Goodbye September

Goodbye 9/11

Goodbye Labor Day.

Goodbye sorrows.

Hello Autumn breeze.

Hello October.

Hello better days.

Impecunious

 It was late, and my donation sign had just gotten wet so I had no way to beg for money. Standing in the parking lot, I had to see about twenty or forty cars pass me by. I’d been stripped down to my natural human state, and all of my accolades now meant nothing. I literally had to shower in the rain and sleep in cold alleys. My days consisted of walking five to ten miles and standing out in the cold for hours begging for what most people took for granted. I’d been crucified, humiliated, and left to hang on a wooden cross in front of an old rundown homeless shelter. Everyone looked so comfortable driving by watching me begging at crosswalks, I’d become the itch in their fragile minds on whether to be blessed of left hanging. My new evolution of formal thinking had turned into an accumulation of real human emotions and intellect. The sad thing about my state of being is that I truly was a good person, but I’d been losing at the money game of life. Many of what I now called, them, were all driving in fancy cars, drowning in their ideologies, traveling to wealthy nations, trading precious goods for cash, eating out at the finest restaurants, and even wasting the one thing that I needed the most, money. I was once a decorated congressman who gave up everything by voting to defund a senseless war that many people never even heard of. Now I’m an impecunious bum, spying on God’s greatest creation for the greater good. Walking in between two worlds  I often found myself bargaining with the God of night and the God of day. I’d come to the conclusion that a humble soul who is left with nothing really only has one thing left and that is his soul. In a quest to satisfy my flesh, my mental state is the strain of slowly being beaten with a hammer with little to no mercy. The truth is that when you become impecunious you literally are the living dead. A thorn on the crowns of the fortunate.

The Field of Green

Partake, eat, inhale, chew, and be merry with the witches. Friend, walk away, cunning are their spells. In a field of green, many mighty men and women have sold everything they’ve owned to be cured from their fenced off gardens. How clever to obtain enough knowledge to master the nature of the sun’s gifts. As for me, all I have left is a poem to share. How many people actually recover? What is the solution to a mathematical health diagnosis? Friend, the language of medicine is understood by the doctor, not by too many patients. Mighty men find that they are not so mighty at all, they find themselves on their knees praying to be magically cured. Who really understands pain? Who really has the cure? Who really has the power to heal? On my quest to find the answer, I found myself in a maze surrounded by doctors and nurses poking at my flesh. Frustrated and confused, locked in a hospital room wandering through the halls in a gown half naked and drugged up, I realized that life is no different from death and every moment wasted falls in the hands of someone who outsmarted you. Suffering and high off of my medications, I hear the doctors and nurses laughing down the hall. I’m just a patient, my health plan is flawed, and I’m unsure if my God is listening. I’m alone in a room, I’ve been visited several times, sadly, everyone has already thrown in the towel when it comes to my survival. Friends, I’ve lived a life of optimism only to find out that life is like death when the odds are stacked against you, so friend, if you survive another day, write a love letter on the wall so that the next patient can get the message. There is no cure, there’s only pain, and suffering in hopes that the medicine man can save you, and when you die, the plants will feast off of your dead flesh to feed the next generation, but wait, I’m writing a story, so I say that there is no death. This is my life. If you made it this far without stoping your reading, friend, I say that death is an illusion made from life. How do you know that you’re not already dead? How do you even know that you’re alive? How do you know that the sun didn’t just plant you here like a seed? My friend, I’ve died a thousand times only to wake up in another world, yes, I have that much power. Pay close attention to who sells green grass for a cure, and in the end of one life, you will find that the grass is greener on the other side. There is no death, there is only pain and suffering to get to a better day and just because you don’t see me on your next day doesn’t mean that I’m not there, I’m just laying in a field of purple grass somewhere else waiting for a visitor.

The Field of Green.

The Lone Sailor

-A dignified sailor poem in a different day and age.

There he or she stands, seabag in hand, alone aboard a ship.

Young sailor, old sailor, on the docks looking to take a dip.

Everyone has moved on to gray old hair, but there stands a statue, of the lone sailor to share.

It’s like a moment in time that you soak in all alone.

It’s like calling from the edge of the earth with no phone.

The good old days, memories gone by, boarding the ship, studying the ways of war, from sun down to sun up.

Alone in a room floating on memories of good and bad days.

Sailing the rough seas watching eagles fly.

Get up, new sailors, and don’t give up the ship.

It’s a battle everyday, so stay on guard.

Far beyond, in a distance at midship, the water is deep and the waves are massive, but no one survives at sea by just being passive.

You’ve got to fight, be wise, and stay alert, because every night alone, helps you appreciate your hard work.

Sadly you must let go of what you left at home, you must be patient and do your time. Because of you there’s a trail with a light and compass for the next generation to find.

So this poem is for you the lone, lone, sailor, because when you’re young, you may not understand that he or she who stands alone must find a belief in something greater.

Trust in a higher power, and in the end you’ll see, that in God we trust is the true magic of a supernatural belief.

When the hearts of men are tested, the lonely sailor floats at sea, rising to the occasion for those yearning to be free. 

The Lone Sailor

Twins

At times I feel as though nothing went wrong.

At times I feel as though nothing went wrong.

But, sadly,

But, sadly,

Something did go wrong. If I recall, two planes and two towers.

Something did go wrong. If I recall, two planes and two towers.

I remember.

I remember.

The Miracle, the Teacher & Labor Story

 “Victor, it’s me again.”

Startled, Victor jumps out of his bed to turn on the light.

“Who is that talking? Where are you?” He says looking around paranoid.

I’m up here, on the ceiling fan.

Victor notices a small little woman with wings.

“What are you? Are you some kind of angel or something?” He replies.

“If that’s what they call us down here. The names Hudson, and I’m here to get you back to work,” she says while making a fist and showing her small muscles.

“Am I the only one that can see you?”

“Yep, you asked God for help paying the bills, you asked God to help out your coworkers to end the strike so he sent me.” Hudson explained.

“So what do I do?”

Hudson flys over to Victor’s messy desk across the room.

“It will be hard, but I was informed by the big guy that only you could do it. You have to start your very own school.”

Victor takes a seat, “But, I’m too old.”

“When I first visited Abraham and his wife she thought she was too old to have children and she ended up saving humanity. When I first visited Moses he said he couldn’t speak well and he ended up leading the children of Israel to the promised land. Then there was Noah, he built the ark. And now it’s you, the teacher.”

Hudson flew over to his bedrail, “All you have to do is start one school in the hardest part of town.

In about twelve seconds you will fall into a deep sleep and then tomorrow your assignment will begin.”

The next morning Victor woke up to his phone ringing, “Hello,” he said realizing what time it was.

“We’re out here on the picket lines, where are you?” His coworker Dennis asked.

“I’m going to teach my students the old fashion way. I think we’ve turned away from God Dennis. I’m going to go back to the fundamentals,” Victor explained.

“Victor, it’s 2023, and we have to go by state rules. If you’re having your come to Jesus moment why don’t you just go teach at a private school?” Dennis replied.

“I had the strangest dream last night, I dreamed about good and obedient students. Students who listened and created a better world. I also dreamed about a library. It was big. People from all over the world came to my school to learn and teach. We’re missing the key ingredient to the imagination Dennis, we’re leaving out a creator. That’s the magic of learning.” 

“Well, you keep dreaming, I’m going to get back on the picket lines.”

Hanging up the phone, Victor noticed Hudson laying across his desk. 

“Good job, now go to visit Mr. Wesley on Cambridge St. He has some land with an old school building on it. One of his daughters just got in a very bad accident. She can’t take care of the old school anymore, he’s going to give it to you and that’s when the miracle begins,” Hudson explained.

Victor threw on a T-Shirt and some jeans. It was reaching the end of summer so he had to move quickly.

Sure enough, Hudson was right. Mr. Wesley was at the building on Cambridge St. on the phone with his wife checking on his daughter.

“I’ll call you back sweetheart, I have a visitor,” he puts his phone down, “Victor, what brings you here?”

“I came to apply for a job,” he said.

“It’s been slow. Work isn’t what it used to be, but I do need some help with one of my buildings.” Mr. Wesley explained.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Hey, wait, I thought the teachers were on strike. Why aren’t you on the picket lines?” Mr. Wesley asked.

“What do you need me to do?” Victor replied, ignoring his question.

“Here’s the keys to my old school building Victor, may God be with you.”

Moving fast, Victor called everyone he knew. The fire was burning inside of him, and everything Hudson said Victor was all ears.

Spending every last dime he had to get his school prepared Victor turned to Hudson who was standing on some books by his old used desk.

“What do I do now?” He asked.

Dusting off her hands, “Now you wait, but while you’re waiting I have to remind you that this school building was built in 1972 by laid off steel workers. They built it to prove that they could serve the community’s needs on their own and they did. They funded this school all alone and every student graduated and moved on. They were on the brink of taking over this entire district until the war broke out and they all got drafted. Go to the basement. They left a huge box of bibles down there. I want you to put them in every classroom. Mr. Wesley has already started spreading the word and you will get your first class in three days. Now these kids were home schooled but their parents had to go back into the workforce so give them a break on the financial side. Just teach and we angels will do the rest.” Hudson explained.

“What about money? How are we going to pay the bills?” Victor asked.

“A teacher should be smart, but to be a good teacher a teacher must be smart enough to teach and plant good fruit. Plant some seeds first and witness the power of 360 knowledge,” Hudson said, pointing to an old lemonade stand in the back of his classroom.

Lightbulbs began to go off in Victor’s head. 

“I’m going to teach my students how to learn and fund this school.”

Seeing the state of a failed school district, Victor’s classes were filling up fast. The community donated books and exchanged labor for credits. They worked, and some even paid Victor to sleep at the school just to keep the money in circulation. In less than three years Victor was on the verge of creating universal learning techniques that would change the entire system of education and funding.

Dennis couldn’t believe it. How did a language teacher do it? How did one phone call about an impossible dream come true?

The next morning the newspaper read:

“The Miracle, the Teacher & the Labor story.”

Victor did it.

He gave his community a happy ending.

P.S.

With God, all things are possible.

With out him, a man’s working spirit will be soft, planting his man made trees with artificial fruit that die quickly.

At the end of Victor’s journey, Hudson gave him an apple, and a key to his classroom in the infinite heavens.

The End.

King of Kings

The first king thought he had it all figured out.

The second king killed furiously.

The third king lied.

The fourth king had too many women.

The fifth king fought too many wars.

The sixth king had too many enemies.

The seventh king had too many Gods.

The eighth king healed the sick, fed the poor, and was killed because he said he came to free the people from their sins. His story has given kings strength on their last days, and has given people with nothing a reason to rise. In times of sadness, in times of tragedy, in times of war, and in times of complete chaos, supreme understanding and calm spirits have to come from somewhere. For a person to live in freedom and forget about the greatest story ever told, that person may not be free at all, but is deprived of another place outside of this world, another kingdom, and most of all—another home. This can’t be it, there has to be more. If one out of a billion sperm make it to the egg, where does the other 999,999,999 million go? Some kings think they have it all figured out, some kings kill furiously, some kings lie, some kings have too many women, some kings fight too many wars, some kings have too many enemies, some kings have too many Gods, and some kings show mercy. In the end, we all have to die with a legacy left behind. One out of all eight kings has given me a reason to get up and try again. My ego is gone, I humbly take off my own crown, I let go of my own faults, and most of all I find a friend. As my brother, if I can’t do it he can. I find the king of kings.

King of Kings.