Gray is a Color, Too

Heavenly Father,

On this blustery, rainy, winter morning

Remind us that gray is a color, too

Of  dawn

Squirrels

Clouds that bring needed rain

The breasts of doves

The fur of kittens

Rail fences along country roads

Smoke from chimneys

A favorite coat

Remind us that gray is the color, too

Of wisdom

Reflection

Life’s mysteries        

Difficult choices

Father of us all, help us to remember that gray is a color, too

As we face our individual winters of the soul

Times when the warming sunshine of your love

Doesn’t penetrate our clouds.        

ah

PROMPT: You Gave Me Gas And Saved Me From An Embarrassing Situation.

Andy Hanson
He was filling the 300 helium balloons that would take him, he hoped, high enough to photograph the gigantic art circle he had commissioned. His location was a remote farm on the edge of the 5000-acre wheat field that was his canvas.

He had spent his last 20 million on this, his latest art project, and had gone over budget in a big way. In fact his check to the Official Balloon Ascent Team had bounced; hence this do-it-yourself project was his only hope. The flattened week was unbending and rain was in the forecast.

After filling two hundred and twenty balloons, he knew for certain that he would run out of helium. He called his girlfriend and explained the problem. She persuaded her dentist to load her pickup with the five canisters he kept for recreational purposes, and she drove like a maniac to the farm. She was in time!

His last words as he ascended were, “You saved me from an very embarrassing situation!”

Unfortunately, those turned out to be his last words. The storm was the worst in a decade.

The dentist and his girlfriend lived happily ever after.

James (Ben) Mielke
      Out in the desert, under the moon, on the side of the road, a car, alone, the driver stranded on a byway since midday-no traffic.
      An urgent occasion awaits five hundred miles ahead. Many people believed he never intended to show. Only his wedding, after all.
      He had to stay behind and finish a late job. Drove all day, took the infamous shortcut. Now, out of gas.
      Just to keep in the mood he got his tuxedo from the back seat and dressed for the occasion--in style, top hat and cane.
      A battered pickup came over the dawning horizon with one headlight out.
      He stood in the road and tipped his hat at the approach.
      Brakes squealed, tires skidded.
      "What in Holy Moly are you?" came a voice from the dark space inside.
      "I'm late, I need gas."
      "Well shee-it pal. There's a truck stop at the crossroads a mile around the bend. How long you been out here?"
      "Since yesterday."
      "Shee-it. Bet yer hungry. I'll buy breakfast."
      He made it to the Altar on time. His tux was wrinkled and grease stained. He didn't notice that a bit of straw adhered to the seat of his trousers.

Liz Stewart
If you are Passing Gas, you are likely in Kansas, somewhere near the edge of the state. Town fathers, chuckle-headed old farts, felt assured of recognition- perhaps even an award from the state legislature for originality. Their wives, used to all the hot air, needed a post office, so they wrote to the governor, swearing that they loved the name.

Or:  If you are in Kansas, you could be passing Gas! Town fathers, chuckle-headed old farts, were challenged to score a post office. Their wives, used to all the hot air, wrote to the governor assuring him they loved the name. There's even a book with their name on the cover!

Michael Dean Long
ODE TO A BURRITO
You gave me gas
And created an embarrassing situation.
You were nothing more to me
Than a culinary infatuation.
I should have realized
Despite my inebriation
That this would culminate
In an unpleasant confrontation.
Why did I take you in?
Why did I have you for dinner?
Why could I not ascertain
That you would emerge as the Winner?

Written with apologies to Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the capital, son
That would stand your hair on end.
Our Republican reps cash their booster’s checks
Then decide which laws to bend.

Those folks on the hill with hands in the till
Never want their Fox viewers to see
That their public lives are a pack of lies
As revealed on Maddow TV.

Talk Is Cheap

Our English teacher
drove us back from the debate.
We were in the backseat
nuzzling, kissing.

I caressed skin
between bra and panties.

My car was at the school,
and when I drove her home,
she touched my hand.
“Love me up a little.”

I was 16.
I worked with her mother at the hospital.

I said I’d like to…
but I just couldn’t.

She slid away from me,
opened the door,
repeated something under her breath
as she walked unaccompanied to her door.
I think it was
“Talk is cheap.”

VALLEY FOG

Travelling north
my TR3 talking to me
with its low hypnotic growl
Riding the sound
Rolling into Bakersfield
on 99
Clear cold
January morning
Engine heat
warming my thighs
Claudia on my mind
Humming
Shall We Gather at the River

I was
Already honking
in her driveway
Seeing her framed
in the light of the open door
Holding her
still unbalanced
from extracting myself
Kissing her
Her dog Bruno
patiently eagerly waiting
to carry my trumpet case
carefully in his big jaws
The aroma of
Swedish meatballs

Overpass
The highway dipped
then climbed
into
Blind terror
A white wall
A white shroud
Like unexpected death

COMMANDMENT

Thou shall not explain

Roses

Poetry

or

Rain

the prompt was OVERLOADED

OVERLOADED
My mind was overloaded

I’d jammed it to the hilt

No room was left for gladness

Only misery and guilt

My mind was overloaded

I couldn’t sleep a wink

I tossed and turned forever

There was no room to think

My mind was overloaded

My blankets made me sweat

My toes were cramped and twisted

I could only turn and fret

My mind was overloaded

I tried to say a prayer

Either God was on vacation

Or He simply wasn’t there

My mind was overloaded

My wife began to snore

It brought to mind my lover

Who always knew the score

I poked her in the rib cage

I asked her for advice

She answered me with kisses

No need to ask her twice.

Andy

SOMEONE ELSE

Someone else has sat in your seat. Someone else had had your idea. Someone else has led your life. Someone else has stood in the rain or snow and stared at a discarded bouquet of roses on the ground. Someone else has shed these tears before.

Yet for a moment, that first moment you felt it or experienced it, that hard flat surface beneath you or the bright shocking revelation that 2+2=4 or that indeed this girl is the one and only one for you, that moment is yours and yours alone. And then it’s gone, and you are left with that old proverb’s famous words, “There is nothing new under the sun.”

But I prefer to think to myself, “But what a sun!” and the thought that he and I and you and I and even she and I are looking at the same sun is a beautiful thing, and can threaten to overload my mind. There is nothing new it’s true. The world is very old, but it is also very beautiful. Especially if you try to see it for the first time everyday.

Scott

OVERLOADED

Overloaded

From my hair to my toes

Overloaded

From my guts to my nose

Overloaded

Like a ship about to sink

Overloaded

Like a drunk’s last drink

Overloaded

Like someone in trouble

Overloaded

Like bursting his bubble

Overloaded

By ice and snow

Overloaded

Like a burlesque show

Overloaded

Like an derelict’s yawn

Overloaded

Like a cop’s baton

Alex

STRANGERS AGAIN

The Nash, cut down into a truck of sorts and overloaded, rolled along on three tires and a rim that wailed a constant complaint.  Each expansion joint in the concrete punctuated the protestation with sharp metallic blows.  For all the noise there was not quite enough to fill the big quiet caused by a motor silenced by the lack of gas.  A hot breeze sanded over the sunburned faces of those passengers perched on the patched canvas covered remains of their lives.  Their dirty hands gripped the canvas tightly, their fate on the downgrade, brakes burning.

Al looked over at Floyd, but they were strangers again.  Their night on the Colorado River was a couple of hundred miles ago, and the Mojave had since sucked all the juiciness out of the memory.  Floyd looked resolutely ahead, knowing he was being watched.  The increasing wind whipped at his open shirt and the sunlight counted his ribs.  He was as dark as an Indian, except for his knuckles.

Daniel

ODE TO FACEBOOK

Too much talking

Too many words

You need to stop

You've already been heard

Too many messages

And notifications

Please give it rest

And go on vacation

I guess it's entitlement

I guess it's fear

That makes you think

You're all I want to hear

Please take your comments

Your updates and such

To your own bulging mind

We've all had enough

Emily


OVERLOADED
Weight Limit!
Feeling overloaded!? Some people have figured out how brains work.
Important names, dates, secrets, poems, criticisms, jokes, catchy phrases?
Where have we put these thoughts? In long term or short?
Can I recall or even remember to search out what matters most to my friends and family?
Overloaded equals a full life--or agony & sleepless nights.
I think I'll just watch another movie.
Writing helps.

Liz

OVERLOAD
Information overload
Is the frustration of the day.
Too many stings, and things
That attempt my mind to sway'

Gigas, megas,and other bytes
Filling up our brains
without something else to store them
I would simply go insane.

A simpler life is better
It brings me peace of mind.
And of course, my music,
Which helps me to unwind.

I don't think we're intended
To walk upon this road
The information highway
To systems overload!

Mike

A Valentine’s Day Promise

It’s time to end poetic words
that can’t convey completely
the way I feel, Dear Valentine,
I must confess discreetly.

Parsing of poetic rhyme
Is something I find daunting
when I must try to find the time
To put in words my longing.

Just promise that you’ll be around
No matter what the weather,
And I’ll promise to be with you
Forever and forever.

Rock Bottom

by Sarah Andrews
Reviewed by Andy Hanson

This book has my strong recommendation. The description of the Grand Canyon’s geological formations is fascinating and extremely helpful in understanding the way geologists use science to determine the age of the rock layers exposed to current wind and weather. In addition, Andrews uses the story to discuss conflicting creation stories: young earth vs. ancient earth, through the lives and experiences of two young adventurers.

Em Hanson, the intrepid forensic geologist and protagonist of nine previous novels, has lost nothing of her ability to make geologic information fascinating as she solves mysteries. Along the way, she interacts with characters faced with important moral issues as they deal with scientific realities and physical and emotional challenges.

As one who has taught adolescent literature, I would recommend this book to young Christian readers who won’t be put off by occasional adult language. I’m going to make a present of this book to my grandchildren.

Frozen

by Andy Hanson

I want to be real, but the truth makes me uncomfortable.
I want to be strong, but strength has its obligations.
I want to be brave, but I have nothing to defend.
I want to be loved, but love is a mystery.
I want to be attractive, but I avoid mirrors.
I want to be valued, but bragging is stupid.
I want to be popular, but everyone I know is an idiot.
I want to be understood, but words fail me.
I want to be kind, but generosity can be taken for granted.
I want to be unselfish, but nobody wants what I have.
I want to be respected, but I hang with the crowd.
I want to hope, but that’s daydreaming.
I want to be admired, but I am indecisive.
I want to know, but I am fearful of what I might find out.

Fishing Triptych

The Cathedral

Blue, cloud frescoed dome

Pious cliffs, virtuous trees

Unruffled water

The Question

Sky reflecting lake,

Am I fisherman or fish,

Lake reflecting sky?

The Mass

Solemn children watch

the long knife. Terror stricken

I gut the first fish.

Six Word Autobiography

by Andy Hanson

Arrived complaining

Lived complaining

Died complaining

IN MEMORIUM

Thomas White
July 21,1945—April 21, 2012

His life but not his soul has flown away
It shimmers like a rainbow in a dream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.

The treasure of his life words can’t convey
He laughed and loved; we held him in esteem
His life but not his soul has flown away.

His spirit rides the wind, a stowaway
That soars the cloudless sky where eagles scream
“He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.

He fished each rivulet a special way
And caught the wary trout by skillful scheme
His life but not his soul has flown away.

His kayak waits impatiently today
The river nymphs anticipate the team
 “He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.

His spirit lingers in the ocean spray
It murmurs softly by a summer stream
His life but not his soul has flown away.
 “He was my friend,” these words are hard to say.

ah
Saturday, April 21, 2012
A villanelle written the day Thomas died

Last Words

His last words were a gently smiling “Thank you”. My father had become very polite in the last stages of dementia. It’s what he said when I put him on his bed that Saturday night in one of our bedrooms, a room stripped of everything except a bed with a hospital sheet.

First Kiss

I pulled up in front of her house. I looked over at Nancy. There was a pregnant pause. She slid over and planted one on me. It was a real juicer! I got out of the car, tripped over the curb, fell face down in wet ivy, walked her to the door in a daze, drove home without lights.

Will you be my Valentine?

Will you be my Valentine?
You’ll know you’ve asked before its time
If the answer’s conversation
Or a lengthy thoughtful explanation
A convoluted explication
Or nuanced Freudian meditation

A simple word is what’s required
An affirmation that’s inspired
A joyous hoped for declaration
Of shining hope and inspiration

And buddy
If you’re not sure of that word
Don’t bother to ask the question

Fishing

Noah didn't bring just two of us on board. He brought two hundred in a big wooden box filled with dirt and table scraps. He even relocated a lucky few every day to the roomier “digs” he had built for us on deck. Because of these astonishing accommodations, we worms considered ourselves Noah’s, and by implication, God's favorite animals.

School for Scandal

Chapter 1
When he saw it, he told me that his first thought was a question.  "Why would someone leave a bundle of rags here?"  Then we saw the blood on the door.

He and I had come to school an hour early that Monday morning in December to catch up on his grading. Two sets of compositions were in the right-hand desk drawer where he always kept homework assignments before they were marked. With compositions it was always twenty points possible--ten for organization and originality and ten for grammar. I'd never done better than fourteen. I didn't have the patience to look up words in those days

He was a fanatic when it came to getting his student's work back within a day or two. It seemed like he was always grading papers before and after school. I guess that's because he never took his work home and there were a hundred and ninety-two of us. He assigned a composition a week.

The Games People Play

The title of this editorial is taken from a book by Eric Berne, MD. In it he offers the following definition of “game”.  A game is a series of complementary transactions progressing to a well-defined, predictable outcome.  Descriptively it is a recurring set of transactions, often repetitious, superficially plausible, with a concealed motivation; or, more colloquially, a series of moves with a snare, or “gimmick”….  Every game is basically dishonest, and the outcome has a dramatic, as distinct from merely exciting, quality.”

The book lists the whole series of games that people play: life games, marital games, party games, sexual games, under world games, consulting room games, and finally what he calls good games.  After reading a book I know for certain what I have suspected for most of my life: I'm not a good game player.  My friends know that I am naïve, tend to accept at face value what people tell me, and I try to communicate what I think and feel in a straightforward way. One illustration of this personality characteristic follows.

In Cold Pursuit

In this book, Andrews does what she does best--make the reader "see" the locals she describes. I want to go to Antarctica! I was fascinated by the scientific research that is ongoing and the detailed look at what life is like for both scientists and support staff in this huge, magnificent, deadly "last continent".

I too was unhappy with the editing, although not really put off by it. I was a bit disappointed that Valena didn't have to survive by her wits alone in some remote, dangerous region, and/or kick the villain in the balls and drag his ass behind one of the snowmobiles. She is certainly tough and strong enough to do it. But, and this is a big BUT, she is not Em Hansen

However, the book is a great read; the solution to the mystery satisfying and scientific; Valena is a real character faced with very difficult personal, physical, and academic dilemmas; and I believe that she "falls" for a very cool guy.

Sarah has lived there! She shared the unbelievable beauty and danger of Antarctica, tossed in just enough philosophy to make her quotable, added enough humor and grit to make her fellow adventurers come alive, and best of all, reminded me what it means to be a scientific researcher doing work that really means something!

I have read all of Sarah Andrews’s fiction, and this book is one of her best.