The Spirit Guide

There is a seeking, high above the ground.
Searching in the dark and cold.
Does it require a ploy, a con?
Does it require a gag?

Once you were proud
Once you were white.
But tricksters play, and Gods hold hard.

So, now only the wind calls your name.
Only the fire sings your praise.
But you keep searching,
Filling your dark wings.

There is a seeking, high above the ground.
Searching for that which is lost.
Does it require a ploy, a con?
Does it require a gag?            

--Roy Edward Power.      23 December 2016

For my Father-in-Law on Christmas

The Thing

She was outside when she found it.
It was hiding behind a bush.
"What are you?" She said in something of a hush.
"I am Thing," It said, in kind of a rush.

"Are you big?  Are you small?" She said in an echo.
"Well," it said with a pause, "I could be a gecko.
But if you consider the snail,
I'm much smaller that.
However, I am much larger than the blue whale."

"How can that be?  That's not possible!"  She said without grace.
"I can assure you, it's all very true.
I am even larger than space.

The little girl rubbed her eyes;
She could not believe the surprise.
It was both big and little in size.
"How can this be?" She said with some glee.
It took off its own hat,
And with a smile said,
"I am your revelry."

Be whom (or whatever) you are,
For that is the only thing you can be!

Love,

- Roy Edward Power

24 December 2016.   For my niece Nola on Christmas

Tree

It's the promise exhaled,
The hope inhaled.
It is the promise of life renewed,
In spinning circles, a snake unto itself, eating.
It is the strength in adversity,
Fire and flood, rain and ice.
All grace and majesty,
tall and magnificent
Against skies of clouds and stars.
It is safe on high cliff or low shore.

It is the roof of security,
The support of family.
Adaptable, excepting;
Yielding, yet sturdy.
It is the leaf for philosophy, a place for love's passion.
It is the place where writer’s' store their treasures.

It is rising high out of the muck,
Always reaching.
It is old and wise, guarding.
It is past, present, and future.

Grab hold and hang on.
In peace and meditation, listen.
Let it teach, let it shelter.
Remember and use it well.


With love,

Your brother-in-law, son-in-law, or whatever I am,


--Roy Edward Power 23 December 2016. Christmas Poem.

a

Village News - The Fall Before Coma Day

Something hangs in the air, perhaps a bubble waiting to be popped.  No one seems interested in the village hobby of "checking in on the neighbor's." In fact, villagers seem to be walking away from a bunch of things.  Perhaps, they are simply tired.

They have all but walked away from great debate event centered around the siege of the Fortress of Higher Education.  In fact, the Right Hand Entity has left, leaving behind a giant rectangle of dirt, along with his boss, The God Who Eats Green Things, even though lawn scalpings are still piling up.

Our annual "Gimme Some Sugar" campaign on National Fright Night seemed to be enjoyed with less enthusiasm this year.  Oh, the agents dressed in their uniforms, masks, and appropriate makeup.  But no one said the passwords, "trick or treat!"  Thousands of pounds of sugar were left in door side bowls, because of this.  I suppose the villagers will have to eat all of that sugar and spoil their appetites for National Coma Day.  I did get word, however, that National Fright Night in Hell's Gate, a subdivision in the south part of the village, was a success.  Way to go, all of you agents and designated pumpkin smashers in Hell's Gate.  Good to see the spirit hasn't died there (Wait.  Maybe it did die....the spirit, that is...how can it be a spirit when it's still alive?)

Oh, and The "Rumble on Humbell (Street)" is still going, though no one could tell me what round.  Even though promotors moved the sun and several blocks of village to accommodate, attendance and interest are down this year.  Our fair Village Police Chief has reported that even Old Man Winter's sidekick, Jack Frost, has been absent.  Although, some evidence of overnight shananigans did turn up.  Allegations of steroid use spin wildly around the Sun God Ra this year and has turned off many spectators.

On the night of November 8th, an incident was reported as an all-out brawl broke out in the adult beverage tent at the Rumble.  It started after someone served angry juice, then turned to finger pointing and innuendo.  Police could only get a handle on things after the adult beverage tent collapsed upon the mob.  A witness claimed things "got nuts" when two animals entered the tent.  Roman Schmirnoff, owner and proprietor of the Rumble's petting zoo, was heard telling police as he tried to leave, "I can only afford to do this [Rumble] once every four years.  I thought I could help myself by adding corporate sponsorships.  Only the donkey and elephant ever got money, lots of it.  It became so ridiculous.  The Elephant started wearing.... a thing on his head!  And pantsuits...on a donkey?!  Always posing for crowds and flashing cameras, kissing babies.  Now, it's all just a big three-ring circus.  It's too much for one man!  Too much!"  Fingers are still being pointed today, concerning that incident on the 8th.  Our fair Village Police Chief has been heard to say that if he so much as hears of a loaded finger, there will be arrests.  In the meantime, clean up of the November 8th incident is now sheepishly commencing.  I just hope, now that the November 8th mayhem is behind us, that we can survive until the final rounds of the Rumble on Humbell (Street) on December 21.  I still have money on Old Man Winter, even if things look tough.  Just in case anyone cares.

Well, anyway.  Have a happy Coma Day!  And if you haven't put yourself into a TV-watching-then-snoring-on-the-couch-drooling coma, take those orange ghosts that are blowing around in your backyards into the woods, they look like they need the exercise.

Mourning

It was a cold, autumn Tuesday, the perfect movie rendition of All Hallow's Eve.  It was so dark that the sky never came out of its slate mood and, even at 8 o'clock in the morning, the sodium-vapor yard lights were fooled and stayed lit.  Everything was draped, or cast, in silhouette and a not-so-thin blanket of damp.  The wind sliced with a scythe made of ice, carving deep into the bone; only a hot bowl of stew or dense oatmeal could relieve as you wrapped yourself deep in a warm blanket or quilt, turned yourself into a dense cocoon, and slept away the day.  This day was the day of the wake, the day the buses ran to a small country church, the day friends met family and remembered.  It was a damp day, both inside and out.  It was the day no one wanted or saw coming, not even the Earth herself.

You see, Friday was so bright, shiny, warm.  All was roses.  How could anything go wrong?  But we should have thought upon the morning, given credence to the dawn.  You see, in that glorious morning before a glorious sunrise, there was something treacherous in the hiding, lurking fog.  Hidden in the low, cold valleys, before the sun could reveal, something, other than deer, leapt across the road, a spectral shadow dancing, a menacing thing.  No one suspected such a traitor in our midst on such a glorious day.  But as I traveled through the dense, lowlands, the traitor appeared.  I didn't know; I didn't even suspect.  A boy appeared, suddenly, dressed in dark colored clothes.  I think they were black.

I squealed to a stop; I almost did not see the darkly dress boy standing there by the side of the road.  I opened the mechanical door, explaining that darkly dressed kids get missed in the dark.  But the boy quietly slid on to the bus and then quietly slid into a seat.  No one knew him, no one asked.  They all just simply fidgeted in their seats and averted their eyes.  The boy said nothing, simply sat, staring out into the red-lit darkness of the rear of the bus.  Simply sat; were there dark wings?  Nah, just a trick of red light.

Then, just as the sun began to add color to the midnight sky and erase the bright shining stars, she got on the bus.  Without hesitation, she sat down next to the boy.  Perhaps, she knew him, perhaps, she never saw him sitting their alone in the seat.  No one knew and no one asked.  All was silent and still, statute deer after a snap of a twig in the woods.  A hunter was near, and we all sat, stiff and tense, as I drove down the road, listening to the clatter, chatter of the two-way radio.

Then it was over, the mechanical door opened.  Before the sun crested the horizon and erupted in bright light, all High Schoolers bursted off the bus and into the building, followed by the girl being tailed by the strange, quiet, and darkly dressed boy.  Then later that day, crows gathered 'round.  They bowed their heads in silence, as the girl could not be found.

As for the boy--no one remembers.  I have shaken and questioned, but no one remembers... So, here we are now; in a small country church, listening words and raindrops fall.  We listen and hold hands, and curse, because we did not say, "take care.  Have a fine day."

Village News - Feelings

In this town, it seems we like to "share our feelings."  There is no topic in which we do not "express some word or two."  Fall is no exception.  Now, when I say fall, I am talking about the season and not the act, although "feelings" have been shared on both topics with equal vehemence.  You see, in this town, even the hint of a cold air or broken bone makes a body shudder and agitates the dander.  So, in this case, to clear confusion, when I say "fall," I mean the season.

It has been since the inception of our fair village that sharing our "feelings" has been very important to us.  No topic is too frail or too minuscule for us to share, when playing the "Share Your Feelings" game.  So when there is a slight hint of steam emitting from any villagers' mouth...well, let's just say: the denser the cloud, the louder our communication of our feelings.  Of course, when dealing with the town elders, you have to raise your voice, perhaps a little; most of them leave their hearing aids at home so they do not to hear you.  So if they hear the town elders hear you, I mean that they realize you are trying to get their attention by shouting and the waving of hands, they usually respond by replying back to you something like: "back in the day" or "when I was a kid."

Now, all most folk want to do is simply share their feelings, not receive a history lesson (and regrettably no one seems to like history class in school anymore either), so they tell the postal carrier.  Of course, all the postal carriers went to class where they learned a clever rhyme about rain and sleet and snow and job commitment (or at least that was the commitment John Postman got from his understanding of the poem).  So, we simply run about the village, like chickens without our heads, sharing our emotions with any and all who listen, our barber/hairstylist, grocer, the hall of money swappers, those folks at the Stumble Down Inn, generally any and all neighbors.                

No one understands in all that..um...sharing that we really don't involve the folks who are busy with the process of the season, and quite frankly, I don't think that any of those folk would listen (or even if they possess actual ears).  For, you see, they are far too busy, concentrating on every detail, so when it all comes together in that one brief moment of flash and bang, there is plenty of oohs and aahs.  You see, those folks are interested in the result, the product.  So, it's quite understandable if they need to and not be attentive to our needs.  Of course, every model year is so different from the next.  When you screw up something that you had so perfect the year before, well, you never hear the end of it.  As I have said, there is no topic is too frail or too minuscule  And so, the village shares.

Oh, and in case, you are wondering about the feelings of this little village this season..well, cold bad, so Jack Frost and Old Man Winter bad.  Warm sun and wet lakes and rivers and streams good.  Fishing good.  Great Sun God Ra/Old Man fight bad.  Make Sun God stay.  I'm hungry when does Feasting Season start?   Oh, please, whatever you do, don't tell any of the villagers that there are those who plot the demise of Old Man Winter (I think a local chapter may exist), they would be beside themselves in glee.  No important work would ever get done if they knew.  It would be as if one unnamed presidential candidate from this election cycle actually spoke the language of the village.  Shhh!

Village News: The Last Hurrah of Parade Season

So, here we are, between seasons.  We are no longer haunted by the disembodied man/woman  who filled the air of our fair village over the past weekend.  I really don't miss the voice(s); they just seemed to be (if you'll forgive the turn of phrase) "dialing it in" this year.  The ghostly intonation were just so "mumbly-peg."  Sounds, not words, just bounced off every building in the village.  Sad really.  Oh, and dangerous, too.  Not nice, disembodied voices, to simply toss your mumbles into the air with no consideration to the innocent bystander.  A bit of gobble-Dee-gook carelessly tossed into the air and ricocheted about the hamlet until it almost clipped one of my ears.  What is this, Chicago or North Minneapolis?!  Aim for your audience, disembodied voice(s)!  Aim!  We try so hard to teach our children proper words at point blank range!  WTF!  And OMG, people (voices)!

Anyway, the last hurrah of parade season occurred over the past weekend.  Every year, the County Fair Panel invites a slow moving caterpillar into our village to meander...and eat...I think...parades eat, don't they?  The village folks, and some county folks, come from all over to select "their very own" parade watching spots along the route.  Some go so far to pitch tents and camp overnight to preserve their prized sites.  And this year only two disputes had to be "arbitrated."

The parade displayed all the colors of the rainbow, sang in all the voices of popular musics (Country and Pop only.  Well, marching band was recently added to acceptable list, but no rap or Latin Inspirations, please.).  All manner of propulsion were on display: legs, cars, trucks, field trucks, the ones with the really fat tires and the ones with the really tall thin tires, tractors, fire trucks, mini go-carts, antique things that only the old "children" know, milk trucks, dump trucks, hay wagons disguised as parade floats, parade floats disguised as hay wagons,...well, you get the idea.  There was all manner of folk as well: the various royal courts that exist about the realms - kings, queens, and princesses, court jesters..oops, sorry, I mean- folks running for various public offices.  Let me see, there were Cowboys and girls riding valiant steeds and mares, clowns oozed out from something resembling the Mystery Machine from the Scooby cartoons (not sure if the clowns were the scary kind or not, somehow sad, though), kids, and adults.  I think there may have been a mermaid or two, but little Abby Newsome was the only to report of their existence.

The only thing that did not make the parade was any breed of farm animal that could make the walk.  They were all left at the fairgrounds, too afraid of Sam's WeBuildGreatStuff float; no doubt, a float of great vision, but some how missing in execution.  It was one of the parade floats disguised as a hay wagon.  Besides three very "enthusiastic" folks half tossing fistfuls of candy; it had a giant stereo blasting Oldies music (80's music if you must know).  Nothing else.

After the parade was finished and everyone had left for the last of the fair fun, the village kids would periodically go back to attack the parade route like ants at a picnic with toddlers.  On the sides of the route of the very hungry caterpillar was a sugary sludge of sticks, wrappers, and other candy bits.  There was also all manner of streamers, buttons (political and otherwise), balloons, popped and not, paper shards and sheets, and perhaps firecracker bits.  It will take weeks and many inches of rain to erase any traces.   Just ask Sienna the Destroyer of Sticks and her companion, Jinxie the Retriever of Wayward Leaves (and now squirrels, it seems) who stop every 15 feet, roadway or not, to offer their assistance in the cleanup, licking tongues and wagging tails included.  But, in all, it was a grand spectacular which celebrated the past, present, and future of the entire county, not just our little village.

And now, with the disappearance of the disembodied voice, the Midway trucks and their trailing puzzle-piece amusement rides, the citizens can finish retrieving prizes won, ribbons, pies, and animals.  The County Fairgrounds looks like a ghost town/dude ranch after a horrible storm or a mass stampede.  But that is for a later time.   It is peaceful now.  Enjoy.  Admittedly, the village does feel different, everyone has mentioned it.  It feels as if we jumped dimensions; perhaps, now, we are in "the other" village.  I should look for a button, maybe someone accidentally hit the "Nudder" world in my old bus.  The dimension slip would explain the sensation of time loss (you know the feeling: Wow!  Whatever happened to summer?).  At any rate, now we wait, poised for feasting season.  Sure, school starts in just a couple of weeks and we need to get ready.  But the God Who Eats Green Things will be here soon.  How better to celebrate His arrival than for all of us to eat things as well.  There will always be school.

Village News: What They Said

For those unaware, Friday, June 24th, and Saturday, June 25th, were Dairy By-Product Daze in our fair village, all in honor of Dairy Prevention Month.  Now, events happened on Saturday, but business took me away from things as my wife was participating in the "Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em Robot" Challenge Run.  So, I can only piece Saturday's events together from fragments of conversations that I did not have on Monday morning.   This is what I heard.

Saturday morning started well enough.  Dairy By-Product Daze was well underway, though quietly.  The air on this morning was all cow.  Well, there may have been touch of dew (yes, dew does have a smell.  You know, dewy: fresh soil, reconstituted lawn clippings.  What?  Didn't anyone else earn an income robbing graves?  Okay, moving on.).  Otherwise, the air was all manure and cow piss.  (You really can not beat fresh country air.). Our ever-vigilant police force had nothing to report, at that point, though there was a little disturbance reported around bar close (2:30AM) Friday night/Saturday morn; a noisy gathering in the parking lot of The Stumble Down, an adult beverage establishment on Main Street.  When police arrived, the small crowd had already dispersed, and there was no sign of any gathering.  There was also no need for tazers or excessive force, either.  Oh well, the officer on the scene did talk with those who called in the report, and they might have mentioned something about our dark visitors with the white stripe on their fringe (remember: clothing, no other reason).  Who said that?  I can not remember.

Oh well, I heard from Sven Golly about another event that occurred on that beautiful, albeit, "cow"-filled morning.  The event may related to the night before, who knows; all we have is speculation and innuendo; so spread it far and wide!  Our ever-vigilant police were called to a disturbance in another parking lot.  (Anything familiar?)  The lot was near the shiny, but formidable Fortress of Basic Learning, and the police found a body!  Yeah, you heard me, a dark, lifeless body - in the school parking lot!  By the time Officer Laurel Order had made the corner of Lime and Sunshine Lane, our two fringed visitors (remember them?) were observed hovering over the body.  They were kicking, prodding and jumping on the body, in fact.

"Scout's Honor," Sven Golly offers the salute.  At which point, Sven told his gathered crowd, "Officer Lauren Order pulled the car over and called for backup."

Sven continued that one of the fringed ones screamed repeatedly, and very loudly.  "It put the hairs on yer arm on end," that's what Sven said (oh, did I mention that Sven was actually up north fishing at the time and did not witness the event but heard about it from his neighbor Matilda Schutz).  The scream incited the rest of the visitors' kind, the ones that have already set up homes here in our fair hamlet or, at the very least, would rummage through our trash bins.  There was so much crying and shrieking that the echoes off the surrounding buildings that the crowd became an angry mob of hundreds, perhaps thousands.  In fact, all those gathered in that parking lot on that morning began to dance around the body.  The whole thing turned into an orgy, ending with everyone taking off and flying away like charcoal dust cloud.  (Fitting for Dairy By-Product Daze, don't you think?).  That's what Sven Golly said, anyway.

Oh, and John "Fuzzball" Martin mentioned another body.  The Trumpet, our village newspaper, ("covering all the news, and nothing but the news, so help us, libel courts.")  offered a simple statement: body found.  It was buried deep on the 7th page, somewhere under the report on pot belly futures and the obituaries.  (I know: Outrageous!  I mean, it's become a cliche: dead body, front page or lead story on the "Telly."  All told in constant repetition.  That's right, simply say nothing but contribute to the noise and the ensuing hysteria.  Erase whole shows from the daily programming just to say, "Hi.  Look at me!"  <sigh>. Sorry, I digress.  Where were we?)   Oh yes, John "Fuzzball " Martin found the Editor-in-Chief of The Trumpet at Dairy By-Product Daze under the Drink and Wobble Tent with an...um...adult beverage in hand.  He asked the Editor-in-Chief about why the news item was not found on the front page in bold print as demanded by the Secret International Club for the Design of Increasing Circulation.  The Editor simply said, "Ummm....uhh..... I know, um, Dairy By-Product Daze.  Yeh."  That's what Fuzzball said.

Oh , and speaking of the members of the local chapter of the Secret International Club for the Design of Increasing Circulation, SICDIC, Stan Stumble mentioned: "usual boring, sensational great!"  Of course, this secret member of the local chapter may have been forced to admit that the group might not have any international affiliations and might have an image problem due to a really crappy name (the locals simply call the group: "Sick Dicks.").  They may also have to face the fact that the village police were called to investigate the loud "party" at the club's exclusive, secret, "no girls allowed" clubhouse on Saturday night.  Oh, that particular police report will be printed in bold type on the front page.  How ironic!   (or am I just using "ironic" in the same fashion as that song by Alanis Morrisett?).  Polly "the Pest" Newcomb called the police.

Oh, here's the news item from page 7 of The Trumpet, bottom of the page just 6 lines under "Edward Ennui: A Celebration of a Life Well Lived":

"Body found at parking lot near Fortress of Basic Learning.  The body had been separated into its major parts: head, arms, legs, torso.  The body parts were covered in a plastic jumpsuit and discarded like a child's toy upon the sidewalk.  The parts were then run over by a device similar to the hovering machines used to harvest parts of the lawn that are given to the God that Eats Green Things.  Citizens having any information about this case, or anyone who happens to know a villager by the name of G. I. Joe, are asked to call our vigilant police department.  Thank you."

What a weekend for celebration and strangers!  At least, that's what Molly Morehouse said.

Village News: Keeping My Eyes On You

Previously posted in Facebook Before Philando Castile

As if it wasn't bad enough this summer that we have had to keep our eyes peeled for members of the notorious Metrosexual Gang, I have also noticed something else disconcerting - two new arrivals had come to town.  Yes, you heard me - new arrivals.  Please stay calm, everyone.  Our ever-vigilant chief of police also spotted them immediately on their arrival, and he has assured me that he has been keeping an eye on them (and whatever else he can throw at them and make stick).  I know that some of you have become uneasy with the stranger level in our village (it has been high this year, especially after the white invasion of this past winter), and perhaps some of you have been calling on our elders to indefinitely suspend the parade season (Memorial Day through Labor Day, including but not yet pertaining to our Great County Fair, Dairy By-Product Daze, and Falling Seeds Festival for International Day of Raining Seeds), but I urge restraint in the face of this potential dilemma.  Besides, what would we do with the bass drum, three snare drums, four trumpets, saxophone, clarinet, fife and kazoo that currently reside in our high school's dustbin?  And what would we do with ourselves when we are not trying to rid our days of the chores (that appear around the house like dust particles) - go fishing and visiting our local adult beverage establishments?

Anyhoo, the two black strangers (which I will now dub them because of their costumes and not for any other reason) arrived in town in spite of our best efforts with the Metrosexual Gang.  Apparently, the two black strangers made a great deal of noise, a ruckus, a stir up, a row, so much so that they broke our precious noise ordinance (into 37 pieces, which is not easy because our noise ordinance was tough!).  The two black strangers have no respect for our rules; that is all there is to it.  I suppose they are no different then the chrome and rubber visitors that roared up and down Main Street at all hours of the day, prancing on two legs.  But the two black refuse to speak a word of English.  They simply open up their fringed black coats  and shriek at you.  Disturbing!

Our Village Police Chief noted that there is a difference that separates our two dark visitors from their companions that have already set up homes here in our fair hamlet or, at the very least, rummaged through our trash.  There are white stripes running horizontally across on the fringes of their costumes.  Oh, and Rudy Red Nose (our village drunk...oh, I'm sorry I was just informed that we can no longer use the word "drunk," we must refer to Rudy as permanently, bottle and balance-challenged) has noticed that these white stripes seemed to place a quality of dominion over those already in our midst.  Such an observant old (or is he young?  Hard to tell with all of the cough tonic he consumes) man.  Since they have been under the watchful eye of our Village Police, these two dark strangers have been sighted in our most sacred of places - in trees, on parking lots, our trash cans, and even on our cars and trucks.  (For God's sake, people, use your garage!  They will be on our boats, jet skis, four-wheelers, and snowmobiles next!)

In other news, Village Police are still on the look out for the one dressed as "The Fuller Brush Man."  He still evades village scrutiny.  Remember!  If you do happen to spot him, do not approach, call Village Police, as the suspect is still considered armed and fabulous--eh, I mean dangerous.  Thank you.


Previously posted in Facebook

Mister C

Mister C came to see us today.
He said we were good girls and boys - hurray!
He said he'd give us a treat
If we got on our feet,
And he would not even make us all pay.

We were all very quiet in line.
We all took our turns, did our time.
And when we did eat,
It was all very neat,
Til someone stood up with a chime.

Said the small boy, "Have you not heard,
That Mister C is really a bird?"
And suddenly with that,
Mister C was a bat,
Chewing he said, "How absurd!"

--17 July 2016

The Maestro Performs

I spend some time around kids obviously.  The ones closest to my heart are the ones that don't quite fit into the crowd; it can get them into trouble.  I can't say the name here, but this piece is for this one particular child.

This day was special: the sun was shining very brightly, and the warmth of spring baked down upon the winter-weary earth.  You could see something in the way he walked across the roadway: proud, steady, head held high, chin up, and perhaps he had a prance or trot deep within his body.  This day, he wore his backpack (no backpack was going to rule this day).  He was in absolute control; yes, his public awaited his arrival.

He stepped up into "his space," looked about at all the seats that surrounded him and filled the "hall."  Without a doubt, this was his time to shine.  He sat down on the edge of his seat in perfect performer's form, back straight, no slouching.  He waited for his perfect moment, and then began.

As he and his audience passed the little supper club nestled into the bottom of Horace Hill: "Yo, yo, yo, yo," Up a scale; "meow, meow, meow," down an arpeggio or two.  Then, in pure angelic voice with clear, round tones came the lines of "Silent Night," his prepubescent voice giving light, glowing wings to the carol.  It floated about "his space" like fog in a light breeze in the bright morning sun, delicately touch the stocking cap heads held captive.  It was perfect for a white, crisp morning in February.  He stood up perfectly straight as a proper two by four and watched the last of his Christmas hymn disappear into the brightness of the day.  His first act, in the greatest concert ever performed, a success.

But wait!  Something was amiss.  Was that a conversation?  He cleared his throat loudly to say: how rude!  And then, there was a hand on his shoulder.  How dare the stage manager come out on to the stage and interrupt such a sublime moment of bliss...oh, wait.  It was the bus driver.  Sit down?  How dare?!....oh, alright.  The concert had just begun; there would be more.  And as the scenery outside the windows changed from country/woodland to a small subdivision on the edge of the village, it was the moment for his next great fete.

"Oh, say, can you see? By the dawn's early light?  What so proudly we made past the dwellings nearby..."

Ah, our National Anthem...as could only had been rendered by our fair Maestro, true, artful,...bold.  Wait, the last few lines...

"Oh, say, does that star sprinkled lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave".  Is that it?  Wait.  "Oh say does that star sprinkled...."  Yes, onward!  "--lantern yet wave, or the land of the trees and the home of the brave."  And now, for the roar of the adoring fans.--

"Oh, man!  Enough.  You can only listen to it the first sixteen times!"

Perhaps, it was time to break out the piece of resistance, an aria from the little known Italian Commedia Del Arte Opera composer, Manfred Smellini, "I Must Fart Before I Explode."

"Fee-da-crizzi, da-mora-Penza, I must fart, I must fart before I explode!!  La la menni keelli, Must fart, must fart, I will explode.  I exploded-ed."

It was brilliant, such virtuosity.  Mozart, Hayden, Puccini, Verdi, and Rossini would have approved of such a wonder.

"You're so weird."

His audience rose out of their seats, then simply left.  Bah!  What do critics know?  It was a special day, and you could see something in the way he walked across the roadway.

28 February 2016. Roy Edward Power

The Army of Angry Trees

The school district for which I work is one of the largest in the state, not in terms of population but in terms of area.  We cover 250 square miles of land; I would guess that 85% of that is rural, both farm and scattered woods (lots of hills, we are in bluff country after all.).  So, it stands to reason, there's a bit of wildlife hiding along and/or running across the roads in the school district.   There are the usual culprits: rabbits, raccoons, squirrel, possum, deer and turkeys.  But, specifically in and around my bus routes, there are wild creatures that only exist along the roadsides: the wolf turkey (largest species of wild turkey), the Blue-eyed Ditch Donkey (somehow related to deer but possess a laser like glowing eye of blue color), and the Angry Tree.  

Now, for anyone who does not know about angry trees, they are terrible beasts that sit among the fence lines and hide in the small woods scattered about the bluff country.  They usually exist in small packs of six, referred to as an army.  They will, sometimes without warning, descend upon unsuspecting humans and vehicles with flailing limbs, the attack can only be labeled as rude and vicious.  They act similar to a voracious pack of coyotes, and are charged with more property damage than any other creature in the district.  No one "round dese parts" knows why, but they claim a collection of six rogue armies of angry trees were the cause of the disappearances of the tiny villages of Snow's Corners and Ottman's Bluff in the late '50's.  I was almost half way through my fifth year of driving for Ellsworth before I made my first encounter with these scary creatures.

I was at my third noon route stop when one of the 100 million, spudillion cows that boarded the bus that day informed me of a most terrible thing.  (Yes, the fact that the large number of cows not only got on the big, yellow limousine, but they all fit inside, and the fact that the one talking cow was a boy not a girl were not the worst of things at that moment.  -Also, please, dear reader, do not tell any of the timelords, whom you may or may not have an acquaintance, about my bus; they will take it away as being a tardis that no human should have in their possession.)  No, the bad news was simply that we were being followed by an army of angry trees which were trying to bash up the bus with their whip-like limbs.  I screamed,"hang on to something!  We are going for a ride, people!... I mean herd!"  And the herd heard that, and away we went.

Around the sunken ravines and up, then down the steep sides of the narrow valleys, we wound our way through the countryside, eventually floundering our way through the Yard of Metal Things.  We managed to dodge a hay baler in an effort to save the whole bus from the angry trailing trees, careening off the back corner of the farm implement and leaving a scrape along the side of the bus.  We thought we lost the angry army as we made a quick turn on to one of the tiny township roads, but when we noticed a second encroaching army, one of the cows mentioned the "Bumpy Bridge."  Now, what I know about cows (and kids) is that they do not name things for the same reason an adult does, so when a herd names something, like "The Bumpy Bridge," it has to mean something.  (Besides, who am I to argue with a cow, even if one is a boy?  They know the territory better than any of us non-grazers.).    So, I slammed my foot on to the accelerator.

I felt like we were heading toward the church bridge from the Washington Irving story; yep, I was Ichabod riding hard to safety.  The bus sidled from side to side on the frozen road (Of course this story happened in the winter!  Drama, people!).  At one point, the back tires came off the road and the bus bowed down into the ditch along the side of the road.  But holding the road, the bus made contact with one of the angry trees causing a domino/bowling pin effect on to the entire blocking army.  Directly in front of us, free and clear, was the Bumpy Bridge and we made the edge of the bridge.

At that moment, we were all in the air, the bus, the kids, and me.  This was painful, for I was belted in and the restraint pulled hard on to my midsection.  But when I looked at the kids/cows suspended in the air with arms/legs extended, they were all filed with sunshine and lollipops.  I realized that they named the bridge not because it was a landmark but a moment in time when they all first learned to fly.  The moment was gone as soon as we bounced back on to the road with a hard bang and went back into the air.  We were airborne for good.  I looked down to see one of the trees splintered all over the road and the remaining trees snarled in a huddle around the debris.

The rest of the trip was peaceful and sunny.  With everyone of the herd on the bus, we glided into school unharmed.  Now, how do I explain the scar on the side of the bus?

7 February 2016.       Roy Edward Power

He Strikes Again?

A bit ago, I mentioned a game the kids would play on my bus, the Foot Game.  I tried to discourage this game by mentioning a troll who lived under the steps of the bus.  Well, it had been quite some time since I had last seen or heard of the beastie.  I had been pondering this creature for a while again, as is my want on a drab gray day.  I was wondering how he was getting along in the cold, whether the troll had found a mate and settled down to start a family, or whether this friend from under the steps hibernated during the winter months or not.  Well, he reappeared, or shall I say, things started to disappear.

On Tuesday of three weeks back, I received a phone call looking for a single mitten left on the bus.  On the second Monday, someone asked about a missing stocking cap left Friday previous.  On Thursday of that same week, someone asked about a missing cell phone.  And then this past Wednesday, a parent came to the front door of the bus wondering if I had seen their son's very expensive gloves.  And someone called about a bag.

I was concerned, needless to say.  I have stuff left on the bus all the time.  I find it, stash it; yet these things stay on the bus for weeks, some times, months.  Some times, the abandoned articles find their way back home, but most of the time, they get tossed or given to someone else.  Last year alone I removed four whole grocery bags (the paper kind) from the bus.  If you think that is bad, there is a whole room at school devoted to lost items.  Every time you open the door, this room throws clothes and bags and forgotten treasures at you and the hallway like Fibber McGee's closet.  (I know, "Gee, how old are you, old man?").  But now, we were talking about things simply disappearing.  (Eek!  It's the Bermuda Rectangle!)

I searched the bus, but I have, so far, found no sign of the missing items...except perhaps, a guilty looking dust bunny.

7 February 2016.  Roy Edward Power

Christmas on the Bus

'Tis the season for joy, gift giving, and....wait for it....(drum roll)...wait for it....tada! (cymbal crash) sugar!  Hey, if you don't believe me, just read the box.  You know, the one right in front of you.  (exasperated sigh) The box firmly planted directly under your nose and filling up your entire field of vision with the out of focus pattern of red, green, white, gold and silver blotches.

As this past Tuesday was the school district's last day before Christmas, I was getting buried under a pile of boxes and gift bags filled with delicious morsels and envelopes stuffed with gift cards to local fast food establishments.  I was hoping that a magical gift card to a local adult beverage establishment would appear, but alas, I must keep dreaming.

Anyhoo, I steered the bus up an icy, white hill.  (Yes, snow finally came to the great white tundra.)  I slid nicely to the end of a driveway.  Three little backpacks with legs marched on to the bus, two brothers and one cousin.

The first one got on to the bus with the biggest, toothy grin that he could fit between his ears.  His smile was so suspicious that he had no hope of joining the angel choir.  He thrusted a neatly wrapped present directly into my face.

"Merry Christmas," he said and went by to find a seat.

The second, also with the same disturbing smile, did the same.

"Merry Christmas," said he, and brushed by me.

Then, the third did the same, but with a smile more appropriate for a jack-o-lantern than a boy of first grade, as he was missing a couple of prominent teeth.  However, when he pushed the gift right into my face, I noticed that his present looked as if it had slept off one awful bender and the wrapping would have blow off if I had sneezed.

"Merry Chrithmuth."

All three found a seat and sat together, all foreheads, noses, and eyes staring directly at me.  And yes, those "I'm about to cause trouble" smiles still beamed from behind the back of the seat in front of the imp brigade.  I watched them the entire trip to school, but the only thing that occurred was several choruses of "Robin laid an egg, the bat mobile lost a wheel, and the Joker got away.  HEY!"

We arrived at school no worse for the wearing.  I opened the bus doors and said my "thank you's" and "Merry Christmas's" as each student disembarked.  As the wonder trio passed by, they displayed their smiles and sheepish waves.  I could no longer handle it, so I grabbed the youngest of the triad as he was always the last of the three in a row.

I asked, "what on earth are you three up to?"

The little jack-o-lantern admitted, "Well, before we got on the buth thith morning, granpop told uth that Thanta would haf ta watch uth on the buth and dethide whether he wath going to come to our houth on Chrithmuth Eve."

With that, he took his smile and his backpack and went into school.  After that, I had to try and find his granpop's phone number.

Originally posted on Facebook 12/23/15.   Roy Edward Power

#schoolbuskids

The Knock Knock Joke

I love when little kids try really hard at something they don't quite understand.  They bulldoze ahead as if nothing is wrong.  For instance, the knock knock joke.  On my school bus, they are all the rage, especially the interrupting cow knock knock joke:

"Knock, knock"

"Who's there?"

"Interrupting cow."

"Interrupting--"

"MOO!"

One child thinks is hysterical, but he is too polite to do the joke correctly.  Now, he started a new one: knock knock.

"Who's there?"

"Glasses."

"Glasses who?"

"Glasses who says moo!"

Originally posted on Facebook 11/23/15.    Roy Edward Power
#schoolbuskids

Boxes

This poem is from my writing archives.

When I was young, my family moved.  However, when I was old enough to be on my own, I moved A LOT.  I moved so often that boxes simply became part of my world.  In fact, it was so bad that I started to name my boxes.  Oh, a note: if this poem does not flow, it's simply missing its meter.  I am currently looking for the meter, which no doubt, was left on my school bus.

Boxes

by

Roy Edward Power

Boxes.

Surrounded by boxes.

Overwhelmed by boxes.

“Wait!  This is my house!”

Yet, still they sit,

Quietly contemplating their takeover.

One box at a time,

Being emptied of their precious loads.

Yet, still they loom,

Stern empty faces,

Looking for empty places,

Wishing we would just go away

And let them be.

Look how quietly they contemplate

How they would rearrange every plate,

Remodel the bathroom or den.

Look!  They are moving in!

Boxes, boxes,

Surrounded by,

Overwhelmed by - boxes.

They don’t consider the price,

They simply think that the living room is nice.

Boxes, boxes, boxes.

copyright - 24 June 1994

edited - 4 April 2005

Artistic Vision

This is the reason for the title of my blog, and the reasons my art is what it is.

I begin simply that I am a clown.  However, I do not fit the normal “concept” of “clown.”  You will find that I have never worn a red nose, an over-sized, loud costume, or over-sized shoes.  I have seldom worn a white face or goofy wig, nor tied balloon animals.  I am simply a Fool.

Many of us know the Fool as the Court Jester, a character described by Shakespeare and historians as a wise, truth-speaking character.  However, this character was often the victim of his own shortcomings.  Most Fools had speech, physical, or mental impediments.  The Court would spend their time laughing at how clumsily he walked or stuttered about.  They never heard the eloquent words the Fool spoke, only laughed at the physical deformity.  This, combined with a slight touch of anarchy, kept the Fool from “fitting in” or “being normal,” and thus, solitary.  Cast into the fringes of society, the fool was the perfect witness to the comings and goings of the public at large.

With many performers, my clown is my alter-ego.  His name is Caesar, a rather innocent ten-to-twelve-year-old child.  Like most children, he is at home deep within his imagination, playing the role of pirate or some other entity, freely exploring an imagined world.  However, like most children just learning to play with a new toy, he lacks control, and the imagination gets the upper hand by creating a monster under the bed or in the closet or basement.  So, his best friend, and his worst enemy, is his imagination.  However, imagination is the flying carpet that allows Caesar to constantly journey in search of new discoveries and new ways to express those jewels of wonder.  Through this, Caesar is kept connected to the energies that swim around him, he is aware, and grounded to the world that we all live in, which can never be one color, one person, one idea, one texture, or one physical plain of existence.  Caesar’s journey becomes life’s journey, a journey that is as open as one can be to the world’s textures, colors, and forms.  Consequently, Caesar’s journey is filled with brightness, joy, and freshness.

So, my art is the creation of worlds as they are lived and interpreted through my clown, Caesar.  These sketches, if you will, come to me in the form of stories, pictures, and dialogues.  This is why my expression is not just in one form, but in many (storytelling, writing, performing, directing, painting, drawing, photographing, and video-making).  I simply listen to Caesar, and the doorways are open.

                                                                                     --Roy Edward Power      April, 2011

Keep coming back.  New things are added periodically.  Also, to check out my visual art, go to www.mnartists.org.  Look for Roy Edward Power.  Follow me Facebook.  Thanks.

The Foot Game

So as I have said before, I must have an unusual bus.  I know this, because I have talked to the other bus drivers.  I know that this does not seem possible because the bus looks like every other school bus on the road.  Okay, maybe a bit of rust in places, but still the typical yellow with black striped bus that you see.

So, it is not uncommon that the front two seats where the kids sit have a big "back of seat" barrier in front of them, and, as such, there are places in these barriers where a foot can go through.  Of course, this leads to the always popular game of tag or peek-a-boo that occurs between driver, student(s) getting on, and the foot of the student sitting in the front seat.

One day I got tired of this, and promptly announced to the student sitting in the front seat (so that the whole bus could hear) that he should not begin the "game" as the troll will surely grab his foot and take his shoe.

"There's a troll on the bus?...no there isn't."

"Oh yes, he lives under the steps."

"Really?...."

"Yes."

"No there isn't!"

"Okay, suit yourself, but he is very fond of shoes and boots...especially if they are extremely stinky."

The child kept to his game.

On the third day of the "foot game," I had to get up and go to the back of the bus to sedate some of the "mad" behavior.  As I turned to head back to the front of the bus, there was a blood curdling scream.  When I got back to the driver's seat, all I could understand was that a hand grabbed on to the student's shoes and began to pull.  In the confusion, one shoe disappeared.

Fortunately, the student had a spare pair of shoes to wear.  But, sad to say, I can not say where that shoe disappeared to, but the "foot game" is no longer in practice on my bus.

 #schoolbuskids.    Originally posted on Facebook autumn 2015.   Roy Edward Power

Doppelgängers

I seem to have a very unique school bus.  I have talked to all the other drivers and none of them have a "nuther world" button.  

In order to get this button to work, the bus has to be going at a certain speed (don't know what that is) and you have to count to three.

Now some kids make to a nuther world, but no one ends up in the same place.  (I sincerely hope that this does not reflect on the driver's frame of mind.). I suppose that makes sense as I have been told that I keep missing some of the kids hiding in the corn fields.

Of course, I tell them that if they want to be picked up, they should not hide from the driver.  And when I show up at each students' real stop, the student is waiting oh so nicely (only to be told that it was not student)....Gee, I hope their doppelgängers are friendly....

#schoolbuskids.  Originally posted on Facebook Autumn 2015.  Roy Edward Power