Your Own Back Yard – Michael Gillan Maxwell

I admit that I am not

a very sentimental man

or one of the great romantics.

But when I gaze into your eyes,

heart to heart, and soul to soul,

it shatters all preconceptions about love and eternity.

I know that you accept me

for who and what I am – a conflicted man

with many faults and flaws.

It does not matter to you that I hold

contradictory political views, or that my knowledge

of Greek mythology is not what it could be.

You do not think that I am fat,

try to save me with religion, preach to me about politics

scrutinize my vices or criticize my bad habits.

I hold your head in my hands,

stroke your smooth ebony cheeks,

feel the velvety underside of your chin,

run my fingers

under your red collar and scratch behind your ears.

You wag your long black tail.

Let us sit out in the early afternoon sun

and listen to the sounds of birds, and boats on the lake,

me with my book, and you with your bone.

We’ll discuss how, later, we will drive into town.

I will turn the music up loud, and you

will stick your head out the open window,

your long, pink tongue hanging out,

ears flying like banners in the breeze.

(Copyright Michael Gillan Maxwell 2011)

Today is not at all like

the past two days.

First of all,

it’s no longer the weekend.

It’s Monday.

Furthermore,

it’s not hot and sticky,

but cold and rainy.

Today is Labor Day –

a national holiday to celebrate the American worker.

No small irony in these times…

One of my European friends described it as:

“That funny American holiday at the end of summer…”

Summer’s last hurrah,

one last celebration

of picnics in the park,

hot dogs on the grill,

cold beer in coolers,

boats on the lake.

A day to celebrate the life of Riley,

to lay in a hammock

and contemplate the subtle nuances

between work and labor and toil,

to observe poofy clouds transforming

from dragons into unicorns,

to shoo away flies in the sultry heat.

But this is not like another summer holiday,

the 4^th of July

with its festivals, fireworks and flags.

Summer stretching out forever,

an open road, the beginning

of an endless highway where all things are possible.

This is the anti-climax, the denouement,

the final act, the fat lady singing.

It just doesn’t have that festive, holiday feel.

First of all, there are no poofy clouds,

it’s gray and pouring down rain.

Furthermore, it’s no longer the weekend.

It’s Monday.

If I am elected King, money shall grow on trees

and the on the bodies of beasts of the forest.

If I am appointed Chancellor, I shall institute a snooze button that stops time

until you’re good and ready to get up.

If I ascend to Kaiser, I shall decree Wednesday a day off with pay,

to recover from Monday and Tuesday and get ready for Thursday and Friday.

If I am elected King, every Monday will be the day before a 4-day holiday.

If I become Heap Big Boss of the Applesauce, gonna be some changes made!

If I am hired as Chief Event Coordinator, there will always be Free Beer Tomorrow!

If I am appointed as Dean of Hedonistic Studies, a Task Force will be formed to

investigate reports that Mondays are being inappropriately used for work.

If I am elected to the Board of Bacchanalia, we will drink like Vikings until dawn

and still wake up fresh as daisies.

If I am appointed Commissioner of Physical Existence, I will roll out technology

that makes it possible to DVR life

so you can rewind for do-overs

and fast-forward through the tedious parts.

If I ascend to Master of Time, Space and Dimension, you will be able

to adjust gravity to your own personal preference.

If I become Queen of the Roller Derby, I get an all-time automatic head start

all the way to the first turn.

If I am elected King, unicorns will run wild

on their own island off the coast of Virginia.

If I am chosen as All-Time Captain of Sandlot Baseball Games,

I get automatic first and last pick.

If I am appointed Head Honcho, I will amend Roberts Rules of Order to allow

the use of high volume air horns and Professional Wrestling takedowns at all meetings.

If I rise to the rank of Commodore, everyone will get a free sailboat.

If I am chosen as Miss America, I will bring an end to world hunger

and negotiate world peace.

If I am elected King, daily naps will be the law of the land,

with overtime pay for dreaming.

So it be written ….

so it be done…..

etc. etc…..

We stood at the edge

gazing into indigo space

The moon – a pale crescent, floated above.

We stood at the edge

on a thin sliver of land

that juts into the lake,

straddling north and south,

summer and autumn,

earth and sky.

Kids pinching their noses shut,

jumping into blue water,

swimming holes already a memory.

We stood at the edge

looking across the velvet deep.

A fish breached the surface,

sending out ripples in concentric rings.

We bid farewell to summer,

surrendering August.

September –

warm sunny afternoons and chilly evenings,

blood red sumac leaves,

mornings laden with soaking dew,

fog banks on the harbor,

migrating flocks on the wing …

We stood at the edge

heaven above, earth below,

we bid farewell to summer,

surrendering August.

“Only Hope was left within her unbreakable house, she remained under the lip of the jar, and did not fly away.”

Hesiod – 7th Century B.C.

The Earth is quaking, roiling, shaking,

churning, spewing ash and belching fire.

Her core is bleeding, leaking. We are waging endless war.

Someone let the genie out of the bottle.

Someone opened Pandora’s Box,

let loose darkness that swirls

out from the deep and won’t stop

until it covers the whole world.

I ponder the fragility of life,

curse our ridiculous vanity and conceit,

bless the frailty and resilience of the human race,

pray to the angels and call in my guides.

I do what any reasonable man must do

in the face of such chaos, insanity and disorder.

I confront the pile of laundry head on,

folding underwear, hanging shirts and matching socks.

I take the dogs, jump in the car, and go speeding

down country roads, all windows down,

wind buffeting my head, music blasting

black lab hanging out the window, ears flapping

on my way to no particular destination,

past horses and cows grazing in fields,

yellow dandelion and purple clover,

lilacs in full bloom, bobbing madly in the breeze.

Going nowhere, somewhere, anywhere, everywhere

on my way to places

I’ve never been

and may never be again.

So here’s what happened,

this is how it all went down…..

It all began

with a single intention,

something we might call thought,

a spark of light,

a vibration that hummed

until it became a steady tone.

Quantum

Before there was matter,

or form

or what we call

time,

for that is a human construct,

a boundary against which we push,

to try to mark and to measure,

our journey.

Universes were born ~

expanding outwards

from the center

all at once

in every direction ~

galaxies, star systems, planets, suns,

space, light, atoms, molecular structure,

celestial bodies without name or description, cosmic dust….

In the beginning, there was

The Word.

BANG!

It all started just like that.

I’m serious … that’s the way it happened.

At least that’s the way

I remember it….

When I die you have my permission

to have me stuffed and mounted

over the mantel of your fireplace,

next to that portrait of Ernest Hemingway

you are so fond of.

You know the one ~

He’s standing

next to an 8 foot marlin,

glistening in the sun.

When I die you can use my ashes

to glaze a stoneware bowl,

and display it on the mantel

under that black and white photograph

you like so much.

The one of the huge fish

hanging by its tail

next to the old man

by the sea.

When I die I could be a scarecrow

in your flower garden,

between the dogwoods and delphiniums.

Dressed like the Great White Hunter

to frighten away the crows and magpies.

But then again,

I guess

just about any outfit

would do.

When I die I could be a weathervane

in the shape of a marlin

spinning in the wind

on top of a lightening rod

on the gable of your roof.

Although it probably makes more sense

to simply have my photograph

hung over your mantel

next to that other portrait

you are so fond of.

I’m slowly climbing a hill, when a Dodge Caravan

drives right up my tail and blows past me

going about 80 miles per hour in a no passing zone.

“Baby on Board” is fixed to the rear window.

I wonder if baby is driving.

I used to think  “Baby on Board”

was an admonition to the rest of us

to drive with tender, loving care

out of  respect for baby.

I now understand

the real intent of the message is to indicate

where a young child is located in the vehicle

should there be an accident or breakdown.

Signs that tell me what to do

just make me want to do

all the things

I was taught not to do ~

drive fast – take a lot of chances, stick my fingers in the fan,

run with scissors, touch a hot stove,  lick a frozen flag pole,

walk under ladders, step on cracks on the sidewalk,

go swimming right after eating, play in traffic with a sharp stick.

While we’re at it, let’s talk

about messages on bumper stickers.

There are common ones with political or religious content.

I even have one on my own car, but I think they’re really boring.

My favorite bumper stickers convey a message

that is irreverent or  contains at least some a sense of irony,

not the annoying: “I brake for unicorns”

but messages with more hair and teeth ~

“Rugby Players Eat Their Dead”

“Dial 911- Make a Cop Come” – or –

the mother of  all politically incorrect:

“Nuke the Gay Whales for Jesus”

Anyway, I think bumper stickers are dangerous.

You have to tailgate in order to read them,

and now you’re reading, when you should be driving

with tender, loving care, in case the car in front of you

has a baby on board.

Honk if you love Elvis!