Why? (just three letters)

Why?

Poetry by Mark Pillsbury (2020)

At the center, there's me, just one letter: "i"
The cruelest two letters I know: N - O,
Right now, I can say, though;
The letters more puzzling than No,
To me, there's three...

The question posed, "Why?"
He looks to the sky and asks of the "i"
Just three tiny letters: w - h - y.

Should I care about why?
I did nothing to mold it.
What right does the potter have over clay?
The lump can ponder, or even behold it.
Yet, all we have under control is today.

The learned ask, what video is playing?
I should turn off the projector.
They don't understand what I'm saying:
"It's not a narrative, there are questions I want to ask her."

The puzzle is a why.
Not a labyrinth, but a maze.
A labyrinth helps you to "center"
"Why" is cloudy like fog, drifting into haze.

I have to live with myself, so.
I want to be fit for myself to know.

As days go by, looking myself in the eye;
I have to deal with the penetrating "Why?"

Days set with the sun, 
Still I question, things that I have done.

Why stays mute.
Hunched over, homeless, forlorn.
Unwelcome just blocks from home.

Why suffers dementia.
Bright-eyed, empty, lost.
Unnoticed, a spark, occasionally known.

Wasting time - why stops the clock.
Circling back, turning left then right,
Not knowing when to stop.

Is it wondering, dreaming, or thought?
Turning down why's cul-de-sac;
Investing so much, but it comes to naught.

Dying from thirst, we take a cup of why.
The ignorance like heat parches, dries.
Compulsively gulping, gasping, failing to know,
That which is understood, may not do any good.

Even with exercise, why is a heavy weight:
Innerness pushing outerness
Not competitive or violent
Engaging not withdrawing
Separate yet connected
Lifting "why" takes strength, whether it's worth it,
Is up for debate.

One generation tells the other his problem,
"I can't shake these three-letters."
Nodding, but he doesn't have them;
It's probably all for the better.

Mi amigo likes to think, he also likes to drink;
But that's another story to tell.
He's stubborn, straight-forward, and ornery as hell.

Likes perpendicular, 
Sees a lot of black & white,
Practical as an engineer,
He argues there's a root cause to everything here.

Nothing sublime, inscrutable, or hazy.
To wonder "why?" is a cop-out, intellectually lazy.

Pull back the layers, sin is what you'll find,
Meet my expectations! Foremost in the mind.

Future retrospection, is how he'd visualize;
Choose expectations, or a goal.
He'll not accept the tyranny of why;
This is something we all know:
The mystery of the unknowable, surrendering control,
None of this is necessary, he'd propose,
And if you let it, it will take its toll.

Why do some of us need an explanation?
The circle spins around again.
As if I could make it clear,
What we do: motives, causation, and sin.

Patience. Better than pride.
What purpose is served asking "why?"

Wait on the Lord, He's on your side.
All we can do is faithfully try.

Reaching up, the drowning man, yearning;
Seeking truth, her desperate quest, learning;
Asking why into the void, ears burning.

To be a citizen of a nation
Where only Gods and Kings tread,
To live in a state where answers
Don't linger in your head?

A place where wisdom's flag
Flutters in the wind,
And the assurance of faith
Defeats doubt once again.

At attention stand soldiers of mercy,
Dressed for battle, erectly stout.
Ready to vanquish an ancient foe,
An army against doubt.

But lurking like commandos, hiding in the fog of war,
An evil foe, still in battle, but willing to die;
The terrible question, yet powerful,
Three shots, short staccato bursts: w - h - y ?

It can spark an idea, change a plan;
causing conflagration.
But it will make you stumble, lose your way;
inducing stagnation.
Used lightly, much like seasoning;
tasting better, with celebration!

"Why" is found in the chasm between who you are 
And what you become. It isn't a map, more like a signpost.
Its backward focus will cause you to stop,
The rope you are pulling tangled in knots.
Instead of asking why?
Try asking: why not.

Today's decisions bounce off a "why-trampoline"
Sometimes one cannot control trajectory.
Often, why gets the best of me!

Tuning out "why" deciding to simplify;
Making a healthy choice, often one discovers their "voice".

I've got plenty of why, the timing is now;
Turn down the noise, think about the how.

Putting why into context is the right thing to do;
Taking off the thinking cap, and focusing on the who.

Fires, rain, hail, hurricanes, snow; why is there variable weather?
Looking to the heavens, how can one know; the mystery of "why" altogether.

I'm just a regular guy, breaking a habit, you see?
I like to ask "why?" An important word, with letters of three.

#PoetryaboutWhy

Copyright: Houston TX

©Mark H. Pillsbury/2020

Poetry on Time

Poetry on Time

Hibernating over the long winter,

If only it was at rest.

Piecing together what begins to splinter,

Remembering the best.

Deep in the cave

Lost in the dark.

Trying to save

What has broken apart.

Awash like flotsam, those you cannot retrieve,

Jetsam memories, born from distress, tossed.

The truth is between what I know and believe,

Some, though valuable, still they are lost.

Mourning the past,

Lives we were unable to live.

Tide comes in fast,

Giving all the effort I can give:

Surfing a tube, riding a wave

Rapidly escaping disaster.

Moving, crouching, hoping to stay,

On the surfboard going faster and faster.

Crashing on the rocks

Hurtling to the bottom.

Reality is what shocks

And this poetry is solemn*

Where does man find solace?

A story w/ chapters we don’t want to read.

With age it happens to all of us,

There are dreams lost, we have to concede.

Trouble comes not from what we don’t know,

But instead, about which we're sure.

When we find out that it "just ain’t so,"[i]

We go looking for a cure.

How to move from resentment to gratitude?[ii]

Fighting, entangled in the rope of an anchor.

A daily journey, a choice of our attitude,

Let go of the weight, unless it will sink her.

Complaining too long,

He built up a wall.

Instead sing a song,

Give thanks for it all!

God orchestrates, guides your life.

Journey's steps, movements of grace,

Assured as we are, there will be strife,

It proceeds quickly, memories fade.

Time is currency as valuable as money,

When we’re young, we’re inestimably rich.

Water is calm, morning is sunny,

Hook something, even if fishing in a borrow-ditch.

The present is not a potential past,

It's the moment of choice and action.[iii]

What if imaginations are recast?

Living each day with passion.

Can’t sit still,

For whenever we stop.

Think what you will,

But in order to reach the top.

Climbing the tall hill,

Jumping over hands of a clock.

Each second passes like a beating heart

The pace of time ticking with the clock.

From the moment life is fated to start,

Racing forward, until it stops.

Warping, winding, twisting, grinding,

The fabric of time swirls into a black hole.

Grasping, stretching, flowing down into my mind.

Déjà vu year-after-year, only repeating what you know?

Expanding outward, like rings on a tree

Forest, tree, leaf; years, weeks, hours.

Covered in bark, growth isn’t seen,

Progress you can’t see, I don’t know yours.

Memories past, do not last

Future uncertain as the next warm sunrise.

What if you had only one day to pass?

Lived w/ purpose, experienced w/ surprise.

Priorities match the time allotted,

But that begins if you assume:

Tomorrow could be funeral-plotted,

Cold, dry, deep, where one cannot exhume.

Let us eat drink and be merry

For tomorrow we die?[iv]

Is there gain if you hurry,

Look to color, life, and beauty, w/ your eye.

Take time to listen more than speak

Any banquet, in memory, won’t compare.

A heavenly city with golden streets,[v]

Home when you get up there.

Limited by time and space

God seems abstract.

To know him, seeing his face,

Is a relationship realistic, a fact?

Living life backward,

Momentum would build.

Becoming childlike, living son-ward,

Death/birth ending, small, and stilled.

Wise to unwise,

Robust to small.

Memories counter-clockwise,

To the simplest of all.

Original love in mother’s eyes,

Life's gift begins in adoration.

Bonding one can only categorize,

As the link to another generation.

You are this moment now,

At once, there is no other.[vi]

No past, no future; no why, no how,

Having met the “unmoved-mover”[vii]

If you gave up the time to read these verses,

May I leave you with a warning:

They don’t put hitches on hearses,

You aren’t guaranteed tomorrow morning.

Don't piece together what is shattered and broken,

Sweep it up, throw it out, it’s best to let it go.

Memories are real, they can't go unspoken,

This is something everyone knows...

But knowing how time works,

Being comfortable with its flow?

Thoughts, memories, even these words,

Melt away like snow.

Days grow like grass,

Flourishing like flowers in the field.[viii]

The wind comes, blowing hard; alas,

Beauty and youth once known, must yield.

*Dedicated to Brent:

Graduated, pledged, 

grew up together,

Away we both went.

He just passed away,

So much to say today.

(But too much unsaid)

I didn’t know he would be dead.

Despite being gone,

He lived a meaningful life.

#RIP DBP[ix] 

With a tear in my eye.

Knowing my sorrow, counting my tears,

God, you kept them in a bottle.[x]

Taking refuge in you thru the years,

My home is found in your gospel.

(end)

Poetry©Mark H. Pillsbury (2019)

---

[i] Mark Twain

[ii] Henri Nouwen

[iii] Simone de Beauvoir

[iv] Apostle Paul

[v] Revelation 21:21

[vi] Ennis

[vii] Aristotle

[viii] Psalms

[ix] D. Brent Pogue

[x] Psalm 56:8

The Burst of Bloom

The Burst of Bloom (Part III)

[Paris]

“Like the soil, mind is fertilized while it lies fallow, until a new burst of bloom ensues.” (John Dewey)

Without being an adept guitarist, still I joyfully practiced chords and songs in my Paris flat. With a cool breeze coming through the window, the street noise soothed my anxiety about learning. For hours we’d try songs we both knew; singing and reminiscing about each one’s importance; forging the kind of connection that led to a greater one, later. Music’s power moved us to experience different feelings, its primitive elements combined to reflect our own artistic predilections. These times playing guitar together fostered concord in our relationship, although we were hardly aware of it.

We also read together and discussed the state of our interests. By the hidden interface of fellowship through art’s revelation, we shared our personality struggles and became closer to each other’s quest for a new kind of beauty. 

Eventually it became possible to articulate how and where each of us sought validation. My gut told me that God sanctified mathematics through Gabriel, using his imagination as a soul-force. He would humbly remind me that a poem is not a legal argument, and that I could grow beyond my American biases and idols.

Once I read a passage that struck for us a note of truth: 

“Art celebrates with peculiar intensity the moments in which the past reinforces the present, and in which the future is a quickening of what now is;” Dewey continued, calling art’s qualities: “commemorative, expectant, insinuating, and premonitory.” 

This resonated between us, with a fervently mutual hope that the art would be such things, as our intensity grew. 

Merry Christmas, my thoughts in poetry... (2015)

Christmas Poetry 2015

Lord, save us from the dark of our striving,

Faithless, and troubled hearts.

With each day we live, we’re dying,

It’s with this poem my repentance starts:

From closing the year, socializing, and shopping,

December’s pressures are many.

Focus on the schedule isn’t helped by stopping,

Even though this month has as many days as any.

The culture of marketing and sales,

Begets a frenzy of doing and seeing.

But what is truly the wind in our sails,

Came down to earth as a human being.

School’s out and the decorations are sublime,

Lights are twinkling and glowing.

Some survive one day at a time,

They feel depressed without even showing.

Are we surprised by joy,

Can we live outside ourselves?

What’s the latest toy,

Flying off the shelves?

Seasons greeting, happy holidays,

Just don’t say Merry Christmas!

Cheer is passed along in many ways,

I love the name Immanuel (which means "God with us").

So many years ago on that Silent Night,

Jesus condescended.

By this he made all things right,

It's hard to be comprehended.

Now all the sleigh-bells ringing,

Don’t mean as much.

As to Jesus we’re clinging,

Changed by his touch.

Let all the earth fear the Lord.

Let all who dwell in the world stand in awe of him.

We read the Christmas story in God’s holy word,

And all together we sing a hymn.

Maybe it’s, “On Dasher, on Rudolf,”

And the rest of the crew.

You know their names,

You probably do.

Blitzen rhymes with Nixon,

What else can you say?

It’s Christmas ya’ll, and Santa’s fixin’

To ride up on a sleigh

He arrives in a couple of days.

The stockings are stuffed.

We’ve come up with so many ways,

To fill this month with fluff.

Is it different this year?

Or do we just get through it.

Hold your loved ones near,

And try to intuit:

“Peace is possible,

In our hearts we know it’s true.

But the story is improbable,

And it comes down to you?”

Away in a manger,

A baby was born.

To King Herod there was danger,

On that ancient Christmas morn.

They brought gold, frankincense, and myrrh,

A star guided Kings near.

I'm too busy wondering what to buy her,

Probably another kitchen utensil this year?

The baby grew and traveled,

He preached and he served.

Jesus teachings unraveled,

And the leaders were unnerved.

Christmas starts the story,

That morning ends at Calvary.

When Jesus in His glory,

Sets us all free. (Happy Easter)

So celebrate, feast, and gather;

The year is at its end!

But know what is the matter:

Jesus was born to save, Amen.

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

Poetry: Pray for Nepal

Swirling, smoking plumes rise heavenward:  thousands of billowing pyres burn with bodies and straw;

People crushed, both alive and dead, carry on a tradition all over Nepal.

By the will of the gods, dark turmeric smoke is life’s breath to the wind,

As is its nature, the body returns to the sky, a gift that its family sends.

The heaving ground broke open their souls, leaving gaping holes deep and black,

Unnerved, unprepared, enveloped by chaos; this poor country was caught by surprise attack.

As history flows from the Bagmati into the Ganges; Nepal’s tragedy washes into Bengal’s yellow bay; life’s shraddha (inheritance) is more than what is evident today.

Blessed are the meek, the survivors of this disaster; their only hope is that relief arrives faster.

How can they inherit an earth that so quickly and violently destroyed their nation?

My thoughts put to poetry don’t help the situation; but what can I do for Kathmandu?

All I can do is #pray4Nepal

©Mark H. Pillsbury (Houston)

["A poem... begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words..." (Robert Frost, 1916)]

Why We Must Struggle

If we have not struggled
as hard as we can
at our strongest,
how will we sense
the shape of our losses
or know what sustains
us longer or name
what change costs us,
saying how strange
it is that one sector
of the self can step in
for another in trouble,
how loss activates
a latent double, how
we can feed
as upon nectar
upon need?

Excerpt from Say Uncle, copyright ©1991by Kay Ryan

(Dedicated to my thinking friends in the HPHS Class of 1983)

Coming back to Earth (Installment #4)

Thoughts on my 

High School Reunion

After 30 years I realized that these are my people,

Diverse and transformed but still very mindful.

Cutting through the fray, bringing the truth into view,

Walking through the years was humbling and new.

With knowledge and understanding, classmates poured out their hearts;

Where do you live, howzur family, where do I start!?

So many present, too many missing;

We did a whole lot of hugging and even some kissing.

Happy smiles, warm hugs, I can’t believe we’re pushing 50.

Girls from Dallas were fabulous, and the boys looked nifty.

You’d think after three days, we’d run out of bull,

But knowing that time was short was a subconscious pull.

Which night was most special, whom did you meet?

I came home with a throbbing head and raspy voice, but I was tapping my feet!

After such long separation, what did you see?

Did you hear what I said, did you listen to me?

History shared, good or bad, up or down;

Some brought spouses, some came from faraway towns.

Will you meet me in Dallas, not in just 5 years, but ten?

For a few this was it; we’ll never see you again.

Loud music, cheap beer, laughter and yelling,

If there’s a better plan for ’23, the officers aren't telling.

I’m glad there were no good-byes, we went quietly into the night, the DCC shut us down and closed all the doors very tight.

There wasn’t enough time to tell every story,

Try as we did, we couldn’t rehash all the glory,

Some of us were bigger, some of us were grayer,

Most had some bruises when you peeled back a layer.

Joy, freedom, relief, forgiveness, grace, humility, concern.

I met this with every friend to whom I would turn.

New faces, old lines, new stories, old truths,

Where did the time go? Squandered on youth?

I saw football stars cry, there were heathens squeaky clean;

Some of the nicest ladies I met, as coeds were quite mean.

Schadenfreude gave way to grace,

Humility overcame pride,

This reunion was lived from the inside.

All of us are damaged, everyone by now is broken;

These deep truths resonated in every word that was spoken.

As a large tree spreads its branches, so has the Class of 1983: crooked bends and gnarled bark showing the perennial effects of its growth.

However, the comfort & grace provided by its majestic canopy gives all who see it confidence and peaceful shade from the brutal environment.

I am so thankful for the blessing of returning to Dallas, and coming together again for my 30^th reunion. It surpassed all my expectations, which started pretty big, as you read on August 5^{th  (previous post).}

We have a wonderful group of friends and a solid base to which we will return, Lord willing, in 10 years. Thank you for an enduring set of memories, especially Saturday night when Jason spoke. I’m sure often I will pause to remember, until the images fade. 

By then, in another decade; more poets, sages, elders, and saints will arrive with more stories to tell; and I fully expect the relief and gratitude then, will exceed even this memorable event. Words really cannot express that loving spark between two old friends, who look deeply into each other’s eyes and relish the moment of remembrance and celebration of the present. 

We've come to an understanding that aging is a journey with many unplanned stops; and that we are so appreciative to have made it this far. Walls came down and the Spirit entered over the rubble. Loving camaraderie transcended gender, age, body shape, socio-economic status, geography, even history; as time’s leveling effect set us on a course of winsome reunion. 

Soaring on the updraft of good times, I glided home on the long migration south to Houston, landing firmly in reality on Monday morning. No voice, bronchitis, too much unfinished work. 

But we saw a glimpse of heaven and I will never forget it.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Let The Wave Say

"If the surface of the ocean is this time that we’re alive;

Then this rising wave in motion, is this moment that we ride.

If you don’t move when it’s moving, then your life leaves you behind.

If you can’t see what it’s doing; trust the wave more than your mind.

When the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

I just balance through the changes, and let the wave say who I am.

From a thousand miles of water, from the wind beyond belief

Every wave roars out its power, as it rises on the reef

And the high blue wall can break you; you can never fight the sea…

You just learn to let it take you, to the place you want to be

Now the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

Keep my balance through the changes, let the wave say who I am."
--David Wilcox

Watching Dave again Saturday night brought back sweet memories of 18 years ago in Dallas, when I first got the nerve to talk, one-on-one with a beautiful brunette with blue eyes who a couple years later would become my wife! He once again gave wonderful comments, poetic lyrics, and amazing guitar riffs to a small audience of faithful followers who needed the advice as much as ever. Going to a David Wilcox concert is cheaper than therapy.

One of America's premiere songwriter/singer/songwriters, the poetry in the song above (featured on his album: Reverie ©2010), “Let the Wave Say,” led-off the concert. As usual, this winsome show included a few oldies I remember from the past shows we’ve been lucky enough to see; nevertheless, Saturday the same quality instrumentation and wisdom shined through to all in the audience, even if it was their first show.

His voice and pace were vibrant, clear, and robust and this new gaggle of tunes just as appealing as others from the 1990s we know and love. Sharing the journey with his fans, never too proud to admit he doesn’t have it all figured out, Dave muses on things changing in his life, helping sort out the confusing parts from the ridiculous. The self-parody, “Capt.Wanker” was a delightful admission that Super Dave is just a human like we are. No one likes to give money to a “perfect” person or cause; even a young Adele resonates with all ditched lovers, and David Wilcox has grown up with these groupies; indeed 80% of the enthusiasts at the concert this weekend were the over-40 crowd. David Wilcox is a sober, simpler, erudite version of the post-James Taylor singer-songwriter era.

In this song, “Let the Wave Say,” the words spoke to me in a special way as I try to grapple with the rising tide of change. Our 5 world oceans cover 139.5 million square miles of the world's surface area of 197 million square miles; and excluding insects, 4 fifths (80%) of all species live in the oceans. Even though I am a land-lubber, the metaphor of the ocean is powerful; and if you have ever been crushed under a salty wave it is humbling. One cannot fight the sea. It is one of the reasons I love the novel: Life of Pi, by Yann Martel (Random House/Canada 2001).

As I tweeted last week (Twitter@markpills), art is the free-flow of creativity from deep within; expressing truth often without out words; it can be a song, a painting, sculpture, clay pottery, or photography, just to name some of my favorite. Music says things that other communication does not. Dave's guitar plucks the heart-strings.

Poetry like this resonates over days, crowding-out other thoughts. My mind goes back to the wave today; I don’t see what is going on right now, in fact, I don’t really have a very good plan. The song inspires me to jump on the wave because the worst thing I can do now is let this moment pass me by, missing the opportunity for adventure. The art shows that the song is talking to me directly, in the very first song of the show; so you can imagine that Dave got my attention. Good art is a teacher.

As I focus on the next few months, out into the black unknown; I concentrate on quiet reflection, mindfulness, and waiting on God. Trying hard not to control the wave (I would be foolish to think that), I am learning to let the force of time, future, uncertainty, anxiety, all swirling about me, take me with it, to the place I want to be.

Previously I blogged (Mar. 12, 2012) about underwater panic being deadly to a Scuba diver; however it is also detrimental to a human being caught in a vortex of doubt. All I can do is be obedient, show up, work hard, and keep my balance: in golf the swing is like a metronome; in fishing, you can’t stand-up in the canoe and fall in the water. It's all about balance.

Instead of worrying about what people think about me this time, I am going to let the wave say who I am. Thanks Dave.

©Mark H. Pillsbury