Life, left Behind, V. I She left the farm at fourteen - doing her part to save her home. She traded fields of corn and flowers for the inside of a cotton mill. Traded milking for spinning and a churn for a spool of thread. She embraced that life, for all her life, Never knowing that in return for her sacrifice She’d be labeled a lint head, and find herself alone and broken at the end. Life, Left Behind II: Family She left home, when she was just fourteen. Followed her sisters and her brother to a new place - They went to save the farm. They sent money home - saved the farm, and kept a roof over the heads of their parents and younger siblings. But they never went back home because life wants to be lived from the inside, and when you’re in a place, even a strange place, it soon becomes your place and takes the place of home. So home became a mill village, and life revolved around a cotton mill. Fields of corn and flowers got traded for flower boxes on the porch. Strangers became friends, then lovers, then husbands and wives. Kids came next, and suddenly, the farm was where grandma and grandpa lived. Visits and special occasions brought them all back to the farm. But it was no longer theirs - not Home.
Life, Left Behind, Versions One and Two
Little Ditties.
Here We Sit. Here we sit, you and I. All these years later, and still the same. Still in love, and still a little afraid. All these years later, and always just the same.
Farmer’s Doom... Here am I, a gentle farmer, Armed with weapons meant to kill. And my only Hope for Heaven Lies beyond these farming skills.
Here is the Day, then - and here, the Night. We hold them both up to Heaven and blind ourselves to Sight.
Betrayal. Here’s to betrayal - Ever constant, more’s the pity. Ever dependable, when the people are humans and there’s hearts to be had!
Rewrite.
Rewrite.
Can I –
Rewrite me?
Rethink this equation into something else entirely?
Can I –
Be Free?
Free to think of other me’s than me?
Another Me? Maybe another…
Reality?
I’d like that…
like to try one on for size,
then set it back.
Try another maybe. And an Other!
Another Me!
Can I –
Retool me?
Rewrite the code so the self I see
is someone else entirely?
I need to be –
Free!
Rest for the Weary.
Rest for the Weary.
Time keeps sending shivers to me.
Making me Cold.
Bringing back memories.
I’d like to feel some warmth,
but all I am is freezing these days.
I shiver -
Feel soaked-through like Winter clothes
brought inside, but left too far from the heater.
My fingers ache.
I have a memory of morning chores,
and watering troughs coated with ice.
I broke the ice,
so different, then than now,
with red hands,
and sharp intakes of Winter air.
Today, the Ice is dark, and the Cold is Bitter;
the ache comes from another place.
Time’s tidings, once glad,
now bring forth ill winds
that wrap themselves in wrinkles and weathered skin.
They remind me of all the days I should have either stayed inside
or put on skin cream.
Of the days when pallor was an indication of illness,
instead of a way to avoid it.
These shivers, and this cold, keep coming,
but they are in no way welcome.
I would shun them if I could.
Turn my face away from such sad tidings,
and seek some level of comfort
beyond the march of days.
Time.
It used to fill me with promises.
Now it’s only ugly,
and too short.
Point of View…
Point of View.
I imagine there are points of view less painful.
More positive.
More sure.
But this one’s mine!
And for all my great desire to turn around
and find some other place to look,
I cannot…
Because this point of view,
this one that’s mine,
it gets stuck on the fact that it can imagine
more things than I can ever know.
That it can dream things that cannot be -
That it can need things
that I can never have.
Change it?
I’d be glad to!
But then who would think these things?
Perspective.
Sometimes I think there are patterns we cannot see!
Patterns too large for simple explanations,
too large, even for discovery,
except in that rarest of instances when we step outside the inside track –
They are Patterns far flung…
separated by such stretches of time and viewpoint,
that they can only appear to us as singular events –
odd sightings and such…
Odd, perhaps, and outside our view!
But patterns nonetheless!
Part of the Great tapestry that extends out past the senses –
Out past eyesight,
Earshot –
and the brief achievements made by man!
Rethinking 2008.
Matters managed. Things were never good; only managed. We all tried - but managed just barely not to fail. No point placing blame, I guess. Not today, nor ever - Time to live with what’s past, Try to Live past it and say good bye. Because the time, and the place for anger and resentment are gone, along with most of the players. The ones left can only wish things had been different, or that we were. No. Common Ground, or at least Comfort, was something we wanted - tried our best to construct out of the wrongness of who we were. We never made it - Only managed to work it out the best way we could. I escaped as fast as time, and my barely opened eyes would let me! I don’t think anyone completely failed, or maybe we all did. I don’t think anyone wanted to be hateful, or even hate-filled. In the end, all we wanted was something safer, Something simpler, Maybe just something a little more familiar - something we weren’t. couldn’t find, and could never be! I’d like to thiunk I’ve managed to put this all behind me, but I think it more likely I just hid it somewhere that only I can see, Blood. Funny. I don’t feel so different - But my Blood does. Things you cannot see can change your life, or death. Things that Blood does. Flowing, feeling, Taking stock of the life that fills the minutes between wakefulness and sleep. Blood flows, Blood knows. The Great Fire. There is a dream, and a Heart redrawn by flames. Fire, Kindled from a Great seed brought forth by the wind and wave. There is a dream - forgotten, almost, by too many births, and too many broken hearts. Flame, Burnt bright by the light of day, Consumed, it seemed - but Not! There is a dream, purified by firestorm! Form! Created from a mystery, and cured by hearts ablaze - set Free! Brought forth! Beyond the grave. We, the people. We, the people. yeah, us... the ones that talk funny, do the wrong thing at a fancy restaurant, and say the wrong thing when you wish we wouldn’t. We, the People! That’s us, alright. A place, and a piece of writing, meant for us - Meant to understand us, describe us - Define our right to exist outside the norm of what most folks consider common practice, and common courtesy, at least when you’re counting something other than honest behavior as the baseline. We, the people, alright! The ones that believed everything the Founding Fathers wrote! The Very Ones that tried, and try, every day to live that line, and that series of steps they put down to make this a NEW world, and a new way of living. We, the People! Some people call us fools, or foolish - maybe niave, or just too blinded by belief in what can be, to give in to what most likely is, and will be for some time yet to come. We, the People! We may be fools, but we Believe.
Thanksgiving 2015 — Poetry and Mood Swings…
I shall not go -
Neither willingly,
nor with some foolish smile upon my face.
I shall not hope
to meet some myth enshrouded maker,
nor shall I plan to join some
perfectly-pitched celestial choir.
My loved ones
who have passed the veil before me,
will not be there to greet me in death.
I take no confort in such foolishness.
This world has been brutal enough.
Why would I expect
some new nirvana to exist;
One that would somehow make up
for all the evil and the pain
we knew here in this place,
and in this consciousness,
faulty as it is.
Faulty,
and filled with foolishness.
Bad Millenia.
We humans are, sadly, the most recent result
of so many millenia’s worth of evolution.
And yet we are such fools -
bent by a desire to find some thing
beyond ourselves
that we can either cling to,
blame everything on,
or believe in.
Hopefully,
the next million years
can bring forth something better
before this world gets destroyed -
either by a bomb built on the inside,
or an asteroid barreling into it
from the outside.
Don’t Know.
We just don’t know.
Cannot know, in such short time
as we have, with a mind
capable of thinking about such things.
We try to guess,
but we are worse for guessing.
and while imagination
probably helped us into consciousness,
it was a poor substitute
for the drought we call reality.
Not By a Long Shot.
I shall not go.
Neither willingly,
nor with happiness,
given a choice.
I shall not easily give up this shell,
despite the evil and the pain
that has been heaped upon it
throughout this mean,
but short existence.
I shall not turn this consciousness
over to oblivion
with some false sense of security,
or some hope for an altered,
and altogether different form of reality.
Knowing the truth
is that there is nothing hiding
behind any of the doors
dealt by death
is not an excuse for hopelessness,
or for dealing damage.
Rather, it makes what we have
even more precious than we might
otherwise have believed.
This is it.
This is life.
Not to be wasted,
nor treated with disrespect.
Ronald (Ron) Lee Baxley — In Memorium
Ronald (Ron) Lee Baxley — In Memorium
Born: August 28, 1959 — Died: November 30, 2009
Nowadays, with cellphones, personal computers, emails, Facebook, Twitter, and all the other social media devices, it is relatively easy to keep in touch with and/or reconnect family and friends all over the world, and from all the pieces of our lives. Before all those things, and before most people got on board with all those things (my mother still isn’t), it was much more difficult. We relied heavily on cards and letters (neither of which were my forte), in person visits and phone calls.
We made a bold step and moved across the country to California in January of 2000. Behind us, we left friendships spanning twenty years or more. And although we all tried to stay connected, it was sometimes difficult, especially for us, because we were starting a new business, closing an old business down, and generally facing a large learning curve in a new industry. Not an excuse. Just a fact.
I learned just yesterday that a friend I’d known since I was 21 had died. Worse yet, he’d died in 2009. not two years after he and his boyfriend had visited us in Palm Springs. I had worried about him because he had moved and I had no forwarding phone or information. Still, you hope one day to get a card or a phone call. I got, quite by accident, notice that he was no longer alive. I am devastated and embarrassed.
I have known Ron Baxley since 1979. I had moved to Atlanta to go to Seminary (something I never completed), and had moved with a fraternity brother, Cleo Creech. Cleo was going to the Art Institute of Atlanta, met Ron, and they fell head over heels for each other (as often happens to us when we are young and freshly out as gay men — oh hell, it happens to everybody all the time no matter how old they are — who am I kidding!. Anyway, Ron was soon our roommate, and when Chris moved out to live with another boyfriend, Ron stayed.
We became close. Ron and I visited his aunt Gloria many times. He adored her. I even joined him on a trip back to Summerville for the wedding of one of his siblings, despite the fact that Ron’s family had really not accepted him at that point. They were good people, but talk about stressful! Then boyfriends, and more boyfriends, and lots of job changes for all of us and Ron also moved in with a boyfriend. John S. Foltz moved down from North Carolina and moved in with me.
A few years later, Ron was looking for a place to stay, and he once again became my roommate, this time with John S. Foltz. We brought two cats, Harrison and Westin, and Ron Brought Katy, the sweetest cocker spaniel you could ever meet. We lived together, then moved apart briefly (boyfriend again), then finally became roommates again at 1769 Monroe Dr NE, Atlanta, GA. We lived there for awhile, and during that time, I met my future husband, Stephen Boyd. Well, again, we all had job changes, boyfriend changes, and we all moved into separate directions, but Ron always came by for Christmas, we called and kept in touch, and he also sent me a mother’s day card every year. He continued doing that even after we moved to California.
Ron visited us one in California. I had been bugging him to come out and see us, and finally he did. Mike came with him. Wa had a great time catching up. Shortly after that visit, though, Ron’s phone number changed and his address changed, and I had trouble reaching him. Time gets away from us. In that interim, Ron moved to Florida — first to Orlando, then to Altamonte Springs. It was there, I guess, that he died.
I lost one other friend this way. Another in our group of Atlanta friends, Teri Renella. I hope never to lose another one unknowing, and I intend to work on that. But in the meantime, if you knew Ron Baxley, and you’d like to leave a memory or a remembrance of him, I have reactivated the guest book from his obituary. You can see them both here.
Calcite Mine…in the Badlands
Southeast of Palm Springs, die East of the Salton Sea, and west of Borrego Springs is an area known as the Badlands. It’s a fascinating area with lots of Box Canyons, washes and indications that this was once an ancient sea (which it was). The formations are quite amazing although I don’t feel that many of them photograph as well as other hiking areas. These photos were taken near an old Calcite mine which was mined during World War II. Veins of Calcite run throughout the landscape in this area. It’s really quite interesting.
Words Won, In Three Iterations.…
Words Won, point One.
I work so hard
to marry words -
and worry them into something more than worn out phrases.
To bend them so they match the moment,
and the measured cadence of my heart.
And then I hear this man -
distinguished -
famous!
And he spouts some simple phrases out
that call for nothing more than a brief look
at the Sunday paper for inspiration!
I must wonder, then, what I am doing Here?
Why pay this Penance -
Why try so hard to work mean words into song.
Into…transcendence.
To rise above mediocrity, and beyond me.
Why should I, for want of some way to stop myself,
Seek to string phrases that actually reach for aether air,
Or phrases built with words
meant to bear the Reader out onto the Clouds.
Today, the World turns upon its sorry self,
and breeds poets with no more imagination
than a couple of pieces of worn out gum wrapper!
Why should I be different?
If today’s Laureate is wasteful,
and his words are hard to hear,
Then why should I exert myself to twists
and turns of phrase.
Better to just wish Him Well,
then turn my head,
and Bind my ears!
If only I could.…
Words Won, point Deux.
I work so hard
to marry words -
Worry them into something more than worn out phrases,
To bend them,
so they match the moment,
and the measured cadence of my heart.
Small wonder, then, that when I hear this man -
distinguished -
famous.
spout out some simple phrases out
that call for nothing more than a quick look at the Sunday paper -
I wonder…
What am I doing Here?
What Force commands me to pay this penance -
What compulsion wants me to wind words
into strings that sing, or into phrases meant to taste the aether air.
Why transcend the real world?
This rough and ragged world
that turns upon its sorry self,
and breeds poets with no more imagination
than an unopened dictionary.
If the Laureate is wasteful,
and his words are hard to hear.
Shall I wish Him Well and praise him,
or turn my head,
and Bind my ears!
And, if I do,
then who Cares, but me?
Is the world less rich?
Is one mind less likely to excel.
Who knows!
Words Won, L’originale.
I work so hard
to marry words -
Make them bend to match my moment,
and my heart.
And then I hear this man -
distinguished -
famous.
And he spouts some simple phrases out
that call for nothing more than a hasty look at the Sunday paper for inspiration!
What am I doing Here?
What penance makes me wish to turn mean words
into sentences that sing songs to rise beyond me -
Taste aether air, and raise me
into worlds made for imagination,
and for dreaming deeply while the world turns upon its sorry self.
And if I try -
If I worry words for something more than worn out phrases,
who Cares?
Who Cares!
If the Laureate is wasteful,
and his words are hard to hear -
Shall we wish Him Well and praise him,
or turn our heads,
and Bind our ears!