Upon my bed I lay, without repose.
From whence my weary soul has come, distraught,
is much too daunting. ‘gainst me such my prose
has pled, “Release, I beg thee! Struggles fought
in God’s eternity, our passions’ throes,
remain without resolve. I ask why, caught
‘twixt love and lost, thou press thyself so. Ought
one cherish heart’s gift, passion orange rose?”
To this misguided art thus I replied:
“If our sad plight reduced to such, then we
should not distress ourselves. But this is quite
disparate. I discovered, shocked, her sight,
her smell, her music, forgotten to thee.
This shame revealed, I now ask: has it died?”

He stared sardonically at the scrap of sheet music laying before him. It was utter garbage. The melody resembled some sort of natal wail. No it didn't, he immediately corrected. It sounded nothing of the sort. He sighed softly at that. Even his poetry was lacking. How could he ever hope to accomplish anything if he couldn't even describe his failures with any eloquence?

He leaned back in his chair to stretch his back. With a yawn, he glanced about the room. The mess, dishes and clothing, strewn across the room was a constant embarrassment. But still he did not clean. Why? His eyes rested on the cage and he smiled, once more content. His little bird danced inside, chirping. Dancing, yes. His little bird, trapped as he was, could do nothing more but dance. Ah, what it would be like to be a bird!

Isn't that just what I've been doing? he thought. This whole room spoke of bird. The trash everywhere, the room stuffy and dark. Even his sad attempts to find an apartment in the city attested to this. In reality, he could do nothing else but be a bird - to be anything else would be absurd.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. And with a grin he began to scribble some notation once more on the sheet.

Sober Jubilations

Oscar sat down for a moment on a queerly placed chair. For some reason a passing merry-goer had lost interest in it - probably upon hearing the DJ play her favorite song. He was glad for the respite though, as his feet were quite sore. Wandering around was a bit tiresome, even if he was only thanking everyone for the birthday wishes.

The gymnasium his children had rented out for the occasion would be packed for a long time yet. The sharp air outside bit anyone who thought about taking a break from the swelter of the dance floor. And the swirling drifts that snuck in the doorway increased the party's anxiety even further. It was only nine at night, but some of the guests had work in the morning.

Oscar looked at his new pocketwatch - a gift from his second son Frank. He had a class to teach in the morning, and his octogenarian bones would not agree with staying up too late. He could, of course, simply cancel the class. The students would not have minded but he would. Teaching was one of the small pleasures his feeble body still could muster. His wife had passed away years ago - four to be exact. The students helped him to ease the pain of aging.

His eyes lingered on the pocketwatch. The intricate details of the cover reminded him of a similar watch he had, many years before. His father had given him one similar the day he enrolled in the army. He had misplaced it once, long ago, and lost it. Only a couple years ago did he find it. Somehow it was in his wife's jewelry cabinent.

The wicked, brilliant poet:
With his sublimity and bitter resentment
he strips every woman of her clothes.
He shoves every man onto the stage.
With his pictures and cutting tongue
he removes every dishonest front.
He unveils true man.

And true man lies before the poet,
ashamed and embarrassed for himself.
O! Lord, how disgraceful we are in our humanity
and how shamed we are to be in your image!
A thousand curses to this poet who in his vanity
wanted to expose us to the ugly habits shared by all!
A thousand curses, and a thousand thanks!

Christmas Relations

"Uncle John, were you ever in love?" asked Marlee sweetly.

"Yes," replied John, "I fell in love many years ago - just about 20 years from this very Christmas."

"Was she pretty?"

"More than words could describe! She had the warmest, most welcoming eyes. They were the same color as your sweet Mr. Oscar-bear that you sleep with every night. And they were just like him, too! Every night those eyes kept away the monsters in my closet."

"Don't be silly!" giggled Marlee. "Monsters don't live in grown-up closets. They only like eating poor little kids like me. We can't fight back like adults can."

"Monsters live under every person's closet, dear Marlee. They never go away. We only get better at locking the door when they want to come out. And the monsters under my bed were real scary to me. Terrifying. Sometimes the only way I would be able to sleep at night would be by thinking only about those warm eyes. I have no idea what I would have done without them. You see, my grown-up key to my closet was still being made. It wasn't ready yet."

Marlee didn't quite understand this talk of keys, and consequently lost interest. She rocked back and forth on the carpet before John. All the time she held Mr. Oscar-bear high and paid him the highest respects. John had, apparantly, given the girl a more aware appreciation for the teddy bear. He smiled at this, glad to have done as much. For some time he sat in his brother's living room, keeping the child company while the rest of the family mingled. She had, for some reason, taken a liking to John ever since her new baby brother.

He started slightly when she spoke up. He had been lost in his thoughts, and temporarily forgot that he was actually here, and not some observer.

"What about her hair? Was it yellow like a princess?"

John gave a soft chuckle. "Someday you'll realize how fickle women are with their hair. Her hair was every color you could imagine, sweetie - of course not at the same time. But she was only happy with her hair for a short time, and then moved on."

"Were you happy with her hair, Uncle John?"

"I was more than happy. Everything she did to her hair was wonderful. Well, maybe that's not exactly true. I think the reason I always liked her hair was because I simply liked her hair, regardless of color. It was so beautiful."

"Why?" Marlee looked up confused and asked without acquiescence.

"I don't really know. I loved to touch it and play with it. I loved doing that as much as you love your pony's hair. And just like your pony, I brushed her hair every opportunity I had. It was something I enjoyed a lot."

"Uncle John, that sounds funny!" She thought a moment, eyebrows furrowed in the concentration known only to children. And again, another question. "Why did you love her?"

"Why? Well, I have no reason not to love her. I think we have a potential to love anyone. It's only when we find a reason not to love that we do not love. And with her, I have no reason not to love her. I simply do not."

Again the conversation fell into silence. The wisdom was not entirely lost on the young girl, but she did not know how to respond to it. It was not a topic on which she was particularly fluent. Familiar, perhaps, but not fluent. "Why isn't she my aunt now?" Marlee innocently asked.

Now, it was John's turn for silence. He, too, did not know how to respond. Shrugging his shoulders, he said simply, "some things just aren't meant to be."

She scrunched her face at this. And with the perfect bluntness only a child possesses, "I don't believe that."

"I don't believe that either, Marlee."

Life is a series of events used to distract us from the realizing that everything is finite. If we were to simply accept the finite, existence would be sublime.

http://www.modernpooch.com/archives/FarSideDogCartoon.jpg

I am torn between the physical ramifications of my honesty and the emotional consequences of my dishonesty.