Community ABCs - Justin

ABCs of being part of a Community

Acceptance: Allow people in the community to be themselves and meet them there

Be Yourself: This gives the other members of the community the opportunity to accept the real you

Collaborate: You can’t do it all alone, work together

Develop: This is two ways, helping others development and letting them help yours

Engage: Community is not a place for distance and aloofness. Get involved

Forgive: Someone is going to offend you, you need to be able to forgive

Give: Of yourself, of your time, give what you can to the group

Help: When there is a need, help within your ability

Interest: Show interest in the lives of your community members

Justice: Keep your eyes open, groups frequently lean away from justice, be on guard

Kindred: Find the commonality you’re excited by 

Listen: This skill is being lost, when someone is talking, listen to what they are saying

Make Plans: Be intentional; community doesn’t just happen

No: Sometimes you need to say “no;” it’s ok

Openness: Be all in, share your thoughts and your burdens

Protect: Guard the quieter or weaker members of the group from being run over

Question: Make sure you get what’s going on; don’t assume, ask

Relish diversity: There are strengths in differences

Serve: Small ways and big, serve each other and serve together

Together: A community needs to spend time together, community cannot be solo

Understanding: always try to see where someone is coming from

Value: Everybody has value, actively look for the value in others

Willing: Even when the group decides to take an action you don’t like, give it a fair chance

Xylophone: If you don’t understand its importance, I can’t help

whY xylophone?: Seriously, I can’t help you

Zeal: Be eagerly active, if you don’t have a zealous joy in your community, you may be in the wrong place

A,B,C's of Community

A,B,C's of Disney

A is for Aladdin, a celebrated thief, that given a chance the guests' wallets would relieve.

B is for Briar patch, of Song of the South fame, a movie now placed in the Hall of Shame.

C is for Castle with an apartment within, the one thing not bought, but just have to win.

D is for Dole Whip, a pineapple treat, without it no trip here is considered complete.

E is for Emporium, your first and last store, when leaving the park and you want one thing more.

F is for Fireworks, which light up the sky, the end of each night, a pyrotechnic goodbye

G is for Gaston, so strutting and proud, his bragging and posing keep drawing a crowd.

H is for Hercules, who also has a jaw is so square, but also seems slightly mentally impaired.

I is for Island, Tom Sawyer's retreat, and water surrounding, an odor excretes.

J is for Jasman, Aladdin’s desire, who in the real world she never would hire.

K is for Kingdom, the home of a mouse, where you can stay, for the price of a house.

L is for Laughing Floor, where jokes are stale, and walking out is like making bail.

M is for Mansion, with its famous bride, where Disney showcases fun homicide.

N if for Nala, Simba’s fling, Seen only at Festival of the Lion King.

O if for Once Upon a Time, a street clogging show, inviting a crime.

P is for Pirates, another dark ride, when we see an auction where you can buy a bride.

Q is for Queen’s, Evil and Heart, feminine villains, a natural part.

R is for Railroad, which you can ride round and round, but it’s fun to tell guests that a drop will take them down.

S is for Space Mountain, a coaster I dreaded, because if you stand up, you’ll be beheaded.

T is for Tiki Room, a tragic display, even remolded, you should just stay away.

U is for Ursula, a park humanitarian, to wild Ariel, she was the only disciplinarian.

V is for Violet, a daughter so demure, she is there every day, you just can’t see her.

W is for Wishes, which is told by a cricket, whose complexion is green, but I think they should fix it.

X is for Xylophone, played by Rex in Toy Story, when they brought him to DInosaur, they made him more gory.

Y if for Ye, Olde Christmas Shoppe, just one more way, my bank account drops.

Z is for Zanzibar Trading Company, with Arabian gifts, but your wallet is empty, so elsewhere you'll drift.

Beast Within - Jason

The Pantheress and the Monongahela

Blackest cat on high bank prowls
Panthress down the shoreline growls

     In dreams, the feline spoke

The Deepening water I kept behind
Monongahela in place did bind
     But why had dread not woke?
   

     Oh, I was penned by the water
     Penned as prey
     Penned in my head ‘til the break of day

Tough, I stand to hold my ground
Stressed and pressed I won’t back down
     “I’ll make it quick,” she said
Bring the calm into my frets
Cool the Panthress making threats
     Her eyes they want me dead

     Oh, I was trapped by the devil
     Trapped O my soul
     Trapped in the hope that’ll make me whole


Slashes came and tossed me back
Splashes came across my back
     Monongahela deep
River caught my lifeless form
Baptized dreams to be reborn
     So down and still asleep

     Oh, I was penned by the water
     Penned as prey
     Penned in my head ‘til the break of day


Down I dove to rushing bed
Depths that pound the diver’s head
     The chain wove through the stones
Planning how to use these links
Hold the beast of forty winks
     I’d call her with my tones

     Oh, I was pining for freedom
     Pining at night
     Pining plotting this dreamer’s delight


Panthress jumped to stop my taunts
Teeth and claws to stop her haunts
     The water slowed her down
Loops of chain fell o’r her neck
Wrapped and weighed and now in check
     My battlefield had drown

     Oh, she was penned by the water
     Penned as prey
     Penned in my head ‘til the break of day

Justin - Fighting the Beast

Fighting the Beast

I want to rise; I want to sit, 

But my head won’t lift.

I want to rise; I want to stand,

But my hands won’t push.

I want to rise; I want to go,

But my legs won’t move,

‘Cause there’s something, 

Someone inside me, holding me down. 

Then you cause me to rise.

You cause me to rise.

I want to live; to show compassion, 

But my head turns away. 

I want to give; to show some mercy, 

But my hands clench tight.

I want to go, and take hope with me,

But my feet always stumble;

There’s still something, 

Someone inside me, holding me back.

Then you cause me to care.

You cause me to care.

How long? How long must I fight this monster?

How long must I go ‘til the beast gives in?

How long? How long must I be two persons? 

How long? How much more ‘til he’s dead?

I want to love, give all to you,

But my head builds idols. 

I want to love my brother like you,

But my arms stick to my sides.

I want to love my neighbor as me,

But I turn and walk away; 

There’s that something, 

Someone inside me, fighting me back. 

Then you cause me to love.

You cause me to love. 

How long? How long will we fight this monster?

How far must we go ‘til the beast gives in?

How long? How long must I be two persons? 

How long? How much more ‘til he’s dead?

You want me to rise;

You cause me to rise.

You want me to care;

You cause me to care.

You want me to love;

You cause me to love.

And I am the beast.

Justin-A stupid history

Throughout the two millennia that the Christian church has existed, it has formed a pattern of helping new converts feel comfortable by absorbing and attempting to sanctify some of their customs.  The result of this has given us Christmas Trees, Easter Eggs and a whole plethora of symbolism that has little to do with the church and yet is fiercely defended by her.

To a point, the worst of these ties has been the celebration of fertility married to the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Confusion abounds as the most holy day in Christendom is painted pastel and accompanied by a bunny bearing colored eggs. Even the name is pagan in origin.

          Christmas when viewed objectively is extremely confusing. Placed by the church in the wrong season, Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ in Israel using Nordic symbolism. Laying sacrifices before tree gods became gifts under trees. Conservative American evangelicals have picked up the call of “keep Christ in Christmas” generating the idea of a culture war concerning Christmas. A war that continues to be won by Christians every time someone writes the year with the letters A.D. The same group seems less inclined to keep the “mass” in Christmas.

          With the Christian Church’s history of absorption and adoption of other cultural holidays, it seems that Halloween or All Hallows’ Eve, would be a natural fit into the calendar. Regardless, a large group of modern evangelicals eschew the practice of Halloween because of its pagan roots. Some groups even go so far as to remove the name given the day by the church and call their celebration a “Harvest Party” which is exactly what the pagans of old would have been celebrating at this time of year.    

Jason - Stupid People

King Richard III

Some historians suspect it might have been the chemicals in the paint that tripped up the thoughts of Richard Lawrence. He had found work as a house painter in the Washington D.C. area and over the course of a few years he began to act erratically. By late 1832 he quit his job and and began to dress in such a way that the children in the neighborhood called him King Richard.

It is possible this was his intent all along. When he quit his job his sister asked him why and he said he didn’t need to work. He explained he was King Richard III and as such the United States government owed him a large sum of money. King Richard had been dead for some 350 years. She didn’t know it but this was a hint to a very dangerous train of thought. Richard reasoned that it was President Andrew Jackson who was stood in the way of him getting payment. So, he needed to be removed from office.

There would be a kind of justice, he thought, in the King of England taking the life of a President.

Not one but a pair of one shot Derringer pistols were hidden in the clothes of the Mr. Lawrence and he made his way to the capital, where the funeral of Congressman Davis would be attended by “Old Hickory” himself. There were a couple problems with his plan. First, these pistols were incredibly sensitive to moisture and the weather was rainy and generally damp. Additionally, even though the President was 67 years old, he was by all counts a formidable opponent.

The faux king waited behind the pillar he knew the President would have to pass by. One hand was inside his clothes in the grip of the gun. He waited and watched. He recognized his target by his shock of hair, let him pass them stepped out behind him. He withdrew the pistol, pointed and pulled the trigger.

The cap went off, sounding like a shot, but it was a misfire caused by the moisture in the air. Andrew Jackson, having been in some thirteen duels, knew exactly what this sound was. While those around him scattered, hid or got down, he wheeled around looking for who would dare. He eyes landed on the fop and with a grip on his cane, he charged.

Richard pulled the second pistol, pointed and again no projectile came from the gun. At this point it was too late. Swing after swing the President hit the addled man with his cane. It was then the crowd, led by Davy Crockett himself, tackled Lawrence and escorted the ferocious President to safety.

Tough Decision - Jason

With Care

My Mom and Dad sat just behind
Where single hand my arm could find
Perfect office
Perfect chair
But it was me they’d wrapped with care

The time had come to vessel pick
From pages glossy, bright and slick
Lives unravelled
Lives unfair
How do I wrap her life with care?

Can purple tell of mother’s love?
Will wood reveal the home above?
Diming thought
Diming prayer
I want to shout I do not care

I want to dwell in times gone by
Remember nights with starry sky
Memories lived
Memories rare
In times I now enwrap with care

We step in castle shadowed walk
With hands entwined we laugh and talk
Sugared visions
Sugared air
Like ornaments I wrap with care

We hold each other arm in arm
To fire light on uncle’s farm
Lifted union
Lifted there
More gifts in time I wrap in care

The tears they weigh upon my cheek
The waiting eyes insist I speak
Broken focus
Broken pair
So now I must wrap her with care

Justin - A Tough Choice

To Stand
Three stood knowing time was growing near
When they would have to make their loyalty plain;
To idol kneel or to endure the flame,
Action, or inaction would make clear
If they would submit to pagan king
Or if they would invoke his wrath so vain;
Like children to their ancient faith they cling.
  
From the idol their worship they withheld,
To not betray their people or their God.
They watched as the approaching soldiers plod,
The coming troop they knew their doom did spell.
Again refuse to kneel to idol king,
Bound, they stumbled forward at the prod,  
Holding faith in face of death’s hot sting.

Sitting knowing time is growing near
A posture shift I will be called to make; 
To stand and sing with pride inspired, fake
Or kneel with those oppressed by hate and fear.
And yet I feel my heart divided torn;
My pride would not entirely be fake
When viewing waving symbol tired worn.
  
But if I'm called my nation to adore,
Then should I not her people also love
(A nation of the people not above)
The oppression of her children to abhor? 
How can I hold this shred of pride I feel,
And fly with hawks circling round the doves? 
How can I stand while brothers, mourning, kneel?

The prescribed patriot’s posture now has changed

And frenzied furnace flames no longer leap,
Yet worship to the idol we upkeep,
Only symbols have been rearranged.
Beaten by your country though you feel,
Weighed by injustices that daily heap.
The one sin not forgiven is to kneel.  

Justin - the Best and Absolute Worst so far.

I have heard artists of various stripes say that ranking their pieces is akin to ranking their children.  I found this to be true; it is very difficult for me to pick my favorite, whereas, the worst is a constant nagging noise in the back of my head that will not leave me alone. That being said let me start with the worst.

    Early on in this project, the fourth week, the current president was a candidate that many of us thought was unelectable.  Regardless, he was gaining some popularity and I thought we should write something about him.  It failed, hugely.  It was bad enough that in my write up about the writing I admitted that it was both not funny and that it was probably a swing and a miss.  I tried using actual Trump quotes and placing them in a false interview with a pretty snarky interviewer.  Reading it now, it looks like the kind of thing that a middle or high school kid would piece together when they first started becoming politically aware.  That is, there was an idea of understanding of the problems, but no solutions.  There was no real handling of the problems I was trying to highlight, just sarcastic comments about them.  The bottom line is it was ill conceived and poorly written.  I don’t think I imagined I was going to change anyone’s minds about Trump, so I’m not really sure what I was thinking.  It was the kind of piece that at best would land with half of the readers, and that’s only if it’s done well, which it wasn’t.    I heard an interview recently where a songwriter responded to the compliment that one of his songs had “great lyrics” with “not great but clever.” I think at the beginning I thought the idea was clever, but even as it was published, I knew it was not good, definitely not great, and not even clever.  Those of us who were there talk about it like one might talk about a terrible car accident that they were in; we’re still alive, but we don’t really have anything else good to say about.

It’s harder for me to pick my favorite.  I’ve managed to narrow it down to two pieces that I am fairly proud of.  The first was the conflict ballade, Ballade of the Flood, from May of last year.  More than a year of writing later, this could still be my favorite poem. I managed to capture the imagery and idea and execute the form well.  I prefer strictly formed poems to free verse, and I’m pretty proud of this one.  It was hard writing and in my commentary, I mention that I started with four different concepts before settling on the final idea.  Sometimes poetry flows, sometimes it’s an uphill climb.  This was a climb, but I think it’s better for it or at least I appreciate the result more because it was such a challenge.

The second piece is A Dark Solace from May of this year (maybe May is just a good month for poetry.)  This one was not a climb; it was not a fight.  It flowed quickly, I knew the ideas I wanted to use and the words fell easily into rhythm.  At this point, we had stopped doing commentary on the project blog, so I don’t have a record of the exact process, but I remember the editing of the poem after I had flown through the original draft. There was specific word choices that I changed and I added punctuation (something I comment about intentionally not doing in the ballade.) Also, although it follows a strict form, it is not a fixed form.  I picked the form and my instruction was a poem, written in sestets, at least X amount of stanzas, envoi is allowable.  So, this seems more like my own work than many poems written in a fixed form and I find myself very attached to it.  Also, the poem is about depression, something that I have dealt with intermittently for most of my adult life.  That makes it more personal to me and, although I don’t think good art needs to be about personal issue, I think in this case it helps.

So, that’s that.  Like children, it’s much easier to find the worst than the best, disappointments are heavy and there’s a lot of mediocrity in the middle.  Overall, I wouldn’t give the project up for anything, but next time I get the urge to write about a living politician, I might instead carefully construct a performance piece allegorically bashing my head into a brick wall. 

The links to my top two are below, I am not including a link to the Trump piece, if you want to dig it up, you can, but for my money, it’s best left buried.

http://brothersweeklywriting.blogspot.com/2016/05/justin-conflict.html

http://brothersweeklywriting.blogspot.com/2017/05/justin-dark-solace.html

Jason - Previous Posts

The Best Times and Worst of Time

In the time Justin and I have written this blog, there have been some really good pieces, some really bad pieces and a bunch of stuff somewhere in between. This is the nature of the beast. We set up this weekly writing challenge in such a way that on any give week one of us picks the topics while the other picks the style. This has given results that are a little unpredictable. There have been piece that I thought would be funny, that ended up kind of blah and there have been topics with difficult poetry types that have turned out surprisingly good. We have had weeks were the results are wildly different and other where we are so close we use the same color and the same unusual word in a poem. This is all part of the fun.

I would like to tell you I always enjoy the process, but the truth is sometimes it is really hard. I would like to tell you it is always rewarding, but there are times I have gotten to the end and I thought, not really happy with that. There is lesson to be learned from even these.

I have to say I hesitate to tell you about the worst week’s writing, for fear of stirring some political rants, but in my mind, of all the work I have done, one piece falls to the bottom. It was meant to be funny, but the jokes didn’t really fly then and they certainly are less funny now. It was supposed to have a historical bent and while the quotes are historical quotes, they didn’t really fit together as well as I had hoped. Of all the pieces we have posted, if I was allowed to remove one, this would be the one I would remove. This travesty was the 5 minute play on Trump.

To start with I was pretty excited about this piece. I thought doing a piece where I placed Trump, who was a candidate it appeared destined to lose, in the midst of past presidents would be funny. I could lampoon him a little bit with his own words and I could include great presidential quotes. I thought I would place him in the midst of Jefferson, Lincoln and Eisenhower, that I would be able to look up a few quotes by each of these guys and the piece would weave itself together. In short, that did not happen. The characters didn’t easily talk to each other, the quotes were often so tied to their time, they had to be bent to work together. There was no banter. They didn’t talk to each other and they never really talked to me. Worse, I couldn’t strike that balance of genuinely funny with Trump. I knew not everyone would agree with my handling of him, but if you do it right you should walk away with people saying, at least is was funny. He came off as mean or stupid, pompous and war mongering, but never funny. So I made him a character Trump supporters would hate that I had written him so and Trump haters would point at and say see, but not laughing, not seeing it as funny. This was not just a miss, it was a miss I took extra long to write and I would have no idea how to fix even today.

If I am telling you about the difficulty, the disaster, I think it is important to write about the magic that sometimes happens. There is a moment that you can not create, that there is no ritual to summon, that happens so very rarely, but you wish it would happen all the time. It is a moment when you are writing a piece and you lose yourself to it, that you stop wrestling the word to the paper and instead they reveal themselves. When you are done you feel almost as if the writing come from somewhere else. There are nuances and details steeped with meaning that even as you read them, read the very words you wrote, you are taken by them. You wonder how you could have written them. For all of the assignments, for all the works, both easy and difficult, this has happened only completely to me once.

It started as a simple piece, a letter meant to be written to an inanimate object. I don’t know how to tell you about it, so I will tell you what was going on as I wrote. It had been just a few months since my wife had passed away and I desperately wanted to know why. I was hurting. So, as I wrote a piece to a spruce tree, written from the master violin maker who was cutting it down, I was, in a way giving reason to my own experience. I started with research, but by the second or third paragraph I was no longer writing, the words were writing themselves and I was crying a grieving in a way I need so much at the time. Additionally, I found when I shared this with people it helped them grieve, too. I don’t know if it was because they saw my pain, felt there own, or somehow got an answer they themselves were looking for. Even now, it is the kind of writing I wish I could do all the time, but I fear it was a special piece written at a difficult time, just when I needed it most.

You can find that piece here: http://brothersweeklywriting.blogspot.com/2016/02/letter-jason.html

Jason - Procrastinate

Studies Wasted

In knew in just two weeks there’d be a coming test
So days in study spent so I could do my best
The time it came and went, so new ideas were born
Like never do today what you could do tomorn

Times

Sometimes I work the trials to articulate
Hard times trying my thoughts to domesticate
Two times I have my body Incarcerate
Life times are spent while I Procrastinate

Deadline

Supposed to publish Friday five o’clock
I’d like to claim my brain the words did block
And oh to claim the lines were hard and hazy
But truth be told I failed because I’m lazy

Justin - Procrastination

Three Poems for Procrastination

 
1: An Octave

Why save until to tomorrow
What you can do today
But if you’ve time to borrow
Then take a break I say
A little time to play
And lay aside life’s sorrow
From toil walk away
‘Twill still be there tomorrow
 
2: A Limerick

Though admitting this flaw with a blush
Smart time use I often off brush
Looming deadlines cause panic
Then I’m off running manic
Oh, the rushing can be such a rush
 
3: A Quatrain

I waited too long to start this
More effort and it would have rhyme
But I waited too long to start this
And now I’m plum out of minutes

Justin - White Privilege

I struggle with the words

“I AM NOT PRIVILEGED” I want to scream

I have struggled

I have lived in low income housing

I have lived on state aid

I have swept the yard for needles left by junkies so my daughter can go out and play

I struggle with the words and with the definition

How broad can we define privilege before we err in not saying racism?

If we call privilege undeserved advantage how far can we go?

When my rights are left intact, is that undeserved?

Shouldn’t we look at the rights violation and not the one treated as he should?

I struggle with the words and the definition and with the idea

This privilege is bad; this privilege should bring guilt,

Yet I did not ask for this privilege; why am I blamed?

I struggle with the words, the definition, and the idea because I don’t want to struggle with the issue.

And I don’t have to,

Because I am white,

And that is my privilege.

I can pretend I am not privileged while I am waved past the receipt checker at Wal-Mart while all of the “brown people” are stopped

I can pretend it is not privilege when I drive through the streets not afraid of being targeted

I can pretend I am not privileged, because I didn’t choose it

But I am privileged

And until I am fighting and pushing and screaming so that everyone feels as privileged as me

I am part of the problem

Even if I ignore it

As is my privilege

White Privledge - Jason

EDGE

How do I write about an platform I was given, a dais I never had to step up on, an EDGE I was born into and on top of. An EDGE. Do I give a mock complaint about the responsibility of this position? Do I call it a great white albatross, that the EDGE is a plank? A great board on which I stand, with humbled legs. I don’t feel the waves licking at my feet, taste the salty water, look long into the horizon or into the deep. I see no line, no EDGE, demarking some great drop off.

How could I write about the standing in the shadow of this EDGE, my EDGE. I have never felt the hug of the creeping dark. I have never had the color of my skin keep me from being lifted up. No! I don’t have any experience with that.

I can’t imagine the EDGE of a of a Klansman's rope binding me to a gnarled tree. The EDGE of a racist’s knife cutting me in fear and hate. That is not my life, not my blood. I can’t pretend to understand. I can’t pretend I have heard the stories from my mother and grandmother. That is an EDGE I can not cross.

Yet that EDGE I have been given is the the flip side of that EDGE that hungrily bites. I would love to tell you my story and my success was gained by the virtue of my hard work. Yes, there were sweat and tears in the process, but if I claim the prize as completely mine, I would be ignoring the historical and societal EDGE I have been given.

You might be tempted to think, hasn’t that EDGE been erased. It is 2017 and that EDGE in history, that divide between slaves and emancipation happened more than 150 years ago. Erosion should have worn in down to nearly nothing. But that pretends it was laws alone that propagated such a thing, but I still remember that first flight after the 9/11 attack. The coils of nerves, responding when the EDGE of the seat belt engaged, the EDGE of the wings moved, when the EDGE of the Hijab which rounded the corner. A Muslim who we all warily watched. No, that EDGE was alive and well, baked into some biological urge to see the other and prepare for war. Stand on the EDGE, the wall of our hearts that separated us.

You too might feel that EDGE when you turn down the music you are blasting in your car, when you see the shade of the drive beside you. You might feel that EDGE when you hope the sound of the doors locking is not that loud, when a group of black youths walk by. The invisible border springing up.

See I can’t control that privilege, that EDGE, I have been given. I can’t walk to the EDGE of this elevation and step over the EDGE to become what I am not, to look like what I am not, to live what I have not. No, while I may recognize the injustice, I can not control the EDGE given to me by the color of my skin, by the fact that most of those around me look like me and so have a bias to to trust me.

What I can control, though, is this other thing, the impact of my EDGE on other people, the snake inside me, which wants to strike or recoil from those different than me. I can acknowledge that I am in a situation where usually the favor is mine, the EDGE is mine, and try to not to put that on the back of those who are different than me.

Jason - Ridulous Confession

I left the lid up

So late at night, say two a.m.
The bed, it holds your lessened glow
Perhaps you’re up to cough up phlegm
Or grab a nighttime treat, although
More likely you just had to go
So loud the splash declared your plight
I might, to you, a “Sorry!” owe
I left the toilet lid up right

No chance to my faux pas condemn
So urgent was your bladder flow
The little hairs on porcelain rim
And stains in cloak of shadow
Each mark to grant you more ammo
Alas, ‘twould not be evenings fight
You found by feel and not by show
I left the toilet lid up right

I think of words on this mayhem
How you, not I, this trouble sew
With late night drinks and vision dim
In way to you, yourself bestow
And then I hear your growl start low
Then anger ripped into the night
Excuses melt as fallen snow
I left the toilet lid up right

I reckon ways this brought you woe
And so this man has seen the light
With cheerless dark despair I know
I left the toilet lid up right

Justin - Ridiculous Confession

I am a Pirate

Though when he asked, I knew that I
Should give to him an answer plain,
I stooped down low to meet his eye
And plant a kernel in his brain;
And though I knew it quite insane
To plant such nonsense in his head,
Temptation I could not restrain:

“I am a pirate” is what I said.

Patient I waited his reply,
Prepared for wounded pride to feign.
Bandana, earrings caught his eye;
I watched as gears spun in his brain.
When he asked upon which main
I kept my ship of purpose dread,
“The Great Salt Lake,” a whisper strained,
“I am a pirate” is what I said.

And even then so sure was I
That he would call my tale inane,
But cocking head with smile sly
I hitched one more proof to this train,
And from the closet did obtain
A tricorn to place on my head,
As though it were my crown of reign:
“I am a pirate” is what I said.

And so he held to that refrain
Two years before the lie was dead;
Two years before his words, my pain

“You’re not a pirate” is what he said.  

Justin - Eclipse

The Dance

An ancient dance again to climax comes
As Luna takes her place on wing of stage.
Accustomed to moving in realm of dark,
She minuets into the brilliant light.
Looking upstage, gracefully she moves.
Her gaze is not for us, but Sol alone.
Face not seen as ev’ry step is timed
‘til, silhouetted crossing before him,
Her form explodes in radiant beams of light.
Haloed as she moves to find her mark,
She pauses briefly face to face with him.
We watchers now in total darkness left,
(Their moment meant for them and them alone)
Then shifting light once captured now exposed
Her form again in silhouette is seen.
Their moment done, she moves to exit stage.
But did she kiss Sol’s cheek as she danced past?
His rays seem brighter now for her embrace.
As she departs to rule her realm of night;
Shifting tides and overseeing dreams,
Inspiring our wooing serenades.
She will return to dance with Sol again,
But the night belongs to her alone.
He can never come to find her there.   

Eclipse Limerick

When the moon cuts her path ‘cross the day,
And the light of near noon goes away,
It is not world’s end,
So fear not, my good friend;
Give no heed to what false prophets say.

Jason - Eclipse

The Dance

Bodies Dance
Slow
Bride and Groom
Turn
One radiant
Smile
One protecting
Embrace
Bodies Dance
Closer
Diana and Apollo
Poetry
One radiant
Hidden
One remains
Lost
Body Stops
Eclipse
Eclipse
Eclipse

Two Eclipses

On August Twenty First within this year
The moon will pass between the earth and sun
In days proceeding men to path will run
While others hide in homes ensconced with fear
Will you be one through solar glasses peer
Or hide beneath protective foil bun
No matter which you choose the story spun
To grandkids who will often want to hear
Unless, of course, the whole thing turns
And embers down on earth do rain
To purge us all both in and out
No tongue remains to quell concerns
No tongue to sing the sweet refrain
Eclipse, the shade you cast is doubt

Justin - True Crime

A Change of Plans

I'm so sorry, my friend, we've a plan, this I know, 

But, with such room for error, it simply must go.
This scam's hard enough with a corpse to be found, 
Much more so when chancing you might come around. 
Though I do love to play and the tricking this way,
This time’s not for fun and I must have the pay, 
(And the pay is much better just divided by two)
So you see that the problem, my friend, is, well, you!
Now I could gut you and skin you and sell you for parts
And be quite satisfied as I make you my art,
But the insurance pays so much better, my friend, 
(Though it might seem less of a glorified end)
But fear not, I'll make sure to take care of your wife,
(Lest I find a way also of ending her life.)
So I'm sorry, so sorry to call off our game; 
The plan seemed such fun, it is truly a shame. 
Yes I'm sorry, my friend, we'd a plan, this I know, 
But with such room for error, well you simply must go.

Jason - True Crime

My Castle

The jewel of Jackson Park
Chicago born anew
Dressed white and lit in spark
And nothing left askew

Madam has walked enough
And now she seeks relief
Suggest and touch her cuff
The lure of quaint belief

At first her hand retreats
I charm but she’s aloft
“A moment off the street?”
And posture then grows soft

You must adore my place
Its parlors to unwind
It has a private space
A feel of peace you’ll find

The World’s Fair Hotel
Is such a perfect name
With mysteries to tell
And modicum of fame

Your dainty had will craft
A letter from my desk
So near the downward shaft
It’s all a bit burlesque

Recline upon the lounge
And rest your lovely head
You’ll never have to scrounge
And sleep just like the dead

Justin - texting

Jason - Rivals

 

 

 

Justin - Toast to my parents

To my parents, for all they have taught me:

The fact that my parents have been married for forty-four years is in itself a testament in itself. Marriage is work. It is rewarding; it is beautiful; it is a tremendous blessing, but it is work. I never feared that my parents would get a divorce. I didn’t understand the mechanics of their marriage (I still don’t) but I never feared for it. I didn't see the work or understand how it worked, but I didn't need to. It is for better or worse, in sickness and health, ‘til death. I saw those vows play out and recognized that they were important without being told "this is important." That is something I learned from them without being taught. So, to my parents and their example of dedication.

                That work that went into their marriage is part of a larger work ethic. My parents are both hard workers, or in my retired dad’s case, was a hard worker. I don’t remember either of them taking sick days. When they were at a task, they were at it one hundred percent. Although my school work did not always show that level of work ethic, by the time I was being paid to do a job, I recognized that I was not being paid for half of my effort, but for all of it. I have been viewed well by the people I have worked for largely I think due to the work ethic that I learned from my parents. So, to my parents and their work ethics that they have passed down to their children.

                The most valuable thing my parents gave me though is faith. I was in church, barring traveling, every Sunday. Usually for Sunday School and morning and evening services. Usually midweek as well. My parent’s both taught Sunday School. They were both active in leadership of the church and various church ministries. The work ethic that they had in their jobs carried to their service of their church. It was not an option or even a question. They went to church, they served in the church. It was simply how it was. "Faith without works is dead;" no one would imagine saying my parents faith is dead; that they don't live out their faith in their work. And so, to my parents for their witness and their service.

                It may sound like my praise of my parents has little to do with parenting, but what are the results? Their two sons are both dedicated to their families. They are hard workers who take their jobs seriously. They are both active workers and leaders in their respective churches. The rules and punishments; the family trips and family games; the obligations of keeping us dressed and fed; they did those things and they did fine. But I am most thankful for the example. I am a productive adult, an involved father and husband, an active faithful member of my church not because they told me how to do those things or even necessarily said that I had to do those things. I am those things because I saw them being done. I was taught by their example.

                So to my parents, who did the best they could and, based on the results, I say with all humility, their best was quite good. Thank you for all the strain and work of making me a functional adult. I love you both.

               Now please, stand up and raise a glass to my parents!

Jason - Parents

If I can have everyone's attention, I was asked to present a small toast to parents tonight. I’ll try to keep this short, but as a parent who has passed on what my parents have shown me, this might be difficult. I hope you will indulge me for just a few moments.

First, we should raise a glass to Dad’s who will a near universal appreciation are regarded for their humor. Afterall, there is a who category of jokes named after them. I still remember my Dad looking out after the dinner prayer was done and we were passing food around. That look crossed his face which said, tonight would be the night we would be graced with one of his “jokes”. “The most amazing thing happened today, out on Ford lake,” he started. “Two fishermen were out there fishing and one of them dropped his wallet. As they watched the wallet float down to the depths of the lake and you could tell they thought it was gone. Than all of a sudden a fat carp came along and carrying the wallet in its mouth. Soon came another carp who stole it away, carrying it a little bit out into the lake. Then a third joined in and before you know it they had passed that wallet completely to the other side. That is when the second fisherman looked at the first and said , That's the first time I've ever seen carp-to-carp walleting." My Dad paused. We met the punchline first with silence, then confusion and finally my mother let out a groan. He responded as he often did when his jokes didn’t exactly land. He laughed. I think he might have laughed harder because we missed what was funny to him. So, to my Dad, I toast you for teaching me that if I am laughing, that is enough. As I think about this, that probably explains so much to my kids about my jokes.

Second, we should raise a glass to Mom’s who so often are the driver’s behind the work ethic installed in their kids. I remember no shortage of times when Justin and I would be slacking or goofing off and she would stap us back to attention. I remember a routine she set up, when we were old enough, where one of us would cook and the other would do the dishes. Perhaps this is why I may be the messiest cook on the planet. I wonder if my brother is the same way. So for a few days a week, all before dinner one of us would be slaving away and after dinner it would be other of us. Now, this wasn’t our chores, this was an add on. Our chores were on cards in a metal with festive colored stars telling you the frequency a chore needed to be done, or rather the frequency mom wanted us to do them. As I think about the mechanisms and coercion and out and out effort put into getting us to do work, I realize my Mom may have taught me an even more valuable lesson. So, to my Mom, I toast you for teaching me that the one thing better than having a clean house and a good meal, is having those things because get someone else to do it for you. Again, this too is being passed on to my kids.

Finally, we should raise our glass to parent’s as a team, this union of two people who are charged with raising us as kids. No, not all parents are great and even great parents have less than great moments, moments when the team breaks down, but it is in those moments they either make or break. There is a story spoken of in only whispered terms of my Father’s 40th Birthday party. Now I should note a couple things, first he hates surprises, specifically surprise parties and really is not much of a fan of parties at all. Second, this took place more than half of their marriage ago, when he was younger than I am now, when my Mom still had hope that this might change. So, she planned and pulled off a surprise party. The guests showed up, my Dad played along well enough, but he was angry. He wanted them out of his house, he wanted his space and he had been betrayed. My Mom wanted him to recognize this party she had arranged for him, but he hated it. It was like the worst gift ever. But here is the thing. My Mom could make this big mistake, give him this thing he hated, make him endure it in front of people, and it wasn’t going to break them team. My Dad could complete miss the fact that this was for him, to honor him, to do something special with him and instead vent and complain once everyone was gone and it was going to break them team. See, as odd as it seems to me, they love each other. And that love meant while this was a fiasco unfolding, it wasn’t going to break them team. So, lastly, to my parents, I toast you for living and showing me what is written in First Peter, that love covers a multitude of sins.

Now, drink.

Justin - Anticipation

Anticipation.

Anticipating.

Anticipate.

In anticipation of your quick reply.

I am anticipating a smooth transition.

I anticipate the worst.

 

          Anticipating is a strange thing. You can anticipate the bad. You can anticipate the good. Context to the verb anticipate indicates trepidation or optimistic eagerness. Sometimes it is just a matter of seeing and preparing. Radar anticipated Colonel Potter’s needs. The snooty waiter anticipated that Kermit would want straws for the wine.

 

          To a degree, we celebrate anticipation. Wedding and baby showers are given in anticipation of an event (though I recently had a friend that had her baby the Tuesday before her scheduled shower making a mockery of the whole system.) Advent is celebrated in anticipation of Christmas (though retailers start their anticipatory celebration of Christmas right after Halloween.) We decorate in anticipation of various holidays. We put out empty Easter baskets and hang empty stockings anticipating their filling. An engagement ring is placed on a finger with the anticipation that another ring will follow in the near future.

         

On my sixth wedding anniversary, I had been alone in Texas for two weeks after starting a new job. It had been hard for me to leave Michigan, harder still to be alone in a new place trying to start a new chapter without anyone I knew. My wife and (at this point) three children were arriving on a plane that day. I got to the airport early and waited as close as I could to the security checkpoint in anticipation of balance restored. Anticipation of seeing my family again. Anticipation of starting this new life properly.

 

On my son Dylan’s tenth birthday, we started a two-day journey caravanning with a moving truck and our van. We were moving from the desert oilfields of Midland, Texas to the mountain splendor of the Great Salt Lake Valley. We had been planning for months; preparing, packing, loading. We had spent the previous day sitting at the end of our block with a broken down moving truck. We were ready. We were eager. But we were leaving later than we had anticipated. I was nervous, but I was anticipating a better life in a better place for my family. It was a hard trip, but we have found what we were looking for. I will never be an Utahan, I will always be a Michigander, but I anticipate happily living out our lives in Salt Lake City.

        

          On my seventeenth wedding anniversary, I will embark with my wife and now seven children on a two-day journey from Salt Lake City to the land of my birth. I anticipate a smooth trip. I have anticipation of introducing my five year old to a place he has never been and to relatives he has never met; his uncle Jason and his Smith cousins, other than Shelby. He has met Shelby; he is too polite to say, but I think he was unimpressed. After eleven years of missing a lot of family going-ons, I anticipate seeing two of my nieces march with the same Fife and Drum Corps that I was with for six years, so long ago; being able to be there for my oldest nieces graduation party (they were seven when I moved to Texas;) seeing things and people I have not seen in too long.

          Today for me is awash with anticipation. I will be off work for two weeks straight for the first time since I can’t remember when. I get to go to Michigan. Tonight, I will likely sleep a restless and poor, anticipatory sleep like a child on Christmas Eve. The two-day road trip will be full of anticipatory talk of doing this and that and seeing Grandma and Grandpa and aunts and uncles and cousins. There will be music played too loud and scenery gazing and silly car games all filled with exited, hopeful anticipation.

       

          We anticipate a good visit.

          We are anticipating a fun road trip.

          In anticipation of a quick return.

          Anticipate.

          Anticipating.

          Anticipation.