With the limitless patience of the faithful
they wait, imperturbably confident and
assured, the seers and the shamans, the
yogis, the sufis and the swamis, near
Chichen Itza. Their followers worldwide
besotted with the spiritual chill of the
unknowable void of being will settle for
no alternates. Awaiting the spirals of
heavenly light promised to invade the heads
of believers, from their vast galactic journey
they weep in fear and joy. A cosmic dawn
arrives to gift the worthy with telepathy and
they will loose themselves from the
niggardly magnetic bonds of Earth, to
levitate and flee its constricting confines
set to implode. Electrical vortexes
arrived from the galaxy's centre bid them
hither and they will respond, leaving fear
embracing love, bathed in the light of
transformative cleansing of the soul. For
they have discovered true salvation, fleeing
the stagnating brutal influence of life as
we think we know it. That is the revelation
the cataclysmic upheaval that engages
humanity, one with the golden light
of divine forgiveness, an arcane alchemy
of life bypassing death, the final frontier
to incandescent longevity. If not immortality
then why not? Thirteen and counting.
Look...at us, at them, the pathetic ones -
quivering with the misery of unrequited life.
Remember the sound the carts and the
horses' hooves made trundling down
the street, and the knife sharpener
calling out to the housewives to get
out there with their knives? I can't
recall if the man selling blocks of ice
came daily, but likely he did, using these
huge pincers to carry the already melting
blocks into kitchens for deposit in ice boxes.
We kids used to hang around grabbing at
ice shards at the back of the cart; if the
vendor could, he's give us a good cuff
to the back of our heads. The horse would
leave steaming balls, lifting his tail in
disdain at us as they carried on to the
next street. These were the days when
the Salvation Army made its presence
known on street corners, in uniform
unsmiling, serious faces, shiny brass
instruments belting out sacred music in
endlessly repeated performances before
marching on. Remember those times?
I do. Kind of dates me. Yes it does.
But I remember the fat old wrinkled
Nonna next door forever knitting
stomach-churning puce-coloured
mittens and caps and scarves for the
boys over at the front lines in France
and Belgium and Italy. I do remember
all of that, and more, much more. Like
the little house down the street with
no bathroom facilities, but there was
a little shed out back. Where we lived
renting the upstairs flat there was a
bathroom shared by another single
tenant, our family of five, and the
owner's family of two boys older
than me who would sometimes trap
me in that bathroom. I recall, acutely.
Oh, you're leaving, already, none of
your own memories to share? Pity.
We call him Dufus though his name
really is Rufus. Substituting the
"R" for a "D" more closely reflects
that dog's compulsive propensities.
Our two little sibling pups have made
the acquaintance of many of
their species in their yet-brief
lifetime. Their cognitive capacity
enables them to recognize which
among them are friends and which
constitute a problem. Dufus
represents a multiple problem
and so when we come across
our old acquaintance on our
woodland trails, like us walking
the newer generation of canine
companions, we keep an eye on Dufus.
As we stand and chat our little female
pleads to be lifted into my arms;
this from a blithe spirit with no
patience ordinarily to being carried.
Which leaves her brother vulnerable
to Dufus's typical manoeuvre where
he corners, then backs our little guy
off-trail hard against a tree trunk
while steadily gaining the advantage
his large muscular body sneaking
over the small silently quailing
back of our fellow prodding us to
swoop like eagles to extricate the
mouse from the elephantine
rutting intention of Dufus.
Hats? Gloves? Socks? Table legs?
Computer mouse? Zippers ... destroyed.
Books ... masticated thoughtfully.
They are ingenious in their constant
infuriating habits discovering
myriad ways to infuriate us with
their insistence on chewing foreign
objects not known to render taste
or nutritional value to any living
creature. A result of which is often
injury and sick bay. Yet to scold
these creatures is an injustice for
they seek to earn our affection and
do so not inappropriately by posing
as little laughable clowns. They are
an astounding pair of small black imps
impervious to instruction they view
no value in obeying. And they
represent an "in" crowd all their
own. They have their focus and
their inestimable values for they
are incorrigibly infatuated with
impulsive inquisitiveness; in the
process completely disarming us.
This is the day of sacred trust
when the international community
has pledged to observe the
unspeakable tragedy of a people
whose presence on Earth was
selectively extinguished by state
decree and inhumanity on a
genocidal scale of unmitigated
horror that left a postwar world
reeling in disbelief. Never to forget
forever on guard, a recurrence
forbidden by all that is human
sacred and history-haunting. This
is the day that a gracious and
smiling Pope welcomes the head
of state of another Aryan nation
that threatens the existence of a
Jewish state, with annihilation
by yet another triumphalist
ideology. While Europe, the
charnel house of its Jews, now
awaits anxiously the imminent
opportunity to open the doors
of trade and profit to that
same nuclear-driven travesty.
Shtetl-born, the era of the
transition from Polish pogroms
to the Aryan Nazi Third Reich
establishing its death camps where
no inconvenient furor of protest
was anticipated, the presciently
few sailed off to America and
there finding no streets paved
with gold, men took humble
employment in the trade of
peddling; broken furniture,
trinkets, schmata, and live
chickens from farm to market.
Hard work for pittance pay,
while women laboured in
sweat shops now exploiting
poverty-stricken women in
the Philippines. He was the stern
unbending paterfamilias their
children enraged easily and at
their own risk. She was the gossipy
meek balabusta vainly stretching
hope to make ends meet. Their
struggle to survive taught their
offspring what the parents knew
by experience; the world was an
unlovely place with few beckoning
opportunities. The second generation
adeptly grasped those elusive
chances fatalistically inuring
themselves against failure
attracting to their worldly success
the envy and the enmity of the
latest crop of anti-Semitic haters.
They lean muscle and sinew
into their work
minds free to wander
tongues hanging silent
in the roofs of their mouths.
Companions they find comfort
in close presence
each teacher to the other
wordlessly
carefully
full of care for the moment.
They are masters of the mind
but yet lovers of hand's efforts
they dexterously play ideas
one on the other
casually
cut wood to fit delineated form
sand and smooth
shave and stain
two jacks of variable trades.
