Howling At The Fucking (Super) Moon.

Caro il Lupo;

Do you know?

that you’re still alive?

Your humanity survives,

the time comes and goes,

tears spill from my eyes,

phantom penned poetry,

and unforgotten prose,

trickle from the winter skies,

like snowflakes on my nose;

a wolf-pack nurtured and led,

has slowly scattered and faded,

but when a full moon’s overhead,

we’re never too far separated;

we’re each still too humbled by,

the shine you put in every eye,

the words you spilled across our lives,

Marcus – your kindness thrives;

I know you’ve passed through this place,

your signature sizzles across the skies,

nobody can replace,

no pencil or pen can retrace,

your ink and quill still permeate,

you can still bring tears to my eyes,

Tonight’s “Super Moon”,

has me fucking howling for you,

head thrown back,

me, and the rest of your pack,

just like that, Marcus…you’re still alive.

I MISS YOU.

WE MISS YOU.

Wolf-Pack-Howling.jpg

HATFM.

As I drove home late last night from the mountains, I saw you shining up there, almost full again…my heart became sore; and, I was in tears before long.

There’s nothing as awe-inspiring to the others on the road as the notice of a blubbering fellow driver, by the way. People become acutely interested in you suddenly when they fear that you are unable to see the freeway lanes through your tears.

I thought of Lionheart then, naturally…and his good fortune in love; I remember how you almost seemed to be “hooking him and me up” in the beginning of our friendships together, from so far away. Needless to say, that wasn’t the destiny laid out for us; but we have nurtured something special in terms of true friendship, instead.

I then recalled several conversations you and I had in the very short time that I was blessed by your presence in Life, as I have become blessed by its permanence in Death these days. I remember how much I admired your spirit and heart; you just seemed to ooze the very essence of all that is good and honorable in the world, and all that is true. I remember how you comforted me during a very, very low point in my Life’s painful pendulum – on a day when I was feeling especially alone and abandoned and hopeless. It was a holiday, a big one that you were celebrating with your lovely wife and family somewhere far from your place “high in the woods”. You made time to comfort me that day despite a bad weather day of traveling…you didn’t make a big out of it though; I hadn’t even known you were on the road because you had been so “present”. You always amazed me and left me with my mouth hanging open through your untouchable humanity, Il Lupo.

You were an amazing human being; I haven’t forgotten that, either; haven’t forgotten you for a single day. I think of Felicia often too, and wish I were in a position to drop in on her and just hug her once in a while. I do wonder how she gets on these days, without you. It hurts to know how robbed of so many things she was when you were killed. It hurts to know that she has suffered such a tragic loss in so many ways and must go on. I guess I hurt for her, mostly. I try not to think about your actual death and what it must have been like for you and your dog when you were hit and killed. I hope your suffering was short-lived.

Just know you live on in the hearts of so many of us, and always will, especially on a full moon.

 

Howling At The Fucking Moon, Marcus.

 

Tie.

There is something wholly satisfying in a moment of childhood nostalgia shared between siblings through the recollected eyes of adulthood;
There is an ancient mentally embedded sensation woven into such an instance akin to the finishing of a most gluttonous seven-course feast of the most filling foods and drink;
It is the momentary revival of our most purely experienced joys in Life, our most simply created smiles attached to memories that science has hinted will be vividly with us until we expire in old age;
It is the reminder of band-aids and muddy knee scrubs, bedtime stories and a belief in the impossible;
There are truths revealed through the adult moments spent together in casual and comfortable silences in which words are not necessary to just BE;
These truths bear features of each sibling, dead or alive, as they did in early life when hardships weren’t yet upon the heart;
These truths are the tie that binds.

Me.

This villainous fiend that is me,

the shadow in firelight,

the beast waiting to spite,

such villainous things I perceive;

this slowly emptying sea,

the waves that break,

the breaths they take,

what a fucking tragedy;

this temper tantrumming,

the punches at air,

the utter despair,

such a childish identity;

this condition that’s underlying,

the highs and lows,

the last to know,

such a burden is mine to carry;

this unforgiven monstrosity,

the one under my skin,

the one who I am,

such a hideous monster is me.

 

 

Veteran.

I remember screaming loudly in angry disbelief from the swing on the playground,

“Hey! That’s our lunch!”

I also recall nearly twisting myself from the swing in mid-air as I turned in childlike desperation to find my Papa (my Dad’s Dad) behind me, not seeming to give two shits that a bum was stealing the picnic lunch that took the entire morning for me to assemble to perfection.

“Papa…that man is taking our lunch from the table! Look, Papa, Look!”

My grandfather continued to push me higher on the swing, in spite of my exclamations; he never even looked over in the direction of the table (or our lunch) that I noticed, he just kept pushing as I sailed forward and up again on the swing. He had this way about him, though; an almost unsettling calmness woven tightly into his characteristic traits. Nothing seemed to ever really upset him; he was always chillax in comparison to anybody else I’ve ever known, to date; and, during childhood his patience often left me baffled beyond my inexperienced and young mind’s reconciliation.
It didn’t take long for me, being the tiny spitfire that I was, to eject myself from the swing on the up-swing (a stunt that my Papa disliked with absolution) and land approximately ten feet away in the redwood tanbark. I remember that I felt shocked that our lunch was being stolen and he planned to do nothing about it; it was in violation of my strict pre-school schedule.

“If you aren’t gonna stop him, I will!”

I “huffed and puffed” while I brushed myself off and began to head in the direction of the man’s quickly fading figure amidst the trees across the field of the park. Looking back, it always makes me smile to think about my Papa during my youngest days alive; he was such a wise and magical soul in every way. He never used to stop us from fucking up; on the contrary, he always allowed us to learn things the hard way, and for ourselves.
But on this day, he didn’t let me chase down the lunch-thief however; he stopped me in my tracks by simply observing out loud,

“Don’t you kinda feel like if that man stole our picnic like that, that he probably needs it more than we do?”

I recall this question literally making me feel weak for a second’s time; I stood still there in the sunny field alongside of my Papa’s short framed shadow and I swallowed what he said…I was instantly ashamed of myself for starting to chase after him; for reacting like I had…this moment changed me forever. My papa spent the rest of that afternoon explaining to me how this man had come to be homeless and dirty, angry and unstable:

He had been in the Vietnam War with my Dad and uncles; he had some bad times while he was there, and hadn’t found life any easier when he got back, afterward…

I never let go of what his patience meant to teach me that day about that man stealing our lunch; it created a soft-spot in my heart for Combat Veterans who have all but blinked out completely against a cruel and misunderstanding society they once called “home”. If there was one thing that my Papa drove deep into my being when I was young, it was HUMANITY in its rawest forms. I am ever-grateful to have had him, and still miss him to no end all the time, every day.

A ‘Worm Moon’ Howl to Marcus.

Howling out loudly –
to a loss mourned deeply…
another full moon, here to shine so soon;
tonight’s moon makes it three…
three moons have full shone,
since your laughter’s been gone;
and I howl out my lungs,
with each one,
that’s been hung;
though I don’t know
what’s drives me to
keep this ritual updone:
whether in honor of you,
and how your pores oozed
with kindness and love –
or if I need to scream ,
up to the Gods’ high esteem,
because the moon,
in her shiniest prime
deserves a kick in her eye
for taking you
so permanently, so tragically.

VETERAN’S DAY REPOST: The Wise of The Skies

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War...

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War…

 

It seems as though my very genetic sequencing was created on a battlefield somewhere back in time.
On the one hand (my father’s side, and the side of the family in which I was exposed to daily), my Old School Yankee blood hammers a foothold of ingenuity and aggression embedded in my very DNA. My Danish Emigrant family is littered with highly decorated American War Heroes in each and every generation that I know of, including my daughter’s generation. This side of my heritage historically and willingly puts up a well-organized and strategic fight for the glories it claims, no doubt. This side of my family tree is dwarfed in numbers by my mother’s side; and unfortunately, I believe that is because I have lost too many relatives, both distant and close, to warfare.
My Papa (my Dad’s father, who was my Partner in Crime until the day he died about a decade ago) doubled as my daycare provider since I can remember. This was a guy who was, indeed, a War Hero of at least two major wars in world history, a pilot (and it takes a certain kind for this), a Rosicrucian, a Mason, a self-taught Ancient Egyptologist (because he was compelled to explore alchemy, physics, astronomy, astrology, medicinal tincturing and ancient mysticism since his youth), but most notably and memorably for me: he was a magically wise soul. He was a genuine human being. He was one of my favorite people to hang out with for the entirety of my young life, even when I was a shithead teenager with a pierced face and old English block lettering Tattoos that said distasteful things – he never got boring or became too demanding of my time; my time was something that I always had more than enough for him.
I can write this, because he is dead and I am grown now;
During my teen years, he once rendezvoused with me at my car on the side of a dirt road during the wee hours of the morning (during a period in my life when I was swirling around life’s drain amidst teen angst, the shock and trauma of my Dad’s very sudden death, and in turn – the absolute demolition of my family unit as I had always before, and never again – known it; and was out of control in behavior and illegal activities) to offload armfuls of (totally illegal and extremely questionable in his perception) firearms with a stiff lip and stoic expression on his face the entire time. He drove away with at least ten felonies in his hatchback Celica without saying a fucking word to me about it.
I could never tell anyone about it growing up – couldn’t brag about it to my friends or brothers – because the fact that he never said anything taught me the lesson I’m sure he was shooting for: shame in grace, wrong against right, and dedication to those we love. I held it in for about five years before finally breaking one day over a Scrabble match and blurting out something like, “Papa, you know I’d NEVER ask you to do anything bad for me again EVER, right?…”
My Papa and I have the exact, same mischievously set eyes; upon meeting his gaze, I was always instantly triggered to smile, laugh, or giggle. This time though, when his eyes met mine, they spoke volumes of the disapproval and disappointment that he had been holding in all that time. Also quite noticeably though, was a weight that seemed to lift from his frame almost tangibly…and it came straight into my heart and has been with me ever since that moment.

For Veteran’s Day, I bow my head to any and all who have served my country in my place for whatever reasons.

This gratefulness that I feel runs deeply through the tangling roots of dead soldiers grown from my own family tree, and any other tree on Yankee/ Native soil. It most certainly takes someone with heart to be a soldier; thank you to all of the Veterans out there who may happen to read this post. Seriously…THANK YOU.