Mark Scandrette

Kids crying
Drunkards swaggering
moms yelling
men swapping drugs in dark alleys
cars crashing
people on the street
dogs and cats fighting
in all but forgotten neighborhoods

But… maybe
Just maybe
We can give the kids candy
Help the drunk
Cool down the moms
Take away the drugs from the men
Help people get out of their cars
Invite the homeless into our homes
and separate the cat from the dog
and maybe
Just maybe
We can make a haven and not a hell

–Isaiah Scandrette, Spring 2008

NIGHT (January 26th, 2008)

Through skeleton branches
the western sky fades from blue to pink
apocalypse red then starry black
and I feel the night
coming on the wind
and in the darkening gray
as the temperature drops
in minutes by degrees

Night comes like death
All the promises of the day lost
in the fatigue of twilight dusk
The shadows now lengthening
over all that is left undone

The warmth of the kitchen hearth
aroma of dinner simmering
The artificial glow of electricity
and the music on the radio
do so little to dissuade me
from the sneaking suspicion that the best efforts and ideals of my nature
now lay aborted, still born or hopelessly deformed
by the grave inevitability and the cruel withholding of your blessing

I am haunted in this witching hour
The hour when you abandon me
to the lonely voices and lingering doubts
kept hidden by the business of the day

I am desperate for comfort
In your absence
I savor of my food, cheap laughs,
fantasy film violence or the stupor of wine—
some sweat release or illicit escape
from the anger and frustration of being your unloved child
left alone in the night.
Your truancy is felt in the empty spaces
And so I rush
Past teeth brushing or bedtime prayers
to sleep and dream of other worlds
Tasting the milk of a mothers breast
Where all strivings cease
And all that has been
And all that will be
Is unmade

This day
I give
My body
My mind
My strength
My time
My way with people
Over to the great mystery
Of your kingdom come
On earth as it is in heaven

In each step
with every breath
beyond reason
or habit
I strive to align myself
with your intentions
LOVE come
To make
This moment
Magic

When the family was away
The cat gave birth
And in the loneliness of the empty house
Ate her babies
Leaving their severed limbs and skulls
Scattered across the floor

When we arrived the next day
to change the litter box
and fill the trays with water and food
We found the chewed heads
and tiny paws
strewn about the house

With a sour look on her face
and wearing rubber gloves
I watched My mother collect the kitten pieces
Placing them in an old milk carton
She would throw into the garbage
as the cat looked on inquisitively.

The family also had an iguana
Kept in a cage under a heat lamp
and we fed it dandelions
gathered from the field across the road

I went outside, through the tall grass to the rusty swing set
And swayed back and forth
With pictures of dead baby kittens
dancing in my head

I thought of the time at this same house
When I ran out onto the busy street
to fetch the yellow Frisbee
Cars screeching to avoid hitting me
My older sister telling
My parents yelling with worry
Shaming me with their words
The Frisbee never went where I wanted it to go.

I bring the bunch of dandelions I have picked
Back through the tall scratchy grass up to the house
As the sun sets in the humid august evening
of my fourth year on earth.

The smell of cat fur or a little box
Still reminds me that life is cruel
That parents sometimes eat their young
Or spank them for their innocent childish mistakes
When they are lonely, stressed or anxious.

What kind of world do we live in?
Where mothers eat their young
Or weigh them down with their own insecurities?
I am still wondering
But I have learned to walk through tall grass without being scratched
And the Frisbee usually goes where I want it.

Before dawn
The streets of the city
Lie silent
And I think of you
Leaving the house
for the lonely places
Where you caressed
The constant presence
of our ancestor

In the quiet of early morning
Only a thin space separates
Earth from eternity
I hear your Ghost-voice
Calling
within my beating chest
Waking me
with the invitation
to be still

I surrender to the whisper
Breathe the moist cool air
Bathe in the mist
that blankets the ground
like a warm, wet kiss.

What I want
Is what you desire
I give myself over
To your voice
and to your touch
opening myself up
to the inheritance of Sabbath rest
that makes this day pregnant
by the fertile seed
of one dream.

Charles Bukowski is one of the best known American everyman “gutter” poets of the 20th Century. My friend Brett turned me on to this Bukowski poem that is a quiet confessional:

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

There are many, many layers to becoming whole
and learning to flow
with the force of love

Partly, it is how we think about ourselves
and the world that surrounds us.

And partly, it is what we choose to do
with our bodies, our time and our resources.

“How do I love?” Is the question I keep asking myself.

The bottom feeders, small time crooks and thieves,
those of us who are more unstable or crazy
keep getting moved around by external forces;
loss of jobs, housing, spouses.

Those of us with more svelte skills
move ourselves around through constant career changes
or the restless desire to try another city
like a fantasy of making love to another woman or man
Somewhere or someone else might be better.

We ache for what we do not have:
money, beauty, time, a cause, a family, love
We envy those whose pools of emptiness
are different than our own.

I’m staying in the same house, in the same city with the same woman
learning these streets, these creaking walls, and the curves of this lady
like they are part of the chemistry and rhythms of my own body.

Growth comes through change
and the changes, they can be external or interior
When there is not enough stability
it is hard to tell the difference between growth and entropy.

It is easier to follow messiahs from town to town
than to settle down
to the true work of becoming
the question, “How do I love?”

The prophet, hero or saint
awakens our imaginations to the real work of change–
which, is an inside job, an unglamorous daily chore
like brushing your teeth or taking out the garbage.

I want a love that is alive
an ice chest full of cool drinks on a warm summer day.

I want a love that is full of hope
chasing shadows away with its light

I want a love that is bold
leaving a clear and distinctive taste when swallowed.

I want a love that is enduring
a pair of shoes well worn and well made.

I want a love that is skillful
like good diction, neat handwriting
or the poetic motions of an artisan plying their trade.

Let me step with beauty through this scene
in the ongoing drama of loves triumph over greed.

How long can we keep on running around
Spending time like paper dollars in a monopoly game?
I used to think that I could do it all,
when my ambitions were small,
and I wasn’t so strong.

In my mind, and with your words, we can create worlds
that come into being through the work of our hands
and the shear power of will.

Our dreams, they are bound, by the limits of time.
There are things that I do only for today,
eating, praying, exercise
Other things are done for next week or next month
appointments, planning, reservations for camping

But I wonder about the paths I might open for future generations
through the choices I make
Land bought for my grand-children
words written on a page that may only be understood by strangers in a future decade
I chafe at the reality that we are time bound– the pressure to make our lives count
when we don’t know which of the ways we spend our days will matter
in two years, twenty or two hundred.
In history, a whole life collapses into two or three events or artifacts
and the lives of entire peoples are reduced to the caricatures of a few great men.

We have such a small window into each other’s lives
Act with the future in mind
What can we leave behind to guide those who go on
after we have passed away?

For Ella Elizabeth Stavlund, daughter of our friends Mike and Stacy, read by the waters and flower petals of her baptism on April 15, 2007.

Ella Elizabeth
Who through force of Will
Now graces us
With her presence

May you grow in wisdom
And in stature
And in favor
With God and people

May the seed of the Maker’s good dreams
Leap and sprout inside of you
Nurturing you to become
The woman you were made to be

Today I will still my heart
and surrender my mind
to listen to your voice
welling up inside.
May my voice and my choices
Resonate with your eternal song