,  plus leather sandals for the feet. He would  look surreal and powerful. Chester would enroll in an on-line divinity course and  have a five-lettered degree in six weeks.

Next he would ring up Gupta, his fellow scammer in the Ponzi scheme.  Gupta wasn’t prosecuted for the acts that sent Chester to prison and it was because Chester didn’t rat on him.  Gupta was needed for several features in the new project:  data about the previous Poni customers, and second: properly attired, he would look like a classic guru with direct communications to something special. 

Gupta was glad to join in.  At his present job everything was boring. Gupta was happy for an opportunity  of excitement, challenge and an income without the 9 – 5 aspect.

Gupta was outfitted in saffron versions of Chester’s garb except Gupta was barefoot. Gupta’s public role was mainly as a visual image and with a Bluetooth® device, as a clandestine operator of  the organization’s premier icon, the sacred bell.

The sacred bell had been handmade and tuned by Chester  who had benefitted by vocational education in the pen.  The bell was actually coaxial, with a second resonator inside, not visible. The inner bell was tuned to resonate at a frequency about 7 cycles per second higher than the outer.  When they were excited by a blow of the electrically propelled clappers the resulting tones, near middle C, would create a beat tone that occurred at  7 cycles per second. The non-linearities in the acoustic transmission caused a discrete tone at 7 cycles per second.  This tone is in itself inaudible  to humans but is near the mechanical resonance of the human head – as space travelers found out.  High enough levels cause extreme motion of the eyeballs creating various abnormal sensations. A definite attention getter.

Chester recruited his clients by stating that the all-seeing Gupta had classified them as among the “Chosen Few”. This was true but the listeners misinterpreted it to mean chosen by a higher power, not a scammer. Chester arranged  for his clients to meet in an auditorium created from a former internet company’s office.

Gupta was displayed on the center of the stage where he squatted on a pillow appearing to be in a trance. There was a back-ground of psychedelic music and lights as Chester addressed them in his monkish garb. He explained that there were rewards for those “Chosen Few” who chose to assist their fellow mankind in need, not just to sustain them but to repair them, to make them more equal. Contributions were needed from those “Chosen Few” that wished to move ahead in the cosmos.  Cash,  credit cards or Paypall® were all available.  For those conversant in Urdu, Gupta would answer questions telepathically.

Then the sacred bell rang. Most people looked glazed-over.  Many thought they were talking to Gupta telepathically and he was assuring them their past inhumanities could be forgiven – by giving.  The donations were huge.

Later, as they counted the take, Chester and Gupta were congratulating themselves and each other. Luxury and plenty seemed guaranteed. Then, unbidden, the sacred bell rang at a higher than normal volume.  Gupta wasn’t even wearing the Bluetooth® trigger. The two pseudo-monks were transformed.

Chester and Gupta didn’t get rich on their scheme. They gave all the money away as they had promised. They helped to solve housing problems, education problems, health problems – physical and mental – and even political and hate problems. They worked to rehabilitate convicts and addicts.

The “Chosen Few” became many. Their humanity not their property became their obsession.

Chester’s  so-called “sacred bell” continued to ring on its own volition at the most opportune times.  

Mr X Michael James

(Pseudonyms have been used to protect the innocent)

Mr X, P.I., was carried to his grave on a wave of disappointment. It was not disappointment that killed him; in fact he expired from perfectly natural causes in due course, not one of them painful. No, he was not disappointed; the disappointment arose in those he loved, his parents and his two sisters. They had been at a loss to understand the refusal of Mr X to charge what they felt was due, a large fee for discovering the perpetrator of one of the shortest-lived crimes of the century, the abduction of the daughter of the city's wealthiest oligarch and benefactor, Mr Y or Yee as some called him.

The entire city considered as unquestionable the opinion that Mr Y had been targeted by the abductor because of his wealth. That was not a premise Mr X was willing to accept. He imagined someone fortuitously in a position to take advantage of circumstances way beyond his control but not beyond his ability to use to his advantage. He imagined Miss Y the teenage daughter of Mr Y, running away with a young, attractive, penurious, and already married Mr A. And indeed, the owner of a bright yellow VW microbus, already well-known to the local police and press, was observed speeding southward from the last known location of Miss Y and her attendant who had left the girl in her car for a moment to buy a coke. Their elopement had been filmed by a reporter for a society rag who went by the name of "Z" to avoid retribution for his peering into the private lives of the rich and famous.

Mr Z often worked closely with Mr X on cases, and so in this case too he slipped a copy of his video to his P.l. friend on his way to turning it in to his publisher. Mr X's friends on the police force, determined the owner of the yellow VW microbus right away and broadcast an APB on the man and his vehicle. They caught him the following day approaching a southern frontier and put up a road block. Mr A pretended to have no idea why he was being stopped but when the cops searched the micro bus they found Miss Y hiding under a pile of old dog blankets unharmed.

After the dust had settled, X,Y and Z got together for a catered hoot at the Y mansion, to which were also invited A through T. X was toasted and offered a position as security guard in one of Y's downtown businesses. He said he would consider the offer but died before accepting it.  

A Basket of Poems Lucille

Today, on Awakening

Today, 

on awakening,

I chose to take the time

to listen to my knee.

It's been murmuring lately,

little "ifs" and "buts,"

so it is long overdue

that I pay it some attention,

reaching out my hands to soothe it.

As with anything that has a complaint,

sit down and listen carefully to let the story

unfold, even though

what is said at first may not be the issue.

Be patient - 

and 

wait, 

until you discover you are breathing

together

in the same rhythm of empathy,

for it is always an old, old story.

_____________________________________

Where Does It Come From

Where does it come from,

sitting beside the stack of paper

already used on one side to copy a recipe

for some chicken too elaborate to make,

but sounding quite delectable.

The blank page seldom accuses;

in fact, is so patient,

waiting for the pen

to explain once more

why you like putting words together,

trying to  explain

the beauty of existence.

If you wait long enough,

a word so intriguing

will appear in the dark hallway of your mind,

luring you to explore it

as yet another unseen treasure,

another puzzle to toss about and play with.

___________________________________

                CONTEMPLATE

What a delicious lollipop of a word.

It implies that you have that most precious gift -

that of time.

Given time, who wouldn't roll around 

in the wrappings of time,

just for the sheer joy

and freedom of it.

That's something worth contemplating.

Makes you happy, 

doesn't it!

_______________________

Poem John Field

Sometimes nothing new for months 

Because life straight up is more than enough. 

Being instead of becoming is what I ask. 

Let all be simple, all be still except of course

Our neighbor's cock when the first gray smudge 

Of dawn appears at the end of night's black tunnel. 

Then the awe and splendor of a sunrise so spectacular 

It makes me feel like this old world 

Has been rehearsing my life for millions of years 

And finally got it right.

Always on the verge of a supreme insight 

Into why the plain as everyday seems extraordinary 

I'll get carried away watching hummingbirds 

Hovering above their feeders turn themselves into 

Crystal pendants dangling from a chandelier,

Or eavesdrop on the conversations of forgotten gods 

Each time the wind blows their voices in my direction, 

Phenomena so odd I'll try to forget them 

Because no one will believe me,

But it won't work and will continue on and on 

I suppose 

Until the white-coats come and get me.

Oh divine lassitude! A nap in a hammock under a cloud 

Of shady leaves on an afternoon when none of the mosquitoes 

Are vicious–instead of the annoying havoc 

Of doing something practical like mowing our lawn 

Beneath a blazing sun which takes sadistic pleasure 

In baking my body until it turns into a burnt offering.

Promptly at five o’clock I'll listen to my thoughts 

Sing a happy-little-come-what-may-song 

While I sip a glass of wine-until the evening news 

Blunders its tragedies against my ears,

A reminder that eternity is as ancient as the stars 

And every dead man's keeper, 

A certainty which provokes in me 

An overwhelming desire to grip my ballpoint pen 

The way a child holds onto his favorite toy

And then splice a thunderstorm's terrible roar 

Into the soundtrack of my next poem.

  Listen! Here comes another one now 

  Ticking like a tiny mechanism inside my brain. 

  Will it detonate exclamation marks

  Like rockets on the Fourth of July 

  And twist my senses round 

  Or turn out to be another dud 

  Absorbed by the sponge of silence?