It's Been a While

2009?  Has it really been 10 years since I've posted anything here?

At that time, I was still in Texas.  Since 2012, the family and I have been living in Taiwan.  And now, we're ready to return home.  There!  That's the kind of summary I like...short and simple, like those miniature trailer trailers that preview the movie trailer you're about to watch on YouTube.  Come to think of it, that is a rather recent development since the last time I've written a blog on this page.

But why come back?  Well, I have found it to be somewhat challenging to come up with a blog title that really captures the essence of what I'd like to write about.  And then I thought to myself, "Why re-invent the internet?"  The Passenger's View is just as relevant to who I am now as it was for my life and mode of thinking when I first started the blog.  In fact, I don't even want to change that picture in the header.  There's a lot of meaning in the title and the image, something to which I will speak in the future perhaps.

The reader will find just a few posts from those days past, mostly poems.  I'm not very fond of those efforts.  My style of poetry has changed (for the better, I hope) since then.  Formal verse has really taken hold of me.  I struggled to grasp meter when I was first starting out.  Then I came into contact with some really wonderful poets who truly understood the foundations of English verse.

James Matthew Wilson's book entitled The Fortunes of Poetry in an Age of Unmaking was most certainly the starting place for me, and it served me well in at least two ways.  First, it answered some philosophical difficulties I was having with not only poetry, but art in general.  I saw chaos all around me, and much of today's poetry seemed hollow (and still does).  James' book deals with the historical changes that have led us to this current state of artistic emptiness. 

The second benefit that I derived from Fortunes was an introduction to names of living poets who adhere to some sense of formal, metrical poetry.  In particular, Timothy Steele was mentioned, and not just for his own poetry, but also for his excellent All the Fun's in How You Say a Thing, which has become something of a road map for me in learning how to understand and compose metered lines of poetry.

I do feel that I have grown as a person since I first started this blog.  It would be a terrible waste of a decade to not have changed at all in some positive way.  And I have yet to mention anything about our time in Taiwan for the past seven years, which will probably become one of the regular topics here, if my laziness doesn't get the better of me, causing me to wait until, say, 2029 to reappear.

The Passenger's View -- I'm definitely a passenger in this life; and I don't find that something to be ashamed of.  I only fool myself into thinking I'm driving at times.  As I grow older, I feel myself led by a Greater Love than any of us  can fathom.  When I try to take the wheel from time to time, disappointment may follow.  When I'm led, carried along as it were, I'm able to trust and at the same time look back in that mirror to see all the Goodness that has been with me in the journey.  Join me.  We'll see what comes next!

On the Eve of a New Heart

Brighten my cold cavern, every crevice
with your distant atomic flash.
Melt away the frozen particles
of stubborn animosity, cowardice, fear.
Belshazzar sits at the side,
knees now knocking one against the other
as he witnesses the foreboding script.
His fate is the fate of Herod
and countless other would-be dictators,
once confident in their cruel reign
over the enslaved souls of men.
Come to me and burn deep inside
with your distant atomic flash.
Every vestige of me a fading memory,
every despairing tear removed,
and now every morning, new mercy.
Let the revolution start!



A reflection upon the following image from Read Write Poem prompt #107.

When--

inspired by Kipling


When summer turns to autumn, then to winter,
And life dissolves to death and gloomy gray,
When months have passed and solitude still lingers,
But hands are folded for another day;
When weddings, birthdays, grant you celebration,
Yet years reveal what truly lies beneath,
Your patience dies and leaves you no ambition,
And sorrow quickly calls out unbelief;

When wars break out and safety seems elusive,
Or terror leaves a chilling sense of fear,
When earth is shaken, damage so extensive,
And what will happen next does not appear;
When safe and sound become distress and hunger,
What comforts small and few are left to see!
You might do nothing more than sit and wonder
If time will be your friend or enemy.

When plans are thwarted, absent rhyme or reason,
Or so it seems the hand of fate is cruel,
And obstacles begin to mount unbeaten
By sheer determination and renewal;
When every critic finds a chance to slander,
To bring your heart way down into your boots,
The strength of your resolve so frail and tender,
Your hope of harvest shrivels to the roots.

And when at last you sense the sad abandon,
That lowly mood where no one seems to care,
You’re all alone and friends seem somewhat random
When stakes are high, the cost too much to bear.
But fear not, for another day is coming,
When mercies fall like manna from the sky.
The disappointments soon will fade to nothing,
And comforts will be yours in full supply.



For Prompt #105 at Read Write Poem, I am posting a revision of my poem "When". Inspired by Kipling's "If", I used the same meter and structure. The content is of a different sort, more somber, but leaving a tunnel of light at the end.

Macropsia

Through a sliver in the blinds I peek,
observing two spheres:
one, the remnants of fire
readying itself to retire,
exiting with lazy evening purple.

Farewell is offered to the other one,
drifting in its paleness,
shrouded in silken sari.
She assumes her duty,
governing the darkness in solitude.

Howls of gratitude soar one by one
past mighty summits.
Into her presence
come the primitive songs;
no crescent tonight, only crescendo.

Against the blackened backdrop,
showered with crystals,
she slides westward,
growing ever larger
but ever further from my grasp.

When the moon starts to blush,
as it does tonight,
a withering world
is revived again
to cherish the One nearby,
the One that set it in motion.

For Prompt #104 at Read Write Poem

Pomegranate on the Border

Glorious garment ahead,
Crippled soul enamored,
The soft edges inviting
My fear to touch.
Lungs not ready
To breathe,
Tongue not ready
To savor.

Transcendental thing,
No casual series of threads
Soon to unravel.
Celestial comeliness
Within the hem.

Fruit –
Blue, purple, scarlet,
Priestly ornaments,
Life of the mystery
Revealed to weary eyes,
Tear-stricken eyes.
I would taste what I see,
Fear be damned!

Twelve years…

I come bearing fruit,
Wearing the robe
Of another,
Complexion colored
Of liquid ruby.
The naked, the hungry,
The empty –
Come quickly.




For prompt #103 by the good folks at Read Write Poem .

Why God Made County Fairs

Milky night skies over the city hall lawn
Where Homer and Hannah would sit for hours
Observing passersby and each other
And the rules that are set by moms and dads.
Especially dads, for the boy could see
The man’s face in every ride attendant
As Homer and Hannah would sit for hours.

Lines snaking around corners of each booth,
Dart throw and milk bottle, ball in basket,
The marks shelling out cold, gullible cash
For their chance to prove every game a scam.
But Homer and Hannah would sit for hours
Touching hands, star-gazing, saving money .

Tunes like Stars and Stripes Forever play on
Seemingly forever from a distance;
With echoes of “sorry pal, try again”
Or, “better luck next time”, or “beat it kid”!
Charles Ives himself couldn’t have done better.
Such dissonance makes for a pleasant noise
While Homer and Hannah would sit for hours.

Twilight comes, arrayed in soft skin and gray.
Now the entertainment is nomadic,
Encircled by a crowd of eateries,
Anti-nostalgic, fast food for fast times.
You can still find Homer and Hannah there,
Sitting for hours, oblivious to change,
Monuments of love from a bygone era.














This poem is in response to the Read Write Poem prompt #98.

On the Death of My Childhood Friends

When I was 10 years old, my closest neighborhood friends died in a house fire along with their parents. There was Chris (same age as me), Kevin, and little Kimberly. It was barely comprehensible to me at that age.

I remember waking up around 2 AM to the sound of my mother weeping grievously as she sat on the floor next to my father in our living room. He was crying as well, though more contained. People were scattered in small huddles all around the dark street, and the remnants of flames came shining a few houses down from the demolished structure. As I approached the house with my parents, I first saw what I presumed to be Chris' body lying atop the gurney covered by a red sheet. In my simplest way, I said, "Goodbye, Chris." I don't suppose I fully understood the magnitude of the situation at the time, though it was certainly hard to believe that these friends of mine were all gone forever.

The day slowly began to come upon us, and we learned that the father had survived for a short while in the hospital. But he finally succumbed to 90% burns that he had sustained while trying to save his family.

Now as I write this, I am remembering the funeral service, a very sad spectacle with the five coffins lined up before a large crowd of people. And now my heart breaks again as I think of it.

I shared this story with my wife one day after having it submerged within my soul for twenty-some-odd years. Having been a believer in God since 1998, I still struggle with the the whole idea of suffering, especially of the seemingly innocent. I accept it, but I struggle with it. This was a precious family, Mormon in faith, gentle and kind in all my memories of them. Why did God let it happen? For those who cannot deny their trust in the sovereign God, this can certainly be troubling. And there are many instances of Christians having to come to terms with this issue throughout history. In fact, how many biblical accounts do we have of such unfathomable tragedies! Job is one of the first to come to mind. And his responses to the Creator's dealings with him were remarkable.

More to come in a future post...

Sonnet

My friendly skies have left me dry again;
A cloud or two would do, but no such luck.
Upon a chance of rain I must depend.
My end would come if rainless lightning struck.
Forever it seems the wise farmer waits,
The thoughts I had of him fading from mind.
Crabgrass and broadleaf, with seducing traits,
Completely overrun me ‘til I’m blind.
These fellows make me think this is the life!
I’m under their protection. So secure
In this illusion, hidden from all strife.
But do impostors like these have the cure?
One drop is all I need, Lord, all I need.
Why stand by while withering souls still bleed?

Horizon

How the shimmering waves increase at day's end
As the sun gives one last brush over the vast deep!
Standing on the shore with a gaze of outward stretch
I contemplated that place where light and darkness meet.
Horizon its name, that immovable ancient border
Where water forms a subtle crease with evening sky.
The Light fades, and what was once clear to the eye
Becomes only a distant memory in the thick night,
Our minds engulfed in blackness, with no more
A reminder of day than a faint silver ball hovering above.

Yet the stars arrive to offer twinkling glimmers of hope,
And the children of night are still afforded a witness
That something good remains to heal their blindness.

But from the dark, none behold the line of demarcation;
None see the staggering freedom in its brilliant limitation.
The horizon is the safety net, the gradiose inheritance
Of every peril-bound soul that is brought into the Light.