The Haunting Breeze

Cool grass under my bare feet,

The slope crowded with summer flowers, tilting wild;

Propped up on my 12 year old elbows

Sensing something incomprehensible.

Something so vast, pure and radiant; alive, yet apart from me.

And a breeze comes a’calling, whispering mysteries;

Perhaps to make sense of it all.

Something sacred in this space, revealed; something tangible.

But this secret was more a quiet blessing than a telling of it all.

I lend my ear still when wild flowers in all their majesty

bring life to a lonely hill and a light on life’s complexities.

I lend my ear still

When I pass by that lonely hill;

Knowing I may never escape that haunting breeze

that whispered to me all of life’s mysteries. 

My Marching Song

“How many roads must a man walk down…”

My voice would sail into the night sky
Free, robust and louder than alone in the shower.

As I marched along highway 17,

Near the stretch of limbs from the forbidding forest 
cloaking the night flower.

Moonlit lakes winked at me 
while myriad stars pierced the purple veil,

All a’twinkling, in response of course to my lonesome hail;

Free, robust, singing words of power

To enliven all about my voice that darkening hour. 

“How many seas must a white dove sail…”

My legs were fueled, my boots marching on,

The weight of my pack lighter still;

Because words found their hidden tablet where there upon

A man from crowded streets, an irregular New Yahkee, 

Just past a windblown boy then of fierce free will

Sketched his name into the face of eternity.

My legs were strong, their direction true,

Even the nightshades deterred me none;

As I found my shelter in the bush honeysuckle 
at the foot of that dark treeline;

Til cold morning dawn, 
thereupon my thumb made its daily sign.

So thank you, boy Robert, 
for sailing with me on those lonesome nights;

Ne’er really alone but there with your words, 
my beacon joining the starry nights;

One less road now before I know…

“How many roads must a man walk down,

Before you call him a man?

The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.

The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

The Power of Gentlemen

This ‘old guy’ occasionally goes dancing at nightclubs populated by the ‘hip.’ At one of these festive joints I was actually asked “What’s an old guy like you doing here?” Well, I recall fondly the last time I went dancing at one of these ‘cool’ zones and after being rejected by young ladies to dance with me, I danced with myself pretending I had a swing partner. Then these ladies noticed and one spectacularly attractive, tall, dark-haired beauty, all smiles, joined me and attempted to lead. I assured her she’d be safe with my leading and we proceeded to swing with great élan on the floor to the joy of all witnesses. And if her bright smile and laughter are any signal, my partner was having a thrill. This girl’s smile was in the 1000 watt department. Anyway, her boyfriend, who had been camping his jowls in his mug finally noticed that his babe and I were having too much fun and decided to grunt his way onto the dance floor and take charge, barely managing a twirl.  (Work boots don’t quite cut a rug, Bubba.) It was quite fun to know that I hadn’t lost my touch despite my moustache having gone white; and bearing the brunt of the dreary ageists. (Don’t they realize that according to their value system, they’ll hate themselves after climbing past 50, if they make it that far given their evident narrow-mindedness and poor judgement?)

   Women, especially of the ladylike sort, seriously appreciate a gentleman and a gentleman’s manners which I happen to exude. For my good manners I thank my upbringing and private Catholic school education which included etiquette and elocution as course subjects.

   Now it occurs to me that gentlemen have other more pertinent powers at hand than just stealing some ‘dude’s’ babe.

   Let’s skip through a few and see where we gentlemen may rank in the scheme of values in our society.

   Now let’s start with the gentleboy. He is taught early about the scourge of bullying and its terrible consequences. He learns not to become abusive. 

   Now onto the hard stuff. Dope. The gentleboy would not be a bully. He would not be abusive in any way. Neither of course would the gentleman. And the gentleman knows not to be self-abusive. The use of dope is a form of self abuse. The ideal gentleman would totally shun drugs and their proponents. Now with all men being gentlemen we can now discount the useless, unemployable riffraff who populate our streets blocking the sidewalk with their inane chant: “Rock, powder, down.” No buyers. No market left. They’re out. Period. Off to the organic rehab farms. And to expedite the suppliers being eliminated, a minor change in the law allowing the foreclosure on all their properties gained from illicit drug use and sales would be an entirely appropriate change for a gentleman to recommend. And make it retroactive. A civilization can close a loophole. Neat little windfall right there, deposited unto the control of good people.

    And now without gangs to contend with and no gentlemen carrying guns, we can then assume the end of the era of the thug cop. No more of that brutal fraternity.

     Corrupt politicians would become extinct as none of that scheming nonsense and graft would be neither tolerated nor participated in by a gentleman. A gentleman’s vote counts. Vote those freaks out. With the riffraff gone and the dope, the crude language would be next. Rough language invites rough behaviour and such behaviour is absolutely anathematic to the man of gentle manners. Make the use of that language repugnant to all.

     And the time has come: remove the cyclists; the selfish and noisy skateboarders; the obese go-carters and the long-leashed doggies from our sidewalks and return the sidewalks to the elegant strollers. Such would be a welcome change for men of peace enjoying a walkabout.

    Pornography and crude TV programming celebrating violence, conflict and grief would come to its deserved end. Sex addicts would have to find their rightful place in an asylum; and the hysterical public grievers can traipse off to Italy where that culture seems to cultivate such nonsense. Wail on to Sicily!

    Celebrity gossip and the media hounding of good people would also find their way to the dustbins along with the litter which has been crowding our streets and walkways for decades now. No decent man would throw their garbage out into the street. That is precisely ungentlemanly. And neither would a well-mannered man drive aggressively threatening their fellows. New immigrants should be required to take a course in driving manners.

   The wealth-addicted can be reprogrammed to look after the children going to school hungry every day and their golden parachutes can be remade into quilts for the homeless; until the homeless were properly looked after, as would be the mission of a gentleman.

     Distrust and its cousin loneliness would expire in the home of the hospitable and arguments and minor feuds can be settled with an eye to resolution, being moderated by fair-minded men. We could all have an expectation of good neighbourliness in a community of gentlemen. And scheming and conniving would become amusing vignettes of darker times.

    Divorces, as with those feuds, would be extremely rare as a good man would remain faithful and decent and loving throughout the entire (lifetime) of the marriage. Giving one’s word means something of honour to the righteous man.

   Bigotry and ageism might be the last blights to go but indeed go they would the way of the do do bird. And urban pet owners might finally get the drift that their pooch is not more important than the elder walking the streets. Long leashed dog and do do bird cemeteries anyone?

   All of this would result in greater optimism and better health. Health encouraged by a more profound joy as scientists tell us now that our neurotransmitters rely on a balanced mind before those dopamines and seratonins associated with pleasure can be delivered more effectively and with greater impact (though subtle) to the unpolluted mind. No more forcing the gates open with artificial means – like drugs or alcohol. When searching for a delicate, antique teapot you don’t send into the china shop rampaging elephants, stoned crackheads and wild-eyed boors.

   So what faction of our society would suffer for these enlightening changes? Hmm. Lawyers and bureaucrats who rely on mischief making and feud-creation; deliberately obfuscating the obvious and gentlemanly way to go to simple resolutions. Instead of charged by the syllable, we’d have lawyers as panhandlers? Oh poetic justice!

  

   Now, dear reader, has it occurred to any of you yet just how much we as taxpayers would be saving if our society were totally populated by gentlemen? Have another gander at these changes mentioned above and start counting the staggering amount of money we’d all be the beneficiaries of, in the event of living in a truly civilized, elegant society.

   I can live with those numbers. I can live with gentlemen.

   Afterthought: gentlemen ultimately identify the serious issues affecting our society and which of those issues need to be addressed in order to encourage the civilizing of our communities. This educated man would be morally driven to incite those changes. He becomes a leader, fierce and brave, as he confronts the wealth-addicted and all the other elements of his society which are preventing the return of a civilization to one of true peace. The gentleman will accept the moral imperative to become a warrior of righteousness.       

Never Lonely

I live alone. No pets. Don’t enjoy TV much. Don’t eat out. Cook alone. Eat alone. I walk alone. I sleep alone. I am the victim of ageism. Sometimes slander. And have been assaulted and am occasionally threatened.

I am not afraid. And I am not lonely.

     When I encounter a person, a stranger, I make a point of saying something gentlemanly like “Good morning. How are you today?” and I sound like I mean it; because I do. I do care about how they are today. When I find a reason to expand on the one-liner and perhaps mention the weather as being pleasant or find some other relevant anecdotal comment to include, I watch their reaction with extreme care and I find in their hint of a smile, which I aim and look for, a contentment. I hear in their voice all of their humanity and sometimes it seems I notice an ancestral presence too. I can usually tell them them if they’re European, Irish, Brit or American and they find that charming. Within a minute or shorter, I can find something humorous to add. It is in this brief exchange that I am filled. Their humanity has touched me. I have been, as it were, topped off. Good to go. I am never lonely.

Mea Culpa?

What crime? I have been ostracized; demonized; avoided; dismissed; burdened with slander; sneered at; victimized; ignored; ridiculed; targeted; maligned; vilified; and oh well, to call a spade a spade, just generally and almost unanimously pissed on.  I have searched, scoured my mind, in a vain effort to find the sore point that has landed me so unceremoniously on the bottom social shelf. After all that scouring, I finally got it.

My crime? My moustache went white.

The Elder Strikes Back

In a restaurant you think of me as a wallet. In a nightclub you think of me as being out of place, like a lurking pervert. In a fashionable clothing store you think I’m in the wrong place. On the sidewalks you expect to walk through me; and your dogs come first. In traffic,

you think I’m a doddering idiot who can’t maneuver a car fast enough for you. If I’m spotted outside a school, according to you I’m definitely a deviant on the make. When I smile at you, once again you hold me in contempt. In the social stream of things I’m a has-been. To a landlord I’m a guaranteed income. In museums you think I belong there. When I make an innocuous comment about the weather you think I’m hitting on you. In movie theaters I’m invisible. In line-ups I’m a pest in the way. My worth to you is that you may ask me for money. At scenic pull-overs I’m in the way of your camera. To the thief I’m a target. If you’re car salesman I’m a mark. In parks I might as well be an infested ancient willow. To the social helpers I’m an object of their charity. To the bank tellers I’m a waste of time if my balance doesn’t match their expectation; and to the bankers if I’m not playing into their hand I’m wasting their valuable time while they sneak their hidden fees into the two point type at the bottom of my bank account documents.

Now it’s my turn. To me: you’re disrespectful of my accumulated knowledge; my life experience. You shun my humanity. I take your insults as indicative of how tiresome you are. Because you are in university I’m an old fool; which makes you in my mind witheringly dull; of no curiosity and no inquisitiveness – earmarks of what I have come to know as prerequisites to learning anything. You dress slovenly and consider yourself a beau brummel. You don’t know how to wear a fedora and can’t carry an umbrella without stabbing someone and visit tattoo parlours like religious shrines while you waste your money painting the flower. You eat the same crap every day of no nutritional value whatsoever and think because you’re beefy with muscles that you are in good health. You use steroids to

build that confidence you lost when you entered the cave of fear and began your life of cheap, slanderous judgements. While you’re sneering at the whiteness of my moustache I’m

taking in the beauty of that rare youth who still has a sense of humour. Rare gems. Your expertise at violent video games has prepared you for nothing except to increase your anxiety and embolden your pretense of enjoying your life of illusions. While your jowls are camping in their mug, I’ll steal your woman for a swing on the dance floor and show her more intimacy in that few moments than your bullying and bragging has ever shown them. Ever. Your vocabulary is a three word wonder: dude; awesome and bro. You lack mystery. Sophistication is well beyond you. Elegance is foreign territory and good manners are already extinct in your insipid life. Your best days are gone; when you were twelve. You think you’re sexy because you’re young while I find your narrow judgements precursors to how boring in bed you’d be. So dude, don’t call me bro because in my book you aren’t even remotely awesome. Now that I’ve eviscerated your entire conversational repetoir in one sentence, might I suggest learning a whole new word? Curiosity.
   Now if I were to offer you advice in the odd event you’d actually listen, I’d say Get a life. But I suspect it’s too late for you. You’re too old now. Too set in your ways and deploring the thought of aging. That makes you black toast. And this one old guy doesn’t eat burnt toast.