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Canada Lake Kayak
Back to lean and simpler days.
In clear and green, the shy loon plays.
Alone and early, mist on glass.
Beasts splash loudly as I pass.
Soon I see a beaver's head
He slaps his tail, signal's red.
In another cove I spy she-deer,
I hear teeth crunch grass. I am so near.
Blueberries ripen on rocky banks.
Green, red, purple, blue; I give thanks.
Two kingfishers chase above the marsh.
I first hear loon's trill high and harsh.
I pass a lily bud, yellow in green.
I paddle slowly, not heard or seen.
I reach the source, a babbling stream.
I stop altogether, sense a dream.
The flow is constant, cool the rush,
I let the kayak drift towards brush.
The moss so lush, the trees lean in
to touch the man, his heart, not skin.
© Brenneman T. August 3, 2003
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Remaining Spaces
My eyes grow weary, or is it my mind?
TV's wasteland flickers by as lost opportunities.
Undaunted by an education of cavities and fat,
my mouth still sucks and bites the momentary,
unremarkable, immediate pleasures of processed sugars.
I will deteriorate until I answer well, "Who am I?"
When the loss hurts badly enough, I'll make a better choice.
Then, clandestinely, under the surface guise of enjoyment,
pain will seek again to root its place in habit.
If it has its way, my cycle toward discipline must repeat itself.
Today, may my reality be to eat of moderation and choice;
to drink the fresh juice of grape or orange.
Or might it be to read, and savor new perspectives;
to chase my slovenly tyrant from power
with a bike, run or swim to its distraction or demise.
Upon my own personal ruins, I must build a shrine,
all the more wondrous in it's design in light of its origins.
Might a right spirit lead me through a simple practice towards peace.
Where once there was only a nagging cycle of want and thirst,
may life's remaining spaces filled with meaning.
© Brenneman T. August 4, 2003
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Trapped
The rain calls,
stale honey grahams and Jag.
Drowning want is all that falls
on soggy crackers in a bag.
© Brenneman T. August 10, 2003
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My Only Arc with Limits
It's not tomorrow.
Sap flows when ready,
as the day's warmth beckons it.
Whether I ride the train or walk,
am still, or fly, bike, or swim;
my head and heart remain in relatively
the same positions
with respect to each other.
This is almost my only arc with limits.
No matter what I do or where I go,
all but origins change.
Should my extremities take me where I don't want to go,
I need not whine.
They are the subjects of my center.
Their course can be altered.
I get lost in perspective only.
An open road is always there.
Simpler notions,
captured in my moments of transition,
center light on better ways.
Choices are made, and change is certain,
but when I recognize where today starts,
I am filled with hope.
Shelah
© Brenneman T. August 17, 2003
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Inky Judgment
There were only ten minutes left until my wedding.
I asked someone to drive me.
Once I arrived,
no one seemed particularly attentive to my presence.
The bride was not there,
but I somehow understood she wasn't coming.
Still, that night, all was going well.
We talked casually as we headed out newlyweds.
"Are you going to take my name,
or will you be using your maiden name?", I asked.
"Whatever you prefer,"
was her relaxed response.
She raised her lovely hair,
revealing a tattoo on the back of her neck- actually three.
For an instant I wandered,
"were those already there?"
One read, "H2O U R COOL".
The bold green letters seemed indelicate.
There was also a tiny rose,
which alone would have seemed acceptable.
But then there was script, about ten lines
sideways below the that.
I never read it.
It seemed unlike her.
"When did you get that?", I asked.
"In November, when we weren't talking."
"I was feeling bad, and this helped me through a hard time."
"I had also been drinking."
I then reacted.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You should have at least told me."
"I don't like it."
"Who did it?"
The magic of the day was broken.
Her long hair fell back over her neck,
but the rest of the ride passed in uneasy silence.
Was this to be my first day of marriage,
filled with awkward moments?
She took me to the middle-aged woman in the arts district
who had tattooed her that night.
Their greeting was friendly.
I, however, scolded the woman.
"How could you tattoo someone who is obviously distraught or drunk.
Don't you investigate to assure someone is coherent before you mark them for
life."
My bride was embarrassed, and walked away.
I felt bad about what I was doing, but went on.
"Where are your Tattoos?"
"I don't see any?"
"Do you have any," she questioned.
"No."
"Well, I'm like you. Tattoos aren't for everyone."
I was so angry at her.
What a hypocrite. But what was I to do?
We left.
That night we slept in different rooms.
I dreamt. All the rich foods of the wedding reception
made them dark and spicy tales.
When I awoke, I was so glad that they were only dreams.
I looked to my bride's room.
Why had I let the night pass in negativity?
The tattoos were done.
I wished I had handled it more gingerly.
I went into her room to tell her this.
Her bed sheets were tossed open.
She was not in the clump of blankets.
She was already gone.
© Brenneman T. August 18, 2003
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Pendulum's Pride
Her maiden ride from left to right
was hardly a great feat,
but then she swung throughout the night,
as a heart's unconscious beat.
Our planet falls around our star.
Sun's landscape bends away.
They balance speed with just how far,
plunge last night into today.
© Brenneman T. August 20, 2003
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Balloon Tail
The Race For The Cure was over. I asked, and found the ribbon of hundreds of
helium balloons tied to a nylon string was available for the Aspen Chapel's
fundraising party. Now, just how to get it there?
I knew it would be a demanding, but fun new experience. After borrowing a knife,
I cut the nylon string and tied them to the back of my mountain bike. All those
balloons had perhaps only five or ten pounds of static upward pressure. Of much
more consequence was the drag. Most conspicuous was my beginning the one mile
trip on a mountain bike headed by the Aspen library towards Main Street with a
one hundred-plus foot tail of undulating purple and green balloons waving
lifelike in the wind.
"That's so cool," was the response of almost everyone who commented. Some people
just smiled. A child exclaimed, "Look at the balloons mommy!"
Why was I taking these to the chapel? No one else seemed very intent on doing
anything with them. Why me?
Why not?
It was an exacting challenge getting by certain trees. There were occasional
casualties, but the losses were unremarkable. The hardest part was going down
Highway 82 where it curves and crosses a bridge. The angle of the balloons would
change with the wind, requiring fine adjustments in the path to have them barely
skim the tops of trees.
At the chapel, I tied them to a dumpster. Tomorrow, the goal would be to get
them further down the highway to the 14 million dollar home where the benefit
was to be held. I'd be getting up early.
Although I didn't know it, the late-afternoon rain would put an end to my plans.
My mother found the corpses. I wish I had seen them pop! The sun-baked balloons
must have almost exploded in unison under the sudden cool rain's direction. All
she found the next morning were balloon body parts strewn over a fifty foot
area. Cleaning them up, I figured they had lived a 'full' life.
© Brenneman T. August 26, 2003
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