in the new year...

in the new year...

may the wind always be at your back and the sun always shine brightest when you most need the light...

may you always have an abundance of love, laughter, and song to soothe and satiate your soul...

may you have quiet spaces and soft tears whenever your soul needs healing and your heart needs to surrender to the blues for a brief spell...

may the angels always know where to find you and may the devil frustrate himself to no end trying to intrude upon the everyday wonder of your journey...

in the new year...

may you know boundless joy and fleeting sorrow...may you never grow tired of the laughter of children or the colorful stories of those who have been here longer than you have...

may you know the comfort of friends, the warmth of family, and the sweet passion of lovers...

in the new year...

may you know love...
may you know wisdom...
may you know magic...
may you know peace...

namaste, y'all...and happy new year.

a Christmas prayer

As reindeer fly into the dreams of children of all ages

and the faithful kneel remembering the Christ child’s birth,

may you know peace and joy and passion,

may your dreams have wings and your heart be ever true;

may you dance with golden butterflies and lazy breezes,

may you sing with rainbows and thunder and blues in the night…

may you know peace and love, joy and passion,

may ever you know the bittersweet song of the universe…

may you know peace…

may you know peace…

amen.

Tomorrow in Baghdad

Despite her name, Mary did not really believe in miracles. She believed in love and in hope. She believed in God and her family. She believed in her country and her husband. But she didn’t really believe in miracles.

Christmas had been warm and cozy…her parents and her sister and her friends had gone out of their way to make it so…to distract her with the joy of the holiday…and as she finished washing the last dish from the scrumptious meal everybody had contributed to, Mary couldn’t help but smile gratefully.

But even though she couldn’t completely shake off the melancholy she felt deep down. She had dared to hope that her David would be able call…he told her it was not at all a sure thing but, despite knowing better, she had dared to hope just the same.

The days and nights since he had left were terribly, terribly long and lonely but she knew that they would be…she’d been through it before. The holiday season had come before she knew it and, being who she was, she threw herself into it though it felt more bittersweet than she would have liked.

Mary’s heart jumped expectantly every time the phone rang that Christmas Day and though the expressions of love and friendship were welcome she found herself crestfallen…it was love but it wasn’t David.

The hours passed and she made peace with the fact that David would have called on that Christmas Day if he could have…she knew that with all of her heart. But the Christmas night had almost slipped away…it was quarter past 11 PM as she dried her hands and shut off the kitchen light. It was still Christmas in America but it was tomorrow in Baghdad.

Mary slipped into the warm nightgown David had somehow managed to send along with other treasured gifts…she hoped that her box had gotten to him…she prayed that he was safe and well as he patrolled that faraway desert land…she wished, despite herself, that he had been able to call on Christmas Day.

Mary slipped into her lonely bed and was just about to shut off the light when the phone rang. Despite the disappointments of the day, she still dared to hope. Mary picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Howdy, ma’am,” a deep, chipper, faraway voice said.

Mary smiled and fought back a tear. “Hey, sergeant,” she said in a small, creamy voice.

“Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” David said, “thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?”

“No,” Mary said, “I knew you would call if you could…but it’s not really Christmas for you anymore…”

“Yes it is, sweetheart,” David replied warmly. “It’s still Christmas where you are….it’s still Christmas at home.”

Mary sighed softly. “Yes it is,” she said, “yes it certainly is.”

Mary, despite her name, still didn’t believe in miracles…but she still believed in hope…she believed in love…she believed in her husband…she believed in God and her country…and, on that night, she believed in Christmas magic.

The Dinosaur Boy (a Christmas Tale)

Suddenly, there was an awful roar. It was a roar that shook the entirety of the house. The dishes in the cupboard rattled and quaked. The windows of the house vibrated, threatening to shatter out of the most terrible fright. The big beautiful fragrant Christmas tree, with its sparkling lights, swayed ominously, seemingly ready to topple with a mighty crash at the very next terrifying roar.

The dog cowered in her corner and the cats scurried away to parts unknown.

And the man chuckled...trying to pretend to be afraid but unable to maintain the deception for very long.

And the woman smiled and snapped a photograph. Then she put the camera down and advanced with hugging and kissing in mind.

James the Dinosaur Boy sighed impatiently and rolled his eyes as his mother kissed his forehead and told him how very cute he was. “No, Mommy,” he complained, his blue-gray eyes flashing exasperation, “dinosaurs are NOT cute!”

He shrugged off her hug and tried to find himself again. “And they do not get hugged!” he added resolutely.

James’ father laughed heartily and sat back in his favorite chair. “He’s got you there, honey,” he said brightly.

Undaunted, James’ mother stole another lingering hug. “But my little dinosaur boy IS so cute!” she protested, her eyes a-twinkle with maternal pride.

James the Dinosaur boy sighed again, a bit heavier than before, but resigned himself to the fact that his parents...for all their undeniable wisdom...would never understand the ways of dinosaurs like him.

He roared again and stamped his feet. But that was okay, he thought...he loved them both more than anything else in the whole wide world so if they didn’t really understand about dinosaurs (like him) well, that was okay.

James’ father got up from his favorite chair and came over and lifted his son up.

“Careful, Daddy,” James offered helpfully, “you really shouldn’t sneak up on dinosaurs like that...”

“Sorry about that, Dinosaur Boy,” his father replied seriously. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time. But right now it’s time for all good boys...” James rolled his eyes up and his father smiled and added, “...and all good dinosaurs...to be in bed.”

“Why?” James asked, struggling in his father’s gentle but relentless grasp.

“Because it’s Christmas Eve, silly,” his mother said with a warm smile. “And because Santa Claus won’t come if you’re still awake.”

James glanced at the collection of brightly-wrapped presents underneath the stately tree and shrugged. Santa Claus...James the Dinosaur Boy shook his head but didn’t bother to tell them that dinosaurs don’t believe in Santa Claus.

He gave up his struggle and allowed himself to be carried to his room. He was content in the knowledge that it was only because it was his parents...the only humans he would allow to treat him that way...that he had allowed himself to be captured. (Dinosaurs, of course, always ran free...except when it was cold outside and then they didn’t mind having their pajamas and hot cocoa and snuggly blankets and, truth to be told, even the occasional maternal hug.)

James the Dinosaur Boy endured being made to brush his fangs but declined the new “Star Wars” pajamas in favor of his favorite, well-worn “Jurassic Park” ones.

He endured the kisses from both his father and his mother...though, of course, that mushy stuff tried the patience of a respectable dinosaur like him...and watching the lights go out while wondering what sleep would bring.

Christmas Eve or not, dinosaurs had dinosaur dreams, of this much he was certain. Santa Claus? James seriously doubted that Santa Claus knew anything about dinosaurs.

And then, slowly but surely, he slipped into sleep.

The world fell away and James found himself floating. This most certainly surprised him because he was certainly not a winged dinosaur. But he was nothing if not a boy who dealt with things as they came along and so he floated along content to wait to see whatever this journey was going to bring.

Suddenly he heard sleigh bells and the rush of a cool northern wind and, sure enough, he fell into a sleigh beside a fat, white-bearded man dressed all in red.

James the Dinosaur Boy, ever polite, nodded and said, “Hello, Santa.”

The old man, completely unsurprised by James’ sudden arrival, glanced over.

“Hello, Dinosaur Boy,” he said in a bright, kindly voice. “How are you on this fine Christmas Eve, lad?”

“I’m fine, sir,” James replied. “Though I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“To see the world,” Santa said without hesitation. “Even dinosaurs have to know that they are part of the world, of course.”

James the Dinosaur Boy, impressed by the old man’s understanding of dinosaurs, smiled and nodded. He looked down at the world below. The lights of the cities and towns were sparkling bright and welcoming as the magical reindeer pulled the magical sleigh.

“Everybody is part of the world,” he said, “even us dinosaurs.”

The old man laughed heartily...sounding for all the world like James’ father when he did so...and spurred his reindeer on. “Just so, lad,” he said. “Just so.”

They rode in silence for a while and then James said, “I’m happy to know that you’re real, Santa, but I really should be on my way...”

Santa arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? Where are you off to?”

James the Dinosaur Boy had no answer for him. “I’m not sure.”

Santa reached over and patted his head. “Good answer, lad. Maybe you should stay with me. Being an elf is a very good thing. Maybe being an elf on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Santa, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good elves.”

Santa laughed happily again. “Maybe not, lad,” he said merrily. “But the offer is always open...” And with that, Santa began to laugh merrily and the sleigh took a deep plunge and James floated up and out of it.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” Santa cried out as his sleigh disappeared down into the bright city below.

James the Dinosaur Boy waved. “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” he said to the wind, somehow knowing for sure that his words would reach the old man.

James floated higher and higher but he knew no fear (dinosaurs know many things but fear is not among them, of course.)

“Good evening, James,” a pleasant voice said suddenly and James turned to see a proud and beautiful eagle soaring alongside him.

“Good evening, Mrs. Eagle,” James said, recognizing his old friend. “I’m a dinosaur.”

“Of course you are, dear,” she replied pleasantly. “But where are you going on this fine Christmas night?”

“I’m not sure,” James admitted, “but I’m sure I’ll know when I get there. Where are you going, Mrs. Eagle?’

“Home to my family,” Mrs. Eagle replied, “Christmas is a time for families.”

“Even for eagles?”

“Of course, James,” Mrs. Eagle said patiently, “for eagles...and human beings...and even dinosaurs...up here you can see the world and know, for sure, that we’re all just a part of it...all of us important but no more important than any other part.” James nodded but said nothing.

“This is where I go down, James,” Mrs. Eagle said as they crested the mountains and headed over a lush forest. “Would you like to come home with me for Christmas. Being an eagle is a very good thing indeed. Maybe being an eagle on Christmas Eve is what you’re supposed to be now.”

James had to admit that the offer had its merits but he shook his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Eagle, but I don’t think that dinosaurs make good eagles.”

“Maybe not,” Mrs. Eagle said warmly, “but the offer is always open, of course.” And with that she turned and soared down towards the forest. “Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” she called behind her as she disappeared into the lush living forest.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Eagle,” James called out on the moonlight, knowing that his words would reach the beautiful bird.

James the Dinosaur Boy floated up higher and higher, the world becoming smaller beneath him.

“Hello, James,” a musical voice said. James turned to see a golden angel sailing down from the heavens towards him.

James, ever polite, nodded and said, “Good evening, Miss Angel.”

“Do you know why you’re here?” the angel asked.

“To see the world?” James offered.

The angel smiled. “You’ve already seen the world, Dinosaur Boy,” she said softly. “You’re here to see the universe,” she said pointing up to the star-flecked expanse of the endless sky. “We’re all a part of the universe...and the universe is a part of us...it’s all part of the grand design.”

James the Dinosaur Boy nodded...he understood, but he didn’t really understand. But somehow he knew it wasn’t important that he understand it all just then.

“Are you going to invite me to go with you?” James asked the angel. “Do dinosaurs make good angels?”

The angel smiled brightly. “Of course they do,” she said. “But no, it’s not time for you to become an angel...it’s time for you to head home, it’s almost morning and Christmas cannot begin until you are back there.”

And with that, James began to slowly descend back to Earth.

“Merry Christmas, Dinosaur Boy,” the angel called down as she began to rise back up towards the sky.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Angel,” James called out to a shaft of starlight, knowing that his words would reach up to the very heavens themselves.

James the Dinosaur Boy fell softly down...passing mountains and trees...cities and towns...countless souls waking to countless Christmas mornings...ending up, finally, right back where he started...in his house, in his room, in his bed...a dinosaur in snuggly blankets and “Jurassic Park” pajamas.

And then there was morning’s light and he was awakened by his parents on a clear Christmas morning.

“Hey, kiddo, gonna sleep all day?” James’ father said warmly.

“No, Daddy,” James said, rubbing his head and throwing off his blankets. He stretched and stifled an urge to roar.

James’ mother fussed with his hair and knelt down and kissed him. “And what is my little man going to be, today?” she asked.

James thought about it for a minute...sorting through all the things he could be and was...an elf, an eagle, an angel, an important part of the world, and a vital part of the universe, a little boy loved by his parents...and then he stretched again and smiled a shy, sly smile. “I’m going to be what I am, Mommy...” he said impishly. “...a dinosaur!”

James’ mother smiled and shook her head. “How silly of me,” she said, tickling his belly and making him giggle despite himself (dinosaurs usually don’t giggle, of course, but he could make an exception for Mommy.)

They all laughed and James’ father lifted him up off the floor and carried him out to the Christmas tree.

- for Jamie (always and forever my favorite dinosaur boy) -

More Christmas stories can be found here: Christmas Annex

A blog entry on Christmas music can be found here: Neverending Rainbow

Grey (an excerpt from an unfinished play)

When I was a young man (so very many moons ago) I occasionally experimented with writing plays. The following was the beginning of a three-act play that I never finished (a lot of the themes and characters found their way into stories in one fashion or another.) I found it while going through some files. Fair warning: there is adult language in this piece.

SCENE-

A disarrayed bedroom and kitchen. Malcolm Kendricks is draped across the bed (which is off to the right of the stage near to a door which leads to the bathroom), not completely covered by the jumble of blankets and sheets. He is snoring. Loudly.

On the floor next to the bed is an overturned ice-bucket, an overturned tumbler, a legal pad, and several balled-up sheets of yellow paper. On the bedside table is a bottle rum (three-fourths empty), a digital clock-radio (the time is 11:59), an ashtray, and a half-empty pack of Salems.

Centerstage in the foreground is a u-shaped desk unit with a personal computer on the left side (the screen is still on), a battered manual typewriter on the right side, and in the middle, a pair of glasses, a lamp, an ashtray, and a telephone connected to an answering machine (the "message waiting" light in blinking.) Just beyond the desk is an unpainted wooden cabinet with a stereo system and several dozen compact discs and cassettes haphazardly "filed". On top of the cabinet are a half-dozen stuffed animals of various sizes. Next to that is another unpainted cabinet jammed from top to bottom with books and magazines.

To the left is a small kitchen with a small stove, a microwave oven, and a refrigerator. The sink is filled to overflowing with glasses and dishes. Between the desk and the kitchen is a door with a mailslot in the middle. Today's mail is piled up on the floor (it includes several large manilla envelopes, bills, and a smaller, bulging envelope with no postage or return address.)

The clock changes to 12:00; it is Noon and the room is suddenly filled with the tinny sounds of a nondescript rock song. Kendricks groans and pulls the sheet up over his head.

KENDRICKS: ...uh...Jesus...shut the hell up!...

(Kendricks rolls over and slams down the mute button on the clock. It falls silent. He sits up looking with sleepy disinterest at the mess on the floor.)

KENDRICKS: Malcolm, I do believe that you are hungover...

(Kendricks rises and wobbles against the edge of the bed.)

KENDRICKS: Yep. You are definitely hungover this morning, son...

(He laughs and stumbles into the bathroom. The phone rings twice and Kendricks' recorded voice can be heard.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): This is Malcolm. I'm not home...or maybe I am and I'm just being anti-social. In any case, you haven't reached the party to whom you wish to speak. Leave your name and number (you know when) and I'll talk back at ya sometime later. Bye.

(A short, sharp beep sounds and then the pitched, insistent voice of Elizabeth Morris can be heard as Kendricks walks unsteadily back into the room wearing a robe.)

MORRIS (from the phone): Malcolm, it's Liz, are you there?...damn...look, Mal, the publisher is on my ass about those revisions! They need them yesterday! I'm this close to getting the deal closed, Mal, so please, don't pull that temperamental artiste bullshit right now, okay? We need this article to show them what we can do so they'll green light us on the book. Call me as soon as you get in, 'kay?

KENDRICKS: Fuck you, Liz. "We" ain't gonna do anything, I'm the one who has to write the goddamn thing...

(He crosses the room to the kitchen and extracts a mug from the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. He fills it with coffee from the pot on the stove and places it in the microwave. He crosses the room again pausing to place a disc in the CD player. The room fills with Bach's "Air on the G String". Kendricks shakes a cigarette from the pack on the bedtable and lights it. The microwave beeps and he trudges back across the room humming absently, and decidedly offkey, with the music. He takes the now-steaming cup of coffee out of the oven and gingerly sips at it.)

KENDRICKS (looking over at his desk for the first time): And now, dear friends, to work.

(He glances at the pile of mail by the door.)

KENDRICKS: But first, a word from our sponsor...

(He scoops up the mail and drops it onto the desk. Seating himself, he rewinds the answering machine tape while he sips the coffee and takes long drags on his Salem. The answering whirs to a stop and then the first message begins.)

RICK (from the tape): Mal, ol' pal, why'd you leave so early, dude? It's still a happenin' party...and that hot little Mexican babe has been lookin' for you...

RICK (laughing lecherously): I guess she wants to find out if what they say about you nig...black guys...is true! C'mon back, man, this party's gonna be going on all night and it needs some "soul"! Check you later, dude!

(Kendricks grunts and sips his coffee thoughtfully. The machine beeps again.)

CLAUDIA KENDRICKS (from the tape): I hate these machines! Uh, this is your mother, big guy. I just, um, wanted to remind you that we're all getting together at Aunt Sadie's tomorrow at 3 and that everybody's expecting that you're going to be there. Call me in the morning, okay? I love you.

KENDRICKS (softly): Shit...

(He starts sifting idly through the stack of mail as the beep sounds once more.)

LAUREL PAULSON (from the tape): Hi, baby, it's me.

(There is a moment of anxious silence.)

LAUREL: I'm sorry I couldn't go to Rick's party with you but I had some things to think about...

KENDRICKS (frowning): Do tell.

LAUREL: ...I...I'll tell you more later...in a way more comfortable for me...I love you...

KENDRICKS (nodding): Do tell.

(The machine beeps again.)

MORRIS (from the tape): Malcolm, it's Liz...

(He shuts the machine off.)

KENDRICKS: Yes, Elizabeth, I heard you before.

(He removes the message tape from the machine and tosses it into a desk drawer; he rifles through a number of tapes and puts another one in the machine. He glances over at the computer screen and shrugs. He picks up and opens one of the manilla envelopes.)

KENDRICKS (reading): "Dear writer...thank you for submitting your poem to us. Unfortunately, it does not meet our current editorial needs..." Yadda, yadda, yadda...

(The phone rings again.)

KENDRICKS (from the tape): Gracious good evening or afternoon, y'all, this here be Malcolm talkin' at ya. Ain't here right now. Holler at me when you hear that tone-thang and I'll hook ya up later. Peace!

(The beep sounds.)

MORRIS (from the machine): That's a very...um..."ethnic" message, Malcolm. And since you've changed the message, I presume that you're home so pick up the phone please...

(Kendricks sighs and presses the speaker button.)

KENDRICKS: Mornin', Liz.

MORRIS: It's afternoon, sport. Where the hell have you been?

KENDRICKS: Sleeping.

MORRIS: Christalmighty, Mal! What're you trying to do to us? You've got to get that article done so that I can get it to the publishers. They're very interested in the subject and I'm almost positive that we can get a contract and an advance for the book...maybe a series of books...out of them!

KENDRICKS (yawning): Uh-huh.

MORRIS: This is what we've been working for! A book about one African-American's learned outlook on the future of his race...the destiny...the pitfalls. Your essays will stir a fire in literary circles unlike anything since James Baldwin and Richard Wright were alive!

KENDRICKS (ruefully): Little Negro in Slumberland...

MORRIS: I'm sorry? I didn't quite get that...

KENDRICKS: Nothing, Liz. Look, I'm almost done with it, I'll bring it down to you tomorrow morning.

MORRIS: Great! I'll call the publisher and arrange to see them tomorrow afternoon.

KENDRICKS: Have you had time to look at my poems yet?

MORRIS: ...uh, not really. Listen, Mal, I know you like writing this stuff but, as your agent, I keep telling you that there's no market for it...stick to what sells, kiddo, and we'll be going gangbusters!

KENDRICKS: Yeah, yeah, yeah...

MORRIS: Keep your energies focused towards that article now. Don't let me down, kiddo.

KENDRICKS: Have I ever?

MORRIS (laughing warmly): No, you're an angel. And I'm going to turn you into the hottest African-American writer on the face of the planet, just you wait and see!

KENDRICKS (wryly): My heroine.

MORRIS: That's the spirit, tiger!

KENDRICKS: But let's make that "black writer", okay? I'll wait awhile before adding all those other politically correct syllables...

MORRIS: ...uh...we'll talk. Now get to work! Call me later, 'kay? Ciao.

KENDRICKS: Yeah, live long and prosper.

(He presses the speaker button again. He turns and faces the computer screen again.)

KENDRICKS: Jesus, I'm too hungover for this...

(He stops and rubs his eyes. Then he laughs a low, sardonic laugh.)

KENDRICKS: C'mon, boy, what would James Baldwin and Richard Wright do?

(He starts to type, slowly at first but picking up speed as he goes. He shakes his head and chuckles again.)

KENDRICKS: ..."African-American"...Jesus...

(He types on, picking up his glasses and getting more and more involved in what he's doing.)

Thanksgiving

Giving thanks…

for sunshine and rainstorms,

for laughter that warms the night and soothes the soul,

for tears that wash the day and gives wing to heartache…

giving thanks,

loud and strong, soft and sweet,

for strong quiet men and sweet happy girls

and children who dance ‘cause there are a thousand tomorrows…

Giving thanks…

for hummingbirds and wildflowers,

for lovesongs and daydreams and requited passion,

for pain and sorrow, joy and forgiveness, hope and faith…

giving thanks,

reverent and free, humble and bold,

for the wisdom to remember all our yesterdays,

and the strength to embrace all of our bittersweet tomorrows…

Giving thanks…

Watching Walter Cronkite

(The following is an excerpt from Soul Deep, a novel I recently completed. The year is 1968, the narrator is a 12-year-old boy named Malcolm, Amanda is his older sister, the war in question here is, of course, Vietnam.)

Mama liked to watch the news…Walter Cronkite…every evening when she got home. Even before Daddy left (he didn’t have much use for the news most days…Amanda didn’t either), I would watch with her…usually sitting on the floor near to where she was sitting… and ask her questions about what was going on.

“Do you think the War will still be going on when I’m old enough to be drafted?” I asked her one day while images from Vietnam were on the screen.

Mama took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said emphatically, “you won’t be going either way.”

I frowned at that. If our country was at war, why wouldn’t I be going? To be sure, the thought frightened me…I had no idea if I could actually kill someone…but it still seemed like something I would have to do no matter how much it scared me. “Why not?” I asked

Mama shrugged. “That shit over there ain’t nothin’ that anybody’s children should be dyin’ for,” she said. “It’s ain’t like the war when I was a girl.”

Mama would sometimes tell me stories about living during World War 2…about food being sometimes hard to find in the stores…about willingly surrendering her precious comic books to the paper drives…about how hard her mother worked in the kitchens of white women while her father was lucky to have been able to keep his job as a postman…about listening to the President talk on the radio reassuring the country and making them all feel they were sacrificing for a grand cause.

That was, she always said, was one worth fighting for…worth dying for if need be. We were attacked…we fought back…that’s what we were supposed to do. Even if the country didn’t really think of you as being a full citizen, it was still what you were supposed to do.

Mama had no such feelings for the Vietnam War. She didn’t believe that “our boys” should be dying in some little country she hadn’t heard of before the fighting started.

Mama had been thrilled when Bobby Kennedy had gotten into the race for President. “If Bobby gets in there,” she said on the day he announced he was running, “we’ll be outta that war in no time flat. He’s a good man like his brother, the President…and he’ll set things right in this country.”

I had a fond recollection of President Kennedy and of my grandfather. We were in New Orleans and Papa, Mama’s father, had taken me and Amanda down to see the President. I was 6. Papa was a dark man with a sly smile and a knowing twinkle in his eyes…he always smelled like Old Spice and cigars.

When President Kennedy came to town he insisted on taking us to see him. We rode the streetcar and we rode the bus…all of which I found to be a grand adventure… and the three of us joined the throng gathering along the avenue to watch the President go by. Papa hefted me up onto his broad shoulders as the limousine whizzed by. I waved at the President and it seemed like he waved back.

“Did you see the President, baby?” Mama asked when we got back.

“Yeah,” I said happily though I wasn’t completely sure what the real significance of being “the President” was, “he had red hair.” It was a trick of the light but I would continue to believe that John Kennedy had red hair for years to come; Papa would always just chuckle when I said it.

I hadn’t understood what was going on when he was killed. The teachers, many of whom were crying, put us kids out on the playground that afternoon to wait for our parents to come get us.

“They killed him,” Mama kept saying after she picked me up. I sat in the back seat as we drove over to get Amanda from the Junior High School and Mama just kept saying that same thing every once in a while.

The thought of Robert Kennedy becoming President pleased Mama to no end. “If Bobby don’t get in there to stop the war,” she said more than once after his announcement, “then your rusty butt will be going to Canada before you go over there to die in that goddamn jungle.”

I didn’t bother to argue with her…but I hadn’t truly made up my mind if I would go that route…it still didn’t seem right. But I didn’t dwell on it either way since there was a still a long way to go before I would be called on to really make the decision.

Those times of watching Walter Cronkite and talking about the news was something we shared with each other and I loved that we had something between us that nobody else shared.

a slow lovers' waltz

...and she danced, in soft bittersweet circles, across the hardwood floor. She imagined that there was an audience of hundreds enraptured by her every movement...her every nuance. She didn’t hear him arrive and she was startled when he caught her on the fly.

“You still miss it, don’t you?” he asked, his face a study in quiet conflict. “The dancing...”

She made a futile effort to fight back tears as she reached up and touched his face gently. ”Yes,” she said in a creamy voice, “and I always will. But I will never regret it...as long as your love for me is as true as mine is for you.”

He kissed her softly, his lips brushing gently against hers and then pulling back. “It always will be true,” he promised.

She smiled brightly and snuggled into him. “Then I’ll be your dancer and that will be more than I could have ever prayed for.”

They found music in their hearts...then and ever in sync...and they began to dance…a sweet, slow waltz across the floor.

“My dancer,” he whispered into her ear. “My precious, beautiful dancer...”

They kissed, fleetingly, and then danced...a slow lovers' waltz...as the shadows of twilight gathered about and kept them safe from the coming night.

The Club

(An excerpt from Soul Deep, a novel recently completed. It’s 1968 and the 12-year-old protagonist [along with his older sister Amanda] has just come from Los Angeles to spend the summer in New Orleans with his great-aunt and great-uncle.)

Uncle Samuel stood up and stretched. “C’mon,” he said, “we’re gonna take a walk.” He opened the front door and stepped into the foyer. “Amelia,” he yelled out as got his hat from the coat closet, “me and Malcolm are goin’ to the club!”

“Sam Jumper, you can’t take that child to that heathen club o’ yours!” she yelled down from the second floor.

“Mind your own business, old woman,” he called back after smiling and winking at me, “we’ll be back in an hour or two.” Uncle Samuel closed the door without waiting for further comment from Aunt Amelia.

We walked down the stairs and down the walk to the sidewalk. Uncle Samuel lit another cigarette as we walked leisurely down the street. Everyone seemed to know Uncle Samuel. People waved from their porches and called out his name. A couple of folks came and shook his hand and he put his hand on my shoulder and, proudly it seemed to me, introduced me as his nephew from California.

“Lots’a good folks in this neighborhood,” Uncle Samuel said proudly at one point. “Didn’t think I would ever take to big city life but now I can’t imagine livin’ anywhere but in this old city.”

We walked down three blocks and then up two to a busy street. We went into a nondescript storefront that was “the club” (it really had no other name I would come to find.) The club was a private men’s club where Uncle Samuel and other men in the neighborhood gathered to drink, smoke cigars and cigarettes, play pool, and, most importantly, socialize. Uncle Samuel would later tell me that it wasn’t exactly legal…it had no liquor license…but it was generally accepted (and the police looked the other way as long as there was no trouble…and the members of the club made sure that troublemakers were dealt with quickly.)

The club was dark and smoky and it took a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust. There was music…Billie Holiday, B.B. King, Etta James, Jackie Wilson…playing softly from a jukebox in the corner but the predominant sound was that of raucous laughter, jovial teasing, and unabashedly affectionate cursing. The club smelled of beer and sweat, cigar and cigarette smoke, whiskey and leather…it was, I thought at the time, the smell of men.

The men in the club welcomed Uncle Samuel heartily. He introduced me to so many men that I couldn’t possibly remember all of their names. The men ran the gamut of thin to rotund…cream-colored to blue-black…some smiled, some didn’t, but they all made me feel at home. Uncle Samuel bought a bottle of beer for himself and a bottle of grape soda for me. Then Uncle Samuel, a very dark, very muscular man with unsmiling eyes (but with a friendly, if somewhat reserved, demeanor just the same) named Vernon and a squat light-skinned man with freckles and reddish hair (who was, of course, called Red) led me over to one of the two pool tables in the cavernous space. Uncle Samuel, Vernon (who was the only man in the club wearing a tie), and Red patiently taught me how to play pool.

It was dark when Uncle Samuel, Red, Vernon, and an unflaggingly-chipper guy they called (for reasons nobody could really articulate) “Wha’sho” came out of the club. The men shared a few more minutes of talk and then we went our separate ways.

Uncle Samuel put his arm on my shoulder as we walked. “Did you have a good time?”

I smiled up at him. “Yes, sir,” I said truthfully, “that’s a cool club.”

Uncle Samuel gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Your aunt doesn’t think so,” he said, “but we like it. Sometimes a man’s gotta have a place where there ain’t no women.” I thought I caught just a hint of rueful bitterness in his voice but if it was there it was fleeting.

When we got back to the house, the savory aromas of pork chops, mustard greens, and cornbread greeted us as we opened the door. Amanda, who looked like she was in good spirits, was setting the table in the dining room.

Aunt Amelia peered out from the kitchen trying to affect as stern a face as she could manage. “Bout time you brought your skinny butt home, Sam Jumper,” she said gruffly. “Bad enough you always goin’ off to drink and whatnot wit’ those no-account friends of yours but now you’re exposin’ that poor child to all that sinfulness…”

Uncle Samuel just shook his head and walked over to her. He kissed her dark cheek and then reached around and patted her ample behind. “It smells good up in here, girl,” he said as Aunt Amelia giggled coquettishly before remembering that Amanda and I were there and then she pointedly glared at Uncle Samuel.

“C’mon Malcolm, let’s wash up,” he said, ignoring her look with a rakish smile, heading for the downstairs washroom.

“Aren’t you afraid she’s gonna get really mad at you sometime?” I asked as we washed our hands.

Uncle Samuel chuckled patiently. “Son, me and your Aunt been really mad at each other more times than we c’n count…the trick is that we don’t stay mad at each other for long. Life’s too short to waste on bullshit like stayin’ mad…when push comes to shove we know that we got each other t’ count on no matter what.” He looked down at me and smiled. “Now let’s get out there and get some of them pork chops before they get cold.”

slow dancing (you remember)

yes, you remember...you remember it all...

a dream in languid summer's time,
hot and golden and ever-welcoming...
a frantic journey to salvation,
bright red and soft blue and ever-welcoming....
remember? of course you remember...

the catch in your throat...the longing in your soul...
the staccato rhythm of your yearning heart...
you remember it all...

the touching, gentle and unassuming...
gruff and proprietary;
the touching, every inch of skin softly aflame,
simmering humidly in the moonlight;
the touching, searing wherever flesh
comes into contact with flesh...
too hot for heaven...too sweet for hell...

slow dancing just a hair's breadth
from the edge of the fire...
slow dancing just a heartbeat away
from being utterly consumed
(bring it on...bring it on...)

yeah, you remember...you remember it all...

a million sensations every instant
(how can this be?
oh, who cares?
it is what it is
and it's enough...it's enough)...
a million sensations, rough and gentle...
accommodating and demanding...
hard and soft...cool and fiery...
all at once...and then one after the other...
and all at once again (how can this be...?)

religion found, unabashedly shouted to the night,
words lost, the inadequate languages of man
lost to inarticulately articulate primal telepathy...
sweet absolution in sweat and passion,
in gasped endearments punctuated
with involuntary curses, cries, and whispers;
the universe gone red and hazy...
soft and hard...smooth and hirsute...
wet and deliciously electric...

yeah, you remember...you remember it all...

like it was yesterday (maybe it was)...
like it was forever...

yes, you remember...you remember it all...

a dance as old as time...frantic and deliberate...
soft and sultry and slow...
her hands, his hands...her lips, his lips...
weaving sweet forbidden magic
anywhere, everywhere...
again and (yes, please) again...
over and (oh yes please) over again...

you remember...you remember it all...

We Rise (Five Years Gone)

Of course I remember where I was. I was in Virginia…sleeping late because I had a stuffy head and a slight fever. I was mildly dazed when I woke…completely unaware that our nation had been explosively shaken from its malaise…and didn’t really comprehend the scope of it when told.

I sat…wearing the boxer shorts and t-shirt I had slept in…in front of the TV…CNN…mutely taking it all in and still not really comprehending the scope. Not long after I sat down, the second tower to be hit collapsed in a roaring, terrifying, stupefying cloud of acrid smoke, bodies, and debris before I (or the CNN reporters) really knew what was happening.

My body went cold…my soul went numb…and the world…the world was more of a strange and fearful and awful and heartbreaking place than I could ever remember it being before that moment. And I sat there…numb and horrified and angry and, yes, scared…for hours. I must have spoken during that time...I don't remember doing so though...I do remember holding my granddaughter (all of 8 months old at the time) and giving thanks that she couldn't understand what was going on (of course, I couldn't really understand either.)

Five years later the events of September 11, 2001 still seem surreal and unbelievable. I know they happened…I know that thousands of people in the World Trade Center, in the Pentagon, and aboard four jetliners died in searing fire and awful darkness…but it still seems unreal (if someone had told me on September 10, 2001 what was going to happen the next day I would have laughed and told them they had a vivid imagination.)

Five years later…in the wake of the blood and the fire and the thunder of September 11, 2001…we are at war…with insurgents in Iraq…with extremists in Afghanistan…with the nebulous concept of “terror”…with ourselves as we try to balance our aching need for security, our undeniable political biases, and our precious (but perhaps…at least to some of our leaders…sometimes inconvenient) civil liberties.

Five years later…we remember. Five years later…we reflect. Five years later…we stand, bloodied but not broken. Five years later…and on into the future…our hearts remain steadfast…and we rise…

From the smoldering rubble, we rise,
From the well of bitter tears, we rise,
From the night that seemed without end,
From the day blackened with blood and fire,
We rise…

We give thanks for the light,
Prayers for the souls gone abruptly to God,
Thanks for all the magic and majesty
That lingers even in the face of madness.

From the storied cities, we rise,
From the bountiful fields, we rise,
From the crucible of peace and justice,
From the land of the free and the freedmen,
We rise…

(MKW-2001)