Author: apoetsvoice_z5yjci

 

  Things or more real when you are young. As I have gotten older, it seems every experience is attached to a memory and the history that surrounds that memory. While the history that defines a generation belongs to that generation, with each life an essential contribution, we are the masterworks of the master’s hand not merely shadows on the stage of time.

    I knew him at nineteen, but only through his stories and the strength in his eyes. He was DJ on 102 FM Indianapolis. His hair was long, and there was hope in his voice. The girls called him Bobby. His parents still called him Robert. He had just gotten a place of his own downtown. The rent was cheap, but the apartment walls were paper thin. The couple next door liked to argue.

   It was a Monday night in December, 1980. Boston jammed More than a Feeling to the third shift workers and party goers that made up Bobby’s audience. The comfort of a calling vibed with restlessness of youth. Alone in the DJ booth Bobby connected with thousands throughout the city. Maybe some of them were alone too. They would call in and request songs. Many times he dedicated Love Hurts to an old girlfriend or Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion to a new fling. No one was really alone when the radio was on, and Bobby was never alone either. He was the radio.

    Suddenly, a news update came through from the Associated Press. Bobby ripped the paper from the beeping machine and scanned the report. He became flush.

   “Oh no!” he exclaimed and immediately interrupted the broadcast.

   I imagine his voice being coarse from a winter cold with the stress of the moment adding tension in his throat. He spoke with a rasp that made him sound much older than he was.

   “Breaking news, John Lennon was shot in New York City tonight. He was pronounced dead at the hospital at 11:15 P.M.”

   Bobby looked to the clock above the sound board. It read 11:22 P.M.

   “I repeat John Lennon has been shot and killed outside his apartment in New York City.”

    He then dug through the LP’s and found John and Yoko’s most recent release.

   “Now from John and Yoko’s new album (Just like) Starting Over.” he said with disbelief. The record turned. He listened and thought, how could a guy all about love and peace be betrayed by such violence. It is just unbelievable…the song ended and Bobby came back on the air.

    “We will miss you, John.”

Dedicated to my friend, Danny Hubbard

Written by: Brett Wiley

When I reflect on my grandmother’s death, I remember a rainbow. Not a rainbow in the sky or a full rainbow, but a slice of color refracting through the window and onto the kitchen table. 

    I recall, my mother discussing funeral plans, “We are leaving at 5 AM. It is a four hour drive to Akron. Wear your white dress shirt. Do you have a tie?”

    I listen passively, but I am more captured by the tiny piece of rainbow light.

   I was beautiful back then even beautiful in spirit. It was before I found God and before I was put on psychiatric medication. My perceptions were distorted. However, that allowed me to see beautiful things.

   “Are you listening Brett?”

   “What?” I shifted my attention to my mother.

   “I said. Your bothers are meeting us at the Church. I expect you to be congenial with them.”

    I thought, maybe this rainbow is a sign? It could be my grandmother. Maybe it is my grandmother? The spirit is light, right? This could be her divided up in an array of color, telling me it is beautiful on the other side, telling me that it will be alright.

    I only felt a small portion of grief that day. She lived to be nearly a hundred, she didn’t suffer much, and she kept her dignity. I could see her waking up, making her bed, and finding her chair by the window. I would visit and she would work on crossword  puzzles as we talked about my future plans. This is the way she lived until she broke her hip at ninety-nine. I mean, wow, that is amazing! There is no way I will live to be that old. 

      Now, twenty-three years have passed, and I know my grandmother isn’t really gone because I feel her with me. I even hear her spirit speak to me. I love you sweety, she says. It’s not all the time that I know her, it’s only when I really need her.

    “Are you going to be alright, Mom?” I remember the tears and her holding back the hurt. She did it for us. She was so strong, but in that moment the emotion was released. I stood and gave her a hug. “It’s OK. You know it’s going to be OK. No one really dies.”

written by: Brett Wiley

On the stage of an empty performance hall sat a grand piano. I was at its keys, and I was an enigma starved like a Russian revolutionary. I thought, be familiar with hunger such that you will always strive to improve. It was a desperate mantra. For the age to become a virtuoso had passed and all that remained was mediocrity. I was consumed by the idea of mediocrity. It was everywhere, and there was no ridding myself of it.

Hence, the only path forward was madness…

My index finger pressed middle C. I looked to the seats. The lights were dim. Angels were present, but not only angels also devils. I was Orpheus. This was my hell. I lowered my head and began to play Felix Mendelssohn’s Regrets. 

“We all have regrets,” my instructor said. “Be connected. You must express your personal emotion into the piece. That is what makes it art. That’s what makes you an artist.”

As I played, I loathed my life and loathed my failure. If only I could relive the last ten years, what I could be. Greatness was within. The desire and the discipline was within. Though, my technique failed me, I crudely interpreted an ornament and continued playing.

My spirit was asphyxiated by the fires of regret. I imagined an audience. Not a large audience a few aficionados and a critic. I imagined myself an unwritten scene in The Tropic of Cancer. It was 1930s Paris. Henry Miller was the critic. The piece resolved and possibly something was redeemed. I sat silently; my head bowed.

Then the shadow of an older woman walked from the behind the curtain. I looked up to her, and with astonishment she looked back at me.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said and then disappeared.

Not long after, I was locked in a psych ward with an impoverished mind. Now twenty-three years have passed, and I have no regrets but know only beauty and beauty divine.

written by: Brett Wiley

   There once was a time when jazz lived and kids dreamt of being horn players even Miles Davis. A twelve year old played Sophisticated Lady to audience of adults. It was long after bedtime but Booker’s mama couldn’t resist sharing her son’s talent. He woke and still in his underwear wailed Duke Ellington’s melody. 

   Booker’s aunts and uncles cried with delight.“Booker keep playing man. That horn is going to take you places.”

    It was 1965. John Coltrane was on the radio and Civil Rights were on folks minds. Born and grown in Indianapolis, Booker was raised on stories of Count Basie and even Duke himself coming to town. His family loved music and especially his mother. It may have been his mother that got him playing horn. He never said, but he loved doing Sophisticated Lady and it makes you wonder.

   In the 70s he played in bands and wore platform shoes, and in the 80’s he moved to New York City, played jazz on the subway and at the World Trade Towers. He was always broke but never comprised. He was a jazz musician…

     Now, my wife and I sit in an upscale bar, in a small town, in rural Indiana. Booker teaches my wife clarinet, and we love to hear him play. Every Saturday night he does two hours of standards at Urban Cultured Winery. Wow a real New York City jazzman right here in Anderson, Indiana. Jazz died a long time ago and the Twin Towers are gone, but Booker’s horn still sounds like 1982.

   The tone holds the nuance of decades on the road, and though, the bar is half empty, the music flows into the street. Passer-byes pause as they surprisingly encounter something real. You know there is nothing really real anymore. I watch the expression on his face as he belts out Sophisticated Lady. I sense a grimace, and a joy salted with pain. It is just enough pain to make me believe, and I am humbled. This may be the last jazz musician. My wife takes a sip of wine, smiles, and a bittersweet loss wrenches my heart. Booker’s horn ascends on appregiated chord, and the night goes on forever.

Dedicated to Gordon Brooks

Thanks for reading. Now hear my wife and I jam with Gordon Brooks “ths last jazz musician”. Follow this link now https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AtL3M_ggBc

Written by Brett Wiley

 I wake before dawn and walk the neighborhood streets. The houses on my route hold secret stories like mine. I am unknown except for the causal smile and wave, and I remain nameless. Early morning reality seems mythological. I embrace the signs and symbols as providence and carefully walk. I walk the sidewalk down crossing streets, loop back forward, and push home.

   I speak of the symbols which are diminished in the sun’s light, but less rare and unhidden under the stars. The lamp shinning in the front window of a shoe box house tells the light of love present in a happy family. The fire wood stacked along a craggy driveway points to the difficulty of life even in an abundant age. The most striking symbol, however, is the American flag planted in the hard skin of an oak tree. How long it has been there? I don’t known, but it is a staunch flag…

   We still love America and there a many that fly their flags. They are on porches, flag poles, and painted pallets that sit in well kept flower beds. The local comfort food restaurant had their flag flying half mast. When the wind blew I imagined it gracing the top of a passing semi-truck. Along the rural highway a crane hoisted the Stars and Stripes a hundred feet into the sky. It made for more than symbol of freedom. It made me feel free.

   The lady tending the register at the filling station, where I get my fuel, asked me with a smile, “How are you?” I told here about the flag hanging from the crane up the road. She said, “That’s been there for sometime.”

   I replied, “Yeah.” Then felt like that there was more to be said, but my words abandoned me. So, I just staunchly returned,“I love living in America.”

written by: Brett Wiley

 

   The mountain seemed far away and the mountain climber a myth. Isn’t it obvious we live in mythological reality. For this is an earth of miracles and signs; and every morning the hawk’s call would wake the mountain climber from his sleep; and every night, his dreams would reveal the sublime workings of the world; and then the depths of those workings waking. What does the hawk know that I do not?

   “It’s not an easy climb,” the guide disclosed, “Mt. Rainier is a serious climb.”

   “I must go. I can go. God is with me,” said the mountain climber.

   Through the trees, it was a pleasant ascent. The company of men stopped by the brook, drank from their canteens, and took a photograph. Then they climbed higher and higher, until the eternal evergreens disappeared. There were boulders and small rocks even monuments of rocks stacked carefully to mark the passage of mountain climbers past. There was not enough time to stack stones. They must reach the summit by afternoon.

   Ground hogs joined his company. A purple flower grew out of a rock. There was just enough soil in the stoney crag for the plant to take root. The day was clear, but the peak far away. The mountain climber was unsure of his strength. Still he pressed on toward the summit. 

   The air became thin. His head throbbed. He climbed with courage not knowing if he would make it. Then just before the peak he collapsed into the dirt and propped his head onto a stone. He had nothing left. The company of men moved on. Too tired to pray, he pulled out of his pocket a Bible and read.

 “The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.”

    A moment passed. The sky was frozen. I have died, the mountain climber thought. Then from his marrow a new strength returned. He rose and pressed forward unto the summit. Unto the place where heaven and earth meet. There he prayed for his three sons, and God heard his prayer.

   The company made its descent. The weather was fair. A rain drizzled down on the men as they passed through the trees. Then the mountain climber heard the cry of the hawk and he turned up his gaze. On the tree the bird was perched with honor and what was known was real. To live honorably, the mountain climber thought. Is better than to be honored. 

  Then by the fire he would tell the tale of how the mountain lived. The wood would crack and pop, and the hearth would gather ash. Through his eyes it was explained the triumph of his climb and who was this man non other than the father that is mine.

Dedicated to my Father

Written by: Brett Wiley

 

Weary afternoons drip from lost inspiration. Remember what it was like to be young?  Youth, now an apparition of what was passionate and bold. I sip my coffee with a splash of cream. A pleasing mocha mixture settles beneath the brim of my oversized mug. I never wanted to be a writer-not really. Possessed by poetry, I thought I could make a living pumping gas or maybe die young. Inspiration drips slow through the filter of perception. I taste the Costa Rican bean. Damn, I am lucky.

For if I am to write, I must find that young man, that chain smoking, crazy and not yet found, unemployable mess of a man. I must find him and ask him why he pushed forward with vain ambition? It seems vain to write-silly, useless, and vain!

“All is vanity under the sun,” a wise king once said.

And T. S. Eliot said, “Life is very long.”

Eternity seems vain too, long and vain, but still, I am not affraid to die. I drink my coffee gratefully and that brings meaning to my life. Then comes the horror of consumation. Will anybody read this or will it become scrap in some far removed dung hill?

written by: Brett Wiley

A Childhood Memory of Spring

    Spring smelled a certain way. Can you imagine the aroma of a fresh cut lawn mixed with the savor of brand new baseballs? Before long the baseballs got grass stains smudged across them, and the bleached white pants of the ball players uniform became as foul as his sweat stained cap. Divinity passed through a cluster of clouds. The sun was young shifting its beauty through the cumulus design, and I much older, now, recollect on that sleeping eternity.

   I stood beneath the oak tree which was like father God watching over me, sheltering me, and caring for my needs. My mound was a line of dirt scrapped from the dark green lawn. Pa stood 46 feet back. He had stepped it off stride by stride.

   “That looks about right dad,” I said.

   “Yep,” he returned. I posed with my profile towards him. My face expressed the composure needed for a savage summer of competition. I inhaled and exhaled with a single action. “Let her rip,” he yelled crouching with the catcher mit ready to receive.

   I delivered the ball with a tight arm. It was high and inside the imaginary plate. “Ball!” rang my Pa’s voice adding glory to the evening.

   I whirled my arm around a bit and bent over to touch my toes. Then again I delivered the pitch. It zoomed towards the target in a zen instance. I heard the sound of the ball hitting the sweet spot of the mit. My dad grinned, swung the ball back to me, and we went on with practice as I made pitch after pitch. It was more than a warm up. I reckon I struck out 10 batters and played a half game before my arm was spent. Before Pa remitted the catcher’s position and sat on his knees. The glorified orange dangled on the horizon. The birds flocked to the limbs of the stoic oak. 

  “Just a few more son!” My dad proclaimed to muster up hidden strength.

   I nodded, removed my cap, and wiped my brow. Suddenly, light bent off the glass of the front door attracting my gaze and my mother appeared delicate as she was.

   “Dinner’s ready,” she gratefully called. We paused and I captured a snap shot. Then as she was taken back into the house, I recognized a satisfaction resting with her. It was purely meek and contained something I didn’t understand until now. How the cycle of old and young endlessly repeats and how there is purpose to both.

    “Good job son,” My dad said patting me on my back. “This is going to be your year.”

written by: Brett Wiley

C

There is a place where spirtis’ haunt. The fields, the woods, and the river too. I found myself there once lost. I found myself there once and so did you. I found myself there searching every nook with care. Looking for spirits but spirits beware.

For they do possess and possess for good. The minds in realms misunderstood. So I went looking and what I did I find. No miraculous wander and no evident sign. Only markers and saints in stone. A church full of devils and the scorcer’s home. I went looking and nothing was revealed. Have you heard of Camp Neverfield?

Then I made my way home to sleep away the afternoon. To escape the hot sun of June. To escape the judgements of verdicts sealed. To ponder the secrets of Camp Neverfield. And in time I began to dream. Dream of a room of mirrors. On every wall shone the ideal; damned I seemed. Trapped in the grip of seers.

Each a warlock and each a witch. Contained each spellbound mirror. Magic words were spoke, a beast appeared, and my gut was wrenched with utter fear. Then in sparkling light I saw a door. Moving I forward, forward ever more. But the beast drew me back and held me tight. I called out for help beyond my sight.

Fate is good, for my good friend, my poodle pup. Came to my dream to set me free. Fercious yet the beast let up and destroyed my little dog’s plea. My hope was hurt; for lifeless she was, life taken by the beast. But then unleashed; I fled to the door and fled to be realeased. 

I opened the door. To find only another door. And the beast was not far behind. Desperate I was. I called on the name of God and the name of God sublime. 

“Jesus, help me dear Christ. I am nothing without your strength.”

I thought, surley damned and in hell I’ll stay. But mercy did extend unto my thanks. My prayer was heard, awake I became and lived a second birth. Never to return to Camp Neverfield and never to renew its curse.

written by: Brett Wiley

 

The Crooked Tree

   The pastors, bishops, and deacons all gathered at the Church of Holiness. It was a humid Friday night in July the day before the Independence Parade. The men had removed their jackets and the women fanned themselves with next Sunday’s bulletins. The reason for the atypical meeting was to address the problem which had simple become known as the ‘crooked tree’.

   The Church of Holiness had been built ten years ago to house a new congregation split off from the Church of Saints in Grace. It was a barn like structure constructed primarily of brick and sat on several acres of grass filled land. Trees had been planted on the lot before the opening of the church, and the campus portrayed an essences of holiness which served as witness to the weary souls that traveled the nearby rural highway.

   This story, however, is not about a church building, a movement of God, or even an earthquaking revival. This is a story about God’s sense of humor. This is a story about a ‘crooked tree’.

   Standing over six feet tall and nearly two hundred and fifty pounds head pastor Bill Cunningham, or simply Pastor Bill, stood at the front of the prayer room and bellowed.

   “We simply can’t not have that eye sore of tree on are property. How will we take in new sheep to the fold with something so awkward and offensive right here on our lot? We are the Church of Holiness not those damned heathens at the Church of Saints in Grace.”

   The bishops rumbled and the deacons moaned with disgust.

   “Cut it down.” They said.

   It seemed, after coming to an immediate consensus, the meeting soon would be adjured, but then the most junior of pastors, the leader of the youth group, pastor Mike, was compelled to speak. He humbly raised his hand, was acknowledged, and then stood from his chair in the middle of the room.

   “We are a Church of Holiness,” he said. “But God is also holy and he made the ‘crooked tree’. If we cut it down will we be saying we are more holy than God.”

    “That tree is not of God. The devil made that tree,” yelled deacon Jim Donald.

   Pastor Mike rebutted, “I think that’s over reacting Jim. Listen all beauty comes from God and he made that tree beautiful just like he blessed each of us with a measure of beauty. I think it would be a sin to cut down the tree!”

    “He has point,” declared pastor Bill’s wife from the back row of the prayer room. Pastor Mike turned, faced her, and continued.

   “Hey, listen, everybody. Have you ever been down to the lake and seen the duck that was bred with a rooster. It is a funny looking thing and awkward too. But would we shouldn’t be offend by it. God loves the rooster-duck just as he loves the swan or the blue heron. You know God has a sense of humor maybe he is just trying to make us laugh with our ‘crooked tree’.”

   “Now, now, now!” yelled pastor Bill, “thats debatable if God has sense of humor and if he did he wouldn’t make the Church of Holiness the butt of his joke. We are cutting down that tree!”
   The bishops rattled and rolled and the deacons moaned again. Mike looked at pastors Bill’s wife. She shrugged her shoulders and frowned. The meeting quickly came to an end.

    

        *  *  *

    The following Thursday afternoon a tree removal service arrived at The Church of Holiness. Pastor Bill payed the group of three men 800 dollars to remove the ‘crooked tree’ from the property. Resentment stood stagnate in the air and there was a haze around the sun. With rolled up sleeves and a loosened neck tie, glee was hidden beneath the stern face of the Pastor. Suddenly, the men began to scourged the tree with their chain saws, and blood poured from its branches. Pastor Bill basked in his holiness as the object of offense let out a suffering cry. Slowly and painfully, the ‘crooked tree’ died. Then an hour and a half passed and it was reduced to a stump which was, finally, up rooted and cast into the chopper. After a violent, merciless job,the men drove away, and Pastor Bill Cunnignham was filled with religious satisfaction.

   Three years later The Church of Holiness split with the Church of Redemption. Then shorty after, it dissolved. To this day the empty building still stands, and at the foremost position of the Church lot grows another ‘crooked tree’. God loves that tree, and so do I.

written by: Brett Wiley