You and I are different When we know who we are But beyond that major mystery We can’t get far You and I we cannot be The lies we are.
Sailing ships of onyx and silver You know, we all have our dreams We have our lovers and brothers, and sisters too, We all have our schemes We will be free when greed no more In each eye gleams
Singing with my blue-feathered lady With her I’m never so blind Chasing down a country-fine morning To find a place we can unwind Lady and I we’ve left the world So far behind
Today the veil of snow descends On the pasture of beach weeds I call the lawn. Until the weather warms, it will Lie in state, as does your memory, my furry friend. Oh, that you could see the white and feel, Under your paws, the bracing chill of it. Simple is my wish: Ever and ever until I follow you home.
Maybe our star is just an orb of fusion held by gravity and physics to apply energy to our little nonet here at the spiral edge of a galaxy we can almost comprehend with the awareness we have acquired over our brief history of knowing anything at all. Is consciousness a gift or a result?
As we mature, we become aware that we are conscious and begin to collect stories that offer us a mooring place in the trajectories of our lives. We welcome our stories and learn how to affect their outcomes, accepting their consequences even when endings are not always satisfying.
Eyes on the horizon, we strive to complete the metaphor, crashing the symbols, beating a cadence of heart to where the sky meets the sea, ever onward to kindness, gratitude, and light: God without religion.
Hobnobbin’ with a dangerous crew No time to worry, too much to do Makin’ my way through a forest of time Direction might slip and turn on a dime
It’s reading like a story in a news magazine Telling me my brain is a guessing machine Should I cut loose or go with the flow There’s just so much I’ll never know
Trusting the moment, it’s hard to say It might be how I live through the day All those tomorrows might never come And I’ll still wonder where I came from
It’s already open there’s no place to hide The boys with the flags always question my pride Too late for asking—too soon to beg I’ll sit right here on this powder keg
The truth to some can be a lie to most To see naked truth is like seeing a ghost Take it or leave it, we’re all on our own Just stand up tall when your cover is blown
Yeah, stand up tall when your cover is blown Take it or leave it, we’re all on our own To see truth naked is loving a ghost A lie to some but the truth to most.
We are all miracles; Even the sun, someday, must die; The ocean is patient; Unfettered capitalists are impatient; All genders need love.
Poverty doesn’t arise from a lack of ambition; Skin is a marvelous organ whose color is irrelevant to character; Forgiveness and gratitude are fine instruments that demand practice; All animals have the same right as I to be here; Time is a clever illusion.
Death’s door is always open; Friends are harbingers of joy; Children are the greatest gift; Puns are their own reword; Music is universal language.
Faces are windows; The book is our greatest invention; Religions are exclusive clubs; Prejudice is ignorance personified; Magic is alive—god is afoot.
This has been the first Christmas in many years without you. Ah, buddy, I miss you so. There really is a hole in my ho ho. I’m still saying goodnight to you when I turn off the light. I may do that until I’m gone, too. If there’s an afterlife, I sure hope we can meet again. It would be interesting: two souls together once more without the human/dog thing happening. My naiveté doesn’t really know what to think about that stuff. I’m bound up in this human form and I’m sure there is an arrogance about me that I’m not even aware of, the whole humans are so special syndrome. Is what I think really who I am? Is what I think really what I think? I always assume my thoughts will eventually get around to something kind of profound and that I’m not wasting my time when I daydream about something, creating an internal dialog that might turn into some kind of art. Or am I just pretending to be aware? Does it even matter? Does doubt keep me honest or does it cloud my vision?
When you were alive, I’d bounce this stuff off of you as we’d walk. Before age really started to catch up with you, we had some pretty good routes around and through Gearhart—woods, dunes, beach, ocean. You seemed happy to listen. You’d look at me every once in awhile and make me feel like you were listening. It might have only been the droning of my voice that pleased you. At least you didn’t roll your eyes. Your kindness always informed my own.
Now that you’re gone, am I misrepresenting the friendship we had? Am I trying to make it more special than it was, to kind of glorify my grief? That would be an all too human behavior, I think. I don’t want to believe that’s what I’m doing. I’ll go out on a limb here and just deny it. What we had when you were breathing and enjoying the world was a true friendship that continues. I’m not sure how that works with you on the other side, but I’m learning. I’m guessing, hoping, you are too. Whether or not we survive in some kind of afterlife, you are certainly within my living heart and I am deeply blessed with that. I will continue to prattle on as I walk the old paths. And hey, they finished to the two bridges through the wetland and the Ridge Path now goes all the way to where we crossed the creek on that last walk we took. Maybe you can join me for part of the way. It feels like you do, sometimes. Another blessing.
Narble Furt Lives 