haiku of change
on insight timer
daily notes in the old snail log
scattered leaves on the
pond of consciousness
meandering past the bodhi tree
golden trout giggle
while the big fish slumbers
I am a fish swiming to the sea
dissolving in the waves
wondering if the atoms of us
ever drift to space
will our star dust escape this place?
or are we bound by Newton
to the third planet from our small sun?
Do you remember the naked desert?
time flowed to rock
Do you recall when this rock was better than that rock?
When the wine was so foul we watered the sand with Gallo red?
You left a clay figure of hopeless to melt
abandoned in the cold of winter desert
old Saab sliding up hill and down
building momentum to crest the summit to Saline valley
opening up to
sky and rock
to the soulless cold of desert night
to Death Valley in winter
Our journeys into the darkness were ways to find the light
So often we went from alone together to just alone
You on the path out... me on the path to wildness
The long high hike alone, with Tolstoy for company
The high ledge and million star sky a lifelong touchstone
I lay on the stone and fell into the cosmos
always there
in my stony heart
always there
my high granite bed
under the yawning sky
there were signs that said turn back.
a hawk screeching and flashing talons in my eyes,
stay away
stay away
stay away
I kept on
Stepping over a downed log I a wasp stabbed me.
electric shock snapped my head out the hike and into alert.
signs to turn back?
challenged to go on
I hiked
Hawk and wasp echoing
widow maker limb fell
crash bashed across the path
just a step behind
A pause, a shrug, an extra breath and I'd been dead.
Instead I hike on alone
three warnings
before
I found IT
on the stone bed in the night.
I found solitude and Tolstoy.
I hiked
one hundred miles
one hundred miles
alone
now and then the same
now and then connected
all I've carried
all these years
connected
to song and soaring grace
found in the backcountry
I carry it all
blessed
and still alive!
barrel chest wrapped with pain
sore
wrapped in a blanket of tears
for the pain
for the hurt
for the weight of
a human
floating and sinking
floating belly to the sky into space
between planets in the family orbit
touch the face of whatever god you can imagine
find
strength and peace
share it share it share it....
Old friend
lost so many years ago
at the cross road
solo or family
you are alone
I am not
yet we have the same task
live with ourselves
live with it
live
hidden memories of trail days
bubble like the burp of Yellowstone mud
reach to the light
form in the mind
remember when we were young
and so dumb
silent snow sleeps outside
blazing inner fire
touched by winter
wind disguised as summer
wind chimes
bird song
meditating
San Diego bird song
stills my wandering mind
my breath
like the surf sliding
on a gentle shore
blissful wave
breathe balance
breathe
be present
feel the crest
with all my heart
this song of sweet life
we sing together
"Cute." ~ John Dvorak
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“You don’t want to teach. There’s no money in it. You won't’ be able to get a job, there are too many teachers already.”
My grandfather, Frank Thomas O'Connor was born on May 29, 1894, in Omaha, Nebraska. He died February 25, 1965, in Los Angeles, California, at the age of 70.
Frank, was a graduate of Creighton University, where he boxed and played football. At age 23, in 1917 he was working as a Public Defender in Omaha.
He tried to volunteer to become an officer in the AEF. They turned him down because of an eye injury he got when he was a teenager. He sang in an Irish trio. Here's a picture of Frank (in the middle) at age 18.
The army wouldn't take him as an officer, but they did draft him into the infantry and made him into a machine gunner.
Frank served Company A, 341st Machine Gun Battalion, 177th Brigade, 89th Division of the American Expeditionary Force. He trained at Camp Funston, Fort Riley, Kansas.
BATTLE PARTICIPATION OF THE 89TH DIVISION.
341st Machine Gun Battalion
—
(1) Lucey sector, Toul, France, 10 August-ll September 1918.
(2) St. Mihiel offensive, France, 12 September-16 September 1918.
(3) Euvezin sector, Toul, France, 17 September-7 October 1918.
(4) Meuse-Argonne offensive, France, 19 October-11 November 1918.
Frank remained in Germany assigned to the military police until he returned home in 1919.
He was part of the first element of the 89th Division to sail from Brest Brest France upon the Leviathan May l5 (1919) troops comprised the 355th Infantry, the 353rd Infantry, and 340th and 341st Machine Gun Battalions.
Frank's experiences in the trenches marked him for life. As a machine gunner, his job was to clear the way for the infantry. He survived gas attacks, shelling, very few of his friends ever got back to Omaha. He survived the Battle of Argonne Forest a deadly campaign resulting in over 26,000 US soldiers being killed in action (KIA) and over 120,000 total casualties.
When I was a young boy told me a few stories about the war. He was a taciturn man. When a story came, it seemed to erupt
He repeatedly told me how important it was to take care of my feet. "Keep 'em dry. Otherwise, it's trench foot and they'll just rot away."
"Don't tell me about religion. I'll tell you what it gets you. I remember when one of the men just jumped up and started preaching. He was really screaming about Jesus and a bunch of the guys gathered around to listen. A shell hit and killed them all. That's what religion gets you."
"I got lost in the trenches. I was out in the mud for days. No water. It was night and I heard voices, I was so hungry and thirsty I just jumped into the crater. It was full of Germans, they were as startled as I was, I managed to get away before they could shoot me."
I can only imagine what must be going on in his head in this photo from 1941. He's got his arm around my dad, Jack E. O'Connor. Dad was a Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps, home on leave. He survived WWII and carried his own scars.
This day, 102 years ago, my Grandfather was alive on the battlefield with the smell of the Argonne on him when World War 1 ended at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918.
War is pain that echoes in the genes.
My Father and Grandfather were scarred for life by the death they survived as young men.
Memorial Day is more than a calendar event.
present moment
perfect
love ripples
out
ripples
back
from infinite space
to infinite place
riders
senders
sharing our water
and our cheese sandwiches.
He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."
From Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems by Gary Snyder, published by North Point Press. Copyright © 1958, 1959, 1965 Gary Snyder. Used with permission. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15436#sthash.TfYQX1Yf.dpuf