Can We Go Back? Do We Want To?

 Philly Back In the Day

I wonder if I would like to live in the City again? What would that be like? I remember a little bit about living in Philly back in the day-the street noise and the people noise and the bars and restaurants and it was exciting. But I was a young pup back then. Resilient and without guile. Everything was new and exciting for me then, what would it be like now?

 

Elisabeth and I took a trip up to a small community about an hour north of our home. Liz had a line on a little house up there that would be up for sale soon and we had a chance to see it before it got advertised. The woman selling it is the friend of a friend. She was kind and showed us around the house-not much more than an old bungalow actually, and then she took us for a walk to the nearby lake. My friend Ralph and I had fished on that lake a number of times so I already knew it well. I never caught anything on it, fact is I never even baited my hook. I just enjoyed putting around on the calm cool lake with Ralphie. We’d have lunch afterwards and maybe a beer. Going up to see the house seemed like a good idea when Liz suggested it. It was a disappointment. It was sad. Dilapidated, moldy smelling, and poorly built. I couldn't help but compare it to my own home as I walked through the tiny, low-ceiling'd rooms. I wouldn't have wanted it at half the price. In my eyes it was a "tear down", and I have no desire to create anymore masterpieces to live in. Done it twice. Enough. As it stands I'll keep my eyes open for an opportunity but keep my expectations tamped down. I had sworn myself to forget real estate and focus on relaxing and staying healthy. Still that doesn't mean I won't have to keep the maintenance up on my houses. That's a pretty hefty job all by itself.

 

But then I got to wondering if it might be nice to take a complete detour in lifestyle? New York City. Or Philly again? No more lawn or trees to trim, but no more garden either. No more car. No more walks in the woods but there would be walks in the city streets and the laughter coming out of the open windows and bar room doors. I wonder. I’d love to ‘swap’ my perfect little home in the burbs/woods for a little apartment for a while to see what it would be like to go back to urban life three score and thirteen. I wonder.

Prayer from a Gracious Receiver

 

Prayer from a Gracious Receiver

 

Why cant we sleep, Oh Lord?

Do you have a lesson here?

Why is she tortured in the evening hours

While you wake me every morning?

 

Slowly, slowly we are drained

of lubricants and fluids

And the seeds of our necklace

Fall from the string…

I come to your bedside

With pearls

But you refuse them.

I have no guarantee

That they will benefit

If you use them,

Still, you could play the part

Of the Gracious Receiver.

 

We are already on the far side

Of the fulcrum

Waiting for God to take

His fingers off the scale.

It could just as well be me

Sleepwalking

We change places on the hour

So, if I have one prayer

It would be to have the power

To be the Gracious Receiver.

Lockdown

 

 

The deer have caught sight of me watching them eating. 

They pitch forward and turn running hard up the hillside

and that’s when I see the buck up there waiting.

Far out of range he waits for his family.

When they meet up they melt away into the forest.

Hole up for the Winter.

They feel safe in the red oaks, and boulders,

between civilization on the one side

and the long train down in the valley

running along the river.

It is a long train.

 

People are dying all over the place.

There’s a long train pulling us into the darkness.

There are ears to the ground.

There are eyes on the horizon.

There is no one and nothing coming to save us.

Gather your loved ones close to your bosom

and find your place to hole up for the Winter.

It’s a long train. A long, long train.

 

The people left living

eat medications

delivered by drones high in the sky.

Women in skirts and blouses  

too hot to handle,bought second hand

predicting the weather.  

Pessimistic futures based on unproven theories

delivered by false profits,

at work in their basements.

They’re building models with erector sets,

and bottles on conveyor belts.

They hold seances with Tarot cards.

They’ve traded their bicycles

for dreams of self-driving cars.

I sit with my elbow resting on the window stool,

watching the deer eat delicately up high on my hillside.

The 5:10 meanders off in the distance.

I can just barely hear it.

I used to ride it.

It’s carrying the bodies

back up the Hudson

to Newburgh and Beacon.

It’s a long, train.

The Tear of the Clouds.

 It’s a long, long train.