A Blueness I Could Eat Forever Read online

want to go for a walk?"

  Boomer bobs his head in agreement

  and runs around in a circle.

  "Okay," I say.

  I turn over,

  throw off the blankets,

  raise my upper body

  and swing my legs around and over

  the edge of the bed.

  I sit on the edge of the bed

  with my feet touching the floor

  and my hands at my sides,

  all holding me up as my upper body

  leans over the edge.

  I am still half asleep.

  I look around to my right for Boomer,

  but he is no where to be found.

  Boomer went for his last walk

  some thirty years ago.

  THIN, WISPY CLOUDS

  Some time ago, I was lucky to visit Machu Picchu,

  stony ruins and bits of green,

  perched precariously on a mountain ridge,

  close to the sun, moon, and mountains,

  all worshiped as gods by the ancient Incas.

  It is a place where thin, wispy clouds

  seemingly emanate from jagged mountain peaks,

  framed by a blue sky.

  While there, I met New Age believers,

  all dressed in white,

  running up the rocky trails

  with bruised bare feet.

  Under one huge outcropping,

  to the slow beat of drums

  and chanting,

  some New Agers burned incense,

  prayed

  and slowly danced in circles

  with their arms raised to the sky.

  Undoubtedly, like the Incas before them,

  the New Agers enjoyed a mystical experience,

  the kind that some have always believed

  is Machu Picchu.

  I am sorry to say that I didn't feel anything:

  nada, nothing.

  Maybe it was because

  I didn't chant, pray, dance

  and breathe incense.

  Maybe it was because

  I didn't open my heart and mind

  to the infinite possibilities of life.

  Or, maybe, it was because

  I simply didn't believe.

  In any case, for me, Machu Picchu

  was nothing more than beautifully handcrafted stonework,

  a testament perhaps to religious faith,

  engineering, cooperation

  and dedication.

  For me, a truly mystical experience

  has been sitting in my backyard,

  surrounded by trees on a warm spring day

  while dozens of birds chirp and sing

  and thin, wispy clouds

  pass against a blue sky.

  HOW IS YOUR SOUP?

  "How is your soup?"

  "Fine," says my 80-year-old mother.

  It is a warm summer day.

  I have taken my mother out to lunch

  at an outdoor caf?.

  I notice something white pass by

  out of the corner of my eye.

  I point and say, "Look."

  With a disapproving tone,

  my mother says, "It's a moth."

  "Technically, it's a butterfly."

  My mother replies, "How do you know?"

  "A butterfly flies during the day

  and has pointed antennae.

  A moth flies at night

  and has feathery antennae."

  As I lean back in my chair,

  I wonder how many of us go

  through life as butterflies or

  moths or butterflies mistaken

  for moths.

  How many of us have had our

  dreams cut short

  or stifled

  because people thought

  we were one thing or the other?

  Or, maybe our wings were the "wrong"

  color, shape or size?

  My mother says, "It is a beautiful day."

  I smile and reply,

  "Yes, it certainly is."

  LATE WINTER

  As tall pines throw cold shadows

  across my side of the street,

  a late winter chill

  pierces my body.

  I bury my hands into my pockets

  and walk faster

  to beat off the bitterness,

  but I can't seem to keep

  my hands warm.

  I stop, cup my hands against my mouth

  and exhale.

  Vapor rises and hovers

  over my head

  like so many words that now go unspoken.

  When you decided to forego a third round

  of walking darkness,

  we sat together.

  Remember - we held hands.

  Your hands were cold,

  but I could always warm them up for you.

  When the nurse woke me

  to tell me that your time was near,

  we were together.

  Remember - I held your hand,

  but as much as I tried,

  I couldn't warm it up.

  (sigh)

  I pull down my hat,

  tighten the collar of my jacket,

  and start walking to the other side of the street,

  where strangers are standing sentry

  against sunlit walls

  to ward off the cold.

  STORIES

  It's very dark

  with a new moon.

  As I look out from my doorway,

  I can see the Milky Way,

  a glowing creamy swath

  across the heavens with thousands

  of twinkling stars.

  Fluttering around

  my porch lantern is a moth,

  confused by the lantern's

  "moonlight."

  Do you think the moth can comprehend

  that the "tiny moon" he is flying around

  is actually an arc of electricity,

  generated by falling water in the Sierras

  and carried across California

  by thin cables to my front door?

  Can the moth comprehend

  the making of the electricity and light,

  never mind the makers' designs

  and intentions?

  If the moth tried to explain

  this marvelous tiny moon

  to other moths,

  what story would he tell?

  Leaning against the doorjamb,

  I look at the stars:

  How awestruck

  man must have felt

  when he first gazed

  at the moon, stars, and planets.

  If man tried to explain the heavens,

  maybe even our place in the cosmos,

  imagine what wonderful stories

  man told while sitting around

  the camp fire.

  As moths circle lights

  across the world this evening,

  imagine what wonderful stories

  are being told.

  MAYBE EVEN ENJOY A SUNSET?

  When I lean over to study

  a tiny insect,

  not much bigger than a pinhead,

  I think how miraculous life is,

  how miraculous

  that something

  so insignificant

  can eat, flee, chase, fight and reproduce.

  And, maybe even enjoy a sunset?

  When the maker of all things

  leans over to study us,

  what do you imagine

  the maker of all things

  thinks?

  Keep in mind

  that the maker of all things

  created

  multiple universes,

  each universe has billions of galaxies,

  each galaxy has billions of stars

  and a trillion planets,

  most of them probably

  devoid of sentient life.

  Do you think that th
e maker of all things

  really cares

  whether we are

  left- or right-handed,

  omnivores or vegetarians,

  saints or sinners,

  lovers or haters?

  Oh, how miraculous life is,

  how miraculous

  that something

  so insignificant

  can eat, flee, chase, fight and reproduce,

  build transportation networks and cities,

  create wonderful arts, languages and cultures,

  explore the heavens

  and even touch nearby planets.

  And, maybe even enjoy a sunset?

  LAND OF TURTLES

  It's past midnight, very dark

  with a new moon.

  Almost pitch black.

  I can barely see a few pinpricks

  of light between the clouds.

  Waves are rolling in a few feet off

  into the blackness.

  It has been several months

  since Janet, my longtime girlfriend,

  passed from a consuming darkness.

  I still talk to Janet each night

  as I crawl into bed.

  I tell her what I did during the day,

  and I share my thoughts with her.

  Then, I turn over

  and pull up the sheets.

  I am looking out at the black sea,

  from which sea turtles

  return every year

  to this very spot.

  Just as this sandy shore calls

  the turtles,

  the black sea is calling me.

  It's splashing, clamoring and whispering

  as it tongues the shore.

  The sea is inviting me to walk out

  between its soft waves

  and its sensuous embrace

  and sink

  to its black depths.

  As I begin to walk toward the waves,

  something passes quickly

  a few feet behind me.

  I whip around and call out,

  but no one answers.

  I shake my head

  and then stumble back

  to my cabin in the dark;

  the power is out.

  It's pitch black inside

  my cabin.

  As I feel my way into bed,

  I tell Janet about what happened

  on the beach.

  Then, I turn over

  and pull up the sheets.

  AN UNKNOWN ARTIST

  Hanging on my wall,

  there is a nameless "factory" painting,

  an inexpensive, unsigned reproduction

  by an unknown artist.

  The painting is a picture of a boy

  flying a kite in a golden field

  on a warm summer day

  between two rows of houses.

  Of course, there are other details:

  a dog, a bicycle, and some trees.

  I am not sure why,

  but when I look at the painting

  it makes me feel happy.

  Thousands of copies of this painting

  are adding joy to the lives

  of people all over the world

  and yet none of us can know

  who painted the original master

  for this small miracle

  of joy.

  DIFFERENCE

  Whenever you feel insignificant,

  remember that you can make

  a significant difference

  in the lives of others,

  particularly the less fortunate.

  SOMETIMES

  "Your house has two colors," she said,

  while looking up at a corner

  of my ceiling and walls.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Why is that rainbow beach blanket on the couch?"

  I replied, "Color."

  She bent over and ripped

  the beach towel off my white couch.

  Maybe she thought I was trying to hide something.

  "You talk a lot," she said sarcastically.

  I looked back at her.

  Maybe I raised an eyebrow,

  but I didn't say anything.

  She's right, of course.

  I don't talk much.

  I am a simple man.

  I speak from my heart.

  Sometimes, I write poetry.