A Walk in the Garden

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 2 Comments

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

That’d be nice but I’m afraid I have plans.
I was meant to tend soil with these hands.
I was made to subdue these fair lands.

There’s a name I must make for myself.
I’ve named beasts who need me for their health.
I’ll bear fruit and multiply all this wealth.

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

I’d like that but there’s things to make right.
The day’s mess I must clean before night.
I’ll rise up once I bury this plight.

It’s hard here, I’m sure you can see.
There’s suffering and few are happy.
I’ll check back when the slaves are all free.

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

You don’t get it, the whole world is burning.
Are you blind to everyone’s yearning?
It’s a wonder the globe is still turning.

I’m not sure there’s time for the flowers.
We have minutes but you seem to want hours.
Who can stroll when the whole is so dour?

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

No I won’t, for I am exhausted.
My good efforts I feel are accosted.
What I’ve found I now feel as I’ve lost it.

Let me do what I can then I’ll rest.
Give me space ’til I pass this life’s test.
I’ll show you it’s all for the best.

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

I’ve strived but it’s real hard alone.
I’ve tried but I’ve sunk like a stone.
I’ve flied but I’ve crashed like a drone.

I could use a kind hand as a guide.
I could use a good friend by my side.
I could just be in love as a bride.

Let us go for a walk in the garden.
Let us be as we’re meant to be.

Elvis Thud, Seller of Rocks

By Carson Speight in Stories (Vertically Challenged) 2 Comments

The following is a short story for an experimental project of mine, currently called “Another Week in Absurditon.” It’s pretty off-the-wall, and am curious if the reader finds it to be good off-the-wall or Humpty-Dumpty bad off-the-wall. Appreciate any feedback!

Elvis Thud was a rock salesman who had two homes and was proud neither one was a sewer.

That’s because Elvis lived in a sewer for a very long time before he became a rock salesman. It was a nice sewer though, as far as sewers go. One of those spacey ones where you can kind of walk along the side without stepping in the water. It wasn’t a raw sewage sewer like fugitives escape through, but more like a damp, homey abode that ninja turtles could live in.

But Elvis didn’t live there anymore since he became a rock salesman.

Now, of course, selling rocks wasn’t easy. No one taught him how to do it. None of the large rock companies had recruited him. It was quite questionable that there was even a market for such things. Rocks are rare if you live in an indoor swimming facility. Otherwise you can dig those puppies up about anywhere.

That’s what Elvis did anyway. He collected rocks for about five years before deciding to sell them. His sewer was massive so storage was no issue whatsoever.

Now, you may be thinking that Elvis’ rocks were special because he spent so much time collecting them and found them valuable enough that he thought he could sell them. Nope. These rocks were like the ones you find by a construction site. They were jagged and bumpy and muddy until Elvis washed them off in the sewer. Then they were gray and black, and a few were pearly white. Elvis liked those the best, and had a real hunch they were worth something.

It’s OK to be skeptical at this point of Elvis’ prospects. As a casual observer, one could judge that Elvis was about as cunning as the rocks that he dreamed would make him a fortune. As a very critical observer who knew Elvis well, you’d probably discern the same thing, and be concerned for the man’s welfare.

But you would be quite mistaken. This is the improbable story of how Elvis sold his first rocks, and turned rock sales into a multi-thousand dollar industry.

—

It was a beautifully bright day when Elvis pushed open the sewer plate with his hulking bag of rocks. Truth be told, it was actually quite dreary and raining lightly, but Elvis had been in the dank dark of a sewer for 48 hours, so everything outside was sunshine to him.

For the next 10 minutes, Elvis lugged his bag down the street until he settled on a park bench beside a woman with a mustache. Nope, check that. It was a man with a silky ponytail who was just filing his long nails. Honest mistake, Elvis thought. So he offered him a rock.

“Thank you, but, I don’t really want one,” the long-nailed, ponytailed man responded, perhaps mildly sensitive to Elvis’ feelings.

This didn’t bother Elvis. Convincing anyone to buy a rock would probably be painfully difficult. But Elvis knew that sales weren’t about the masses. Sales were about finding that tiny target market that would become your biggest fans. So Elvis got up from the bench and continued down the road. The rain had picked up.

After a laborious walk up a steep hill, Elvis came to a hot dog vendor. The vendor was brawny and poorly shaven. He wore a greasy Red Sox cap and a jumpsuit that would’ve looked dope in the 80s but now only seemed fit for mobsters. He had stooped beneath the stand’s umbrella to avoid the rain and vigorously chewed a toothpick while watching Elvis schlep his rock bag up to the stand.

“Would you like to buy a rock?” Elvis asked.

The vendor looked confused, then took out his toothpick. “What ya mean, like a diamond for my girlfriend or sumpin’?”

“No. Like a rock. For your girlfriend or something.” Elvis felt the sale.

“You tellin’ me you gotta bag o’ friggin’ rocks and you actually think I’m gonna buy one?” The man was obviously annoyed. I mean, you or your great grandma would’ve noticed it. Even a cat. But not Elvis. He was hyper-focused on moneymaking.

“Yes, I think you will buy one. I know you will buy one…You just bought one.” Assume the sale, Elvis thought.

“No, no,” the man bristled, wagging his finger. “I’m the salesman. I sell hot dogs. I need customers, not rocks. There’s no solicitations here at my stand. Most guys come up here sellin’ sumpin’ I treat ’em like this toothpick.” (He tried to snap his toothpick but his fingers were too fat and he fumbled it onto the grill. Elvis thought about other sales guys roasting on the man’s grill with the hot dogs.)

Disturbed, Elvis moved on. But the visit wasn’t in vain. The hot dog man had mentioned needs. So Elvis thought real hard about who needed a rock.

In a nearby cafe sat an uncomfortable couple in an intimate booth. Not that they were making others uncomfortable, you could just easily tell that they were. The woman was grimacing as if she was sitting on a band saw, and upon closer review had wedged herself into her seat like a doorstop. The man across from her was hardly across from her, more like breathing on her face because the table was so small. The man also seemed panged, but maybe it was from looking so closely at the woman. The waitress, Cassie, arrived.

“Hi, would you like something to drink?” Cassie asked.

“Excuse me. Would I like something to drink? What kind of question is that?” the bulging woman bellowed.

“Oh, it’s just a question we ask everyone who dines here. Lots of our customers like to drink things with their food. Some only like to drink things. It’s rare when no one wants a drink. We end up staring at each other.”

Cassie the waitress and the large, uncomfortable woman stared at each other.

“That’s exactly my point. What a waste to ask me if I want something to drink. Of course I want something to drink. I’m biologically inclined to drink.”

“Well we aim to please your biology. What do you want to drink?”

“Punch.”

“Punch?”

“Yes. Tell me about your punch.”

“I’d love to, that is, if we had it. I could offer you an orange juice.”

“Sure you could. And I could offer you something completely different than punch. No one serves punch anymore in these joints, can you believe it Dutchy?”

The pale, frail raisin of a man looked up as though he’d awoke from a nightmare. The woman had asked him something and he was mostly deaf and not listening anyway. Wrath would ensue.

“I’m so sorry, my pumpkin. What was that?” he winced to prepare for any ensuing shrapnel.

“I was wondering about the PUNCH here.”

Dutchy was lost. Have you ever entered a conversation not knowing what was happening, and were optimistic you’d be clued in soon so you could start to contribute, but then realized you were even more clueless once you tuned in? That was Dutchy right now. But the woman was right. Somehow. She had to be.

“Yeah—two punches, pronto, missy.”

Cassie left, presumably to find punch or another job.

The cafe door flung open, bringing with it the heavy pitter-patter of the afternoon shower. Elvis sloshed into the cafe like a net of fish coming aboard, holding tightly to his bag of rocks. He was beaming like a lightsaber.

—

The hostess told Elvis he could seat himself. So he walked over to Dutchy and the large, uncomfortable woman’s table and pulled up a chair. This was normal to Elvis.

“You two lovebirds look like you could use a rock today, and boy do I got some of those.” Elvis heaved his rock bag onto the table, silencing the restaurant and shattering a Heinz bottle.

The woman peered at the rocks. She breathed deeply and sharpened her fangs. Elvis’ experience had helped him to recognize a menacing expression and knew he had to preempt anything antagonistic.

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars!” he blurted out. “If you buy two hundred dollars worth of rocks I will give you a hundred dollars.”

Cassie was returning with two glasses of maybe Hi-C. There was no room for glasses on the table now and ketchup was oozing off it onto Dutchy’s pants. He didn’t notice.

Duchy’s lady started to bubble like a pool of magma. She breathed deeply in and out as though she were blowing up a kiddie pool. Or picture a dragon filling its chest with fire before belching death in her unhappy radius. Her left nostril twitched, too, as if she were trying to start a mower with her face. Duchy wished Elvis was selling helmets.

“Sir?” Cassie surveyed Elvis. “Could you move your bag? We can find another table for you.”

But Elvis liked this table. These people seemed like they would have some use in their lives for a rock. But that was so hard to pin down without him asking them.

“OK, I can go as soon as I hear this from the horse’s mouth, as they say. Ma’am, what do you need a rock for? I have many sizes and colors, and a few of them are still dirty so that you—”

“I don’t want your rocks, man! I want punch. I want you to get up and leave so this lady can give me my punch. Is that punch? It looks like fruit juice. I don’t want fruit juice! Take it back to the kitchen. And take this man away from our table!” she belted, slamming her fist down while a new vein appeared and pulsed on her forehead.

“T-t-take him away,” Duchy squealed, fulfilling his duty as the obsequious sidekick.

The next few minutes were especially uncomfortable for everyone in the restaurant. Cassie was fuming and headed toward the kitchen asking for “Big Joe.” Elvis had chalked up the large, uncomfortable woman’s eruption to a bad day. He tried to console her and say things like how hard he knows things can be, living in a sewer and all. Dutchy was pulling at the rock bag, yet inertia was one of the many things that didn’t favor him. When Big Joe arrived he grabbed Elvis and his rock bag with incredibly the same arm and pulled them both out of the restaurant and onto the street, leaving them in a sizable puddle.

For the first time, some doubt seized Elvis. What kind of world was this where you can’t just walk up to strangers and sell them rocks? Not the world Elvis thought he lived in, that’s for sure.

Elvis sat there on the pavement with heavy rain droplets pelting his head, staring at his rock bag. It was a good bag of rocks. So good he almost didn’t want to sell them anymore. He could make a fortress in the sewer with these babies. Ahh, but he didn’t want a sewer fortress. He wanted real money you could use to buy stuff, like a Nintendo or food.

—

“Help! Anyone!” A commotion arose on the other side of the street. A small man scurried from the alley. “My chocolates! They’ll be ruined!”

Elvis shot up, grabbed his rocks, and moved as quickly as he could—which was not fast—across the street.

As Elvis arrived, the man—presumably the store owner—was explaining his chocolates with great haste to a bystander.

“…water is running down the alley. My boxes of chocolates are sitting there under a canopy—thousands of dollars worth—waiting for pickup—they’ll be ruined—ruined if we can’t stop the water. If only there was a way to stop the water!”

“I can stop the water,” Elvis declared. “What you need, sir, are rocks. And I’m going to give them to you. I mean sell them to you. I’m going to sell them to you.”

“If it works, sure!” the man beamed. “Are those your rocks in that bag?”

“Yes. Would you like to see them?” Elvis offered. Elvis was taught to wait patiently for the customer to make a decision.

“Yes, of course! Just bring them with you to the alley. C’mon.”

“This is one of my favorites,” Elvis said, pulling out a dull, clay-stained rock about the size of his fist.

“And this is another favorite.” It was another dull rock. It was a rock.

“OK, I love it—that will do! Bring the bag.” The storekeeper’s voice hit a high note and he tapped Dallas on the elbow.

“37,” Elvis exclaimed.

“37? Ok, 37, whatever, c’mon.”

“37 dollars is the cost of the rock.” Elvis was poised to make the sale. But he figured the objections would come.

“Ahh, really? This is crazy.” The storekeeper turned away. Someone else, please help me find a way to move my boxes.”

“Those boxes are 200 pounds. You need a forklift. Or perhaps exactly 126 rocks.” Elvis hoisted his rock bag over his shoulder and tottered down the alley. It had been a long day, but the air was ripe for heroism, and perhaps a boulder bonanza.

The store owner followed him, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Elvis passed the boxes and observed a flow of water steadily cascading from a paved gutter above.

The rock bag slid off Elvis’ shoulder with a crash. He reached in and grabbed a large rock he thought looked perfect, though it looked much like all the other rocks. He lifted it high and slammed it upon the waterway. The water split to create two flows around the rock. The puddle was widening and approaching the boxes.

Elvis dusted his hands. “That one’s on the house. I can stop this flood right here, right now. Just say the word and give me…” Elvis ruminated, counting his fingers and looking to the sky. Then he’d count his fingers some more, and back to the sky, and this continued for a minute or two. The water flowed. The puddle widened.

“OK! How much do want?” The store owner bellowed, his feet now soaking in water.

“Want? Oh sorry, I was tryin’ to remember the lyrics to that new Bamba song. OK, $500 for the rocks. The whole bag. I’ll throw in the bag, too. And my belt, you can have my belt if that’ll sweeten the deal. Uncle always said ‘nothin’ like belts to sweeten a deal.’ You got an uncle?”

“I’ll give you $300 if you can stop the water. C’mon man!” The store owner began grabbing rocks and heaving them upon the stream. Elvis joined in, stacking one rock after another, creating a decent dam that started to slow the water. Within a few minutes, all the rocks sat in a formidable pile, the water ceased, and the puddle stopped just before the boxes.

Elvis put his hands on his hips and surveyed the pile with pride. He nodded at the store owner, who thanked him and paid him his money. Elvis pulled his pants up and put his belt back on (the store owner didn’t want it), and left the alley to head up the street.

“That’s him,” the large, uncomfortable woman from the restaurant pointed. Dutchy confirmed and a pudgy officer made his way across the street.

“Mister, these people said you were disturbing the peace. Is that so?” the officer inquired.

“No.” The store owner had come up behind Elvis. “This man made peace today. He saved my chocolates with his rocks. If anything, he’s a hero.”

Elvis blushed and looked at the officer. “I was just doing my job. Which is selling rocks, by the way, in case you’re interested.”

The officer looked at Elvis. “You got a wholesaler?”

Elvis shook his head. “I wish. I have several holes I can’t get rid of. You know a guy?”

The officer looked confused and chuckled. “I know a guy who can get you rocks at a great price. Name’s Gene Reppertson. You can give him a call.” The officer handed him the number.

Elvis said thanks and made his way back up the street toward the sewer. He was relieved to hear about an easier, more expedient way to amass rocks. A few days later, Elvis met Gene and got his hands on all kinds of regular-looking, fairly affordable wholesale rocks. He found that people actually have more use for rocks than you’d think, and within weeks it was obvious he needed a bank account. Gene would continue to help Elvis, and Elvis found his way out of the sewer and into a place where toilet water ran out of his home and not into it.

Some said Absurditon never saw a rock salesman like Elvis Thud. And when Elvis heard that, he took it as a compliment.

My book is out!

By Carson Speight in PerSpeightives 2 Comments

Hey everyone.

This past month I published my first book, “The Summer of Battle.” It’s a group of short stories about a boy who moves to the middle of nowhere, and discovers his big backyard is full of strange creatures and dangerous adventures.

I hope kids will enjoy this book (especially 8-12-year-old boys), as well as grown-ups who like to read to their kids. I hope some grown-ups will enjoy reading it themselves and feel like a kid again.

If you want to check out the book, the good news is you don’t have to face the disappointment of it being all sold out at the bookstore. You can buy a copy here on Amazon—I’m told their supply is endless.

Thank you for following my writing and being such an encouragement to my creativity over the years. It’s a gift for an author to have an audience to write to. I don’t take it for granted.

Hope you enjoy the book and thanks for continuing to follow me here!

The Fence

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 1 Comment

Around my home in an arid land
With tamarisk trees and steaming sand
My father built a fence.

Gathered ‘round the fire one night
Munching figs to our delight
He told us to not go past the fence.

When we asked why we couldn’t
He replied that we could, but shouldn’t
Wolves lived beyond the fence.

By our home we played and laughed
Shook our timbrels while we danced
We all stayed within the fence.

One eve I sat upon a stone
To see a deer come in, alone
Hopping over father’s fence.

The doe had such beauty and grace
Yet also wore caution on its face
As though it shan’t have breached the fence.

A stone whizzed through the air
And sent the doe off with a scare
Father warned of beauty ‘yond the fence.

One night a howl woke me from my sleep
Out the window one of our sheep
Carried off by a wolf past the fence.

One day in folly I went past
The boundary, leaving kin aghast
Breaking the rule about the fence.

Father snatched me from behind
Briskly moved me far inside
Then scorned me for leaving the fence.

As we grew the boundary stayed
In place while we still played
Within the strong, yet wind-whipped fence.

One eve we’d finished in the field
When a storm swept in to wield
Its might upon the fence.

The sun came up and we awoke
To see if anything had broke
Indeed missing were portions of the fence.

All looked at father now curious
Who would take such things quite serious
Yet toiled not to mend our fence.

One day a robber entered our land
Stealing ten sheep from my father’s hand
Simple was it to breach the fence.

That night father took twenty sheep to the line
For the robber to take this time
Yet no thief came near the fence.

Instead the next day the thief returned
With all the sheep, braced to be spurned
Yet father welcomed him inside the fence.

A fattened lamb was roasted on the flames
While father sat with us and explained
What to think about our old fence.

He said the old fence remained good
To keep in and out what it should
But at its best it was a mark
To keep us from wandering in the dark
For we were grown now and could discern
All the things our father yearned
To form our fence without a fence
To know the sheep from the serpents
To see the torment of the thief
Share our spoils for his belief
That boundary he made dear
Was built from love and not from fear.

Now that boundary seems far gone
Yet its spirit has lived on
For father’s heart became our fence.

Christmas and the Dial of Destiny

By Carson Speight in PerSpeightives 2 Comments

I finally watched the newest edition of the Indiana Jones saga, The Dial of Destiny. It did not disappoint.

It certainly could have. Indiana Jones has aged into a curmudgeonly professor, seemingly growing weary of his post as he nears retirement. The movie could’ve devolved into an old man’s quest for discounted produce, limping to the saga’s ending with Jones taking a grocery cart to his Achilles and spilling blood all over aisle 8.

But of course that’s not what happened, because in the 70s there are still Nazis around! And who better to give them a fitting, hilariously gruesome death than Dr. Jones? This movie had (almost) everything we wanted. Improbable chase sequences with tuk tuks outmaneuvering Merecedez Benzs. Disgusting things squirming out of centuries-old skeletons. Explosions leaving all the bad guys dead but Jones practically unscathed, simply needing a dollop of aloe for his first-degree burns. And Nazis. Lots of ’em. Some assuming Jones is just one of the Jungen and letting him snoop as he pleases. Others sounding the alarm passionately before taking skull-cracking projectiles to their face holes.

If there was one disappointment in the movie, it was that the Nazis didn’t get it bad enough. We were accustomed to watching their faces melt and heads explode when looking at the Ark, or rapidly deteriorating into a pile of bones when drinking from the Grail. I was expecting some version of Archimedes’ Sun weapon to send a million-degree ray through the German ranks and piling those boys up like frankfurters. But one drowned and the others crashed in a plane, and I realized that the director was a little more concerned with reality in his flick. But I know Spielberg would’ve served up another top-10-most-awful-ways-to-die.

So what does this have to do with Christmas? Nothing really, I just wanted to talk about Indiana Jones and Christmas. But as I was thinking about it, the stories do have one remarkable similarity. What’s amazing about the Jones saga–and what will really always keep us coming back for more even if Indy returns as a fedora-donning zombie with a whip–is the adventure to discover history. The Dial of Destiny was yet another entertaining trip back in time to ponder the genius of Archimedes.

Indy always had something his counterparts lacked, which was the passion and knowledge to discover the truth. He studied ancient texts, he learned the languages, he cracked the codes, and he took the risk of finding out where something was, or if it even existed.

When we look at the Christmas story, we can observe similar knowledge and passion in its people to discover, and yes, make history.

Take the magi, those three rich old dudes riding camels in your Nativity. While there’s much we don’t know about them, the Gospel of Matthew offers intriguing clues to reveal they were just as nerdy about history and ancient texts as Dr. Jones. These wise men from the East were very likely from Babylon, and they understood the stars and Israeli folklore. They may have observed some remarkable events in the night sky in the last BC years–from the king planet Jupiter forming a conjunction with the mother planet Venus, to its settling around the king star Regulus in the Judah-lion constellation of Leo. They may have known their Hebrew scripture, thanks to Daniel and Israel leaving their culture behind in Babylon hundreds of years before. Prophecies in the Book of Daniel and Numbers would’ve helped them estimate a Messiah king would come in the time they were living. And all of these clues would’ve prompted them to take this expensive, several-month journey to Israel to find this King of Kings.

Or take the shepherds outside of Bethlehem near Jerusalem, who knew all about the Temple sacrifice system and how their little lambs would be used for Israel’s atonement. Then the angel comes, heralding the birth of Israel’s long-awaiting king, with the sign of “swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.” Why, that’s what they as shepherds did to their newborn lambs to keep them spotless for sacrifice. Was this that type of king, and would the God of Israel choose these poor, insignificant men to join the story? They had to go see.

Or take Mary and Joseph, perhaps teenagers in the sleepy town of Nazareth, whose lives are turned upside down by their angel encounters. Both descending from the royal line of David, they would’ve been acutely aware of their ancestors’ lengthy, hundreds-of-years wait for the promised Messiah. Now like Indy, they found themselves wrapped up in the story, with the Hitler-esque Herod bent to destroy it all. But amidst the danger they took their faith steps and journeyed to Bethlehem to deliver their son. Only later would they understand the significance of their adventure, which ushered in the turning point of human history.

Indeed, all the people in the Christmas story were on their own dial of destiny. Prophecies to be fulfilled, ancient text to be illuminated, arduous adventures to seek, lives at stake, and ultimately a treasure to behold. Like Indy, it’s possible for all of us to explore and join the story. Ancient scripture is still being revealed. Recent archeological finds like Hezekiah’s Gate and the Pool of Siloam inspire wonder that the ancient stories are true. As time passes from generation to generation, new things are revealed. But only because someone does the digging. Only because someone looked at an ancient text and wondered if it was true. Only because someone took the effort and ardor to search, and go on the adventure.

I hope you may see this Christmas as an invitation to go on the great adventure our Maker has set out for us. If we have just a mustard seed of faith, we may be taken on a journey as grand as Dr. Jones.’

The Voice That Stilled the Sea

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 1 Comment

Cacophony upon me
A rancor room sans softening
Deafening doom soon offering
If only tuned toward scoff we be

The breeze now wind ominously
Forebodes the surge that swells the sea

Their voices raise, towering tares
Emotions blaze, incendiary snares
Sure path turned maze a thousand stairs
Would seem no way out of these cares

The waves now billow frightfully
Portends the tattered shore to be.

Words intent on resolution
Spur resent, no absolution
Incur a pent-up persecution
Sure to inflict a retribution

The tempest tempts us terribly
What shipwrecks now are sure to be.

The centered now turned cynics
Splintered discourse with polemics
Winter’s the season lest we spin it
Talks they freeze in fractured tenets

Maelstrom’s mayhem crushingly
To damn all peace we’d care there’d be

Yet from the trenches one speaks kind
Gathers cashmere from each mind
Gets through to deaf and sights the blind
Uplifts lost, praises maligned
The lunar pull that changed the tide
These frightened hearts all now confide
In one who made the storm subside

To be like Him, that I may be
The voice that stilled the swelling sea.

The Father and His Messes

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes, Stories (Vertically Challenged) 2 Comments

A small family lived in a Scottish cottage.
On a spot of land amidst cliffs and sand
Which they could boast
Was among the most beautiful on the Scottish coast.

One day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know all ya favorite shirts ya hang up by the bay?”
“Aye” said the father.
“The seagulls pooed on them,” the boy announced in dismay.

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The white ones are all black and green
they’re rubbish now and can’t be cleaned.”
“If you wore them, you’d be the smelliest in the village.
Worse than Old Man Glenny, who reeks of rotten cabbage.
Anyway, da, I thought that you should know.
Before you went down there to see ya ruined clothes.”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me my lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy now knew he had a chore,
Of scrubbing poo down by the shore.
He spent all day and did his best,
To save the shirts, a nasty mess.

He brought them to his dad at last.
“They all clean now?” his father asked.
“Yes dad, the job is done.
Ya shirts are saved and can be worn.”

“Show me, lad, I want to see.”
And the lad held up a tattered tee,
Was white and grey and gull-poo green.

The boy smiled wide, his father nodded.
They supped and slept then in their cottage.
And the next day when the boy arose,
He saw the line of father’s clothes.
Bright white without a stain upon them.
The father’d solved the gull-poo problem.

The next day the boy came to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know ya crab cages I set to the south?
“Aye,” said the father.
“They’ve washed up too far—into Miss McGee’s house.”

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The crabs are loose, scuttlin’ round her kitchen
Clawin’ at her all her biscuits—and toes not to mention.
When I left several more had taken her bed
And she screamed ‘cuz a big one had latched to her head.”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy grabbed a rake and a mallet and ran
Back to poor Miss McGee with his best-thought-out plan
He did all he could to shoo the crabs out
Even bludgeoned the one ‘pon her head with a clout.

He returned home just before the sun set
Father asked, “Are all the crabs out her house yet?”

“Yes, Dad, every last one,” he replied.
The boy supped and slept with his father inside.
The next day he arose and looked out to see
His father giving goods to appease Miss McGee
She walked off dabbing her wounds with a tissue
The father it seemed had settled the issue.

The next day the boy came again to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know where the shore meets the cliffs with the crags?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“There’s a hungry man shipwrecked in nothing but rags.”

“How bad is it?” the father asked.

“The man’s bleeding with sores, he’s practically naked
And he’s chewing his hands like their strips of fried bacon
He’s so mad and thirsty he’s drinkin’ seawater
And shoutin’ to no one “‘tis a fine porter!”

“Aye,” said the father, not the least bit confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy took some water and bread to the beach
Giving them to the man who devoured them each.

The boy came home, marking his part complete.
The father asked, “Lad, did ya meet the man’s needs?”

“Yes, he’s all better,” the boy’s pride strongly shown.
The father patted his son, and went out on his own.
Then returned with the man, all bedraggled and beaten
Washed his wounds up, gave him much more to eat then
Clothed him with pants and a clean, white shirt
Tucked him into the bed, so he no longer hurt.
He was peacefully sleeping when the boy went to check
Seems his father had righted this man who was wrecked.

Two days later the boy came once more to his dad
Tapped his shoulder, then the reply
“Whatcha want, lad?”

“Ya know how I help to get mum out of bed?”
“Aye,” said the father.
“This morning she whispered she’d stay there instead.”
“Aye,” said the father, a little confounded.
“Tell me lad, whatcha doin’ about it?”

The boy went to his mum with some water and ham
Placed a rag on her head and held her weak hand
Told her ‘bout the silliness down by the shore
Made her giggle a bit so he told her some more.

The boy came to his father and told him she’d laughed.
“Ya did the best thing, I’m proud of ye lad.”
The boy hoped that day they could all laugh together.
“Won’t ya go to her, da, and make it all better?”

The father spent all of his day with his wife
The next day they gathered to remember her life.
At the mass the boy sat and kept his head down
Said nothin’ to no one ‘til his dad came around.
He looked up at his father, his small spirit conflicted.
And asked his dad plainly, “Why couldn’t you fix it?”

His dad shook his head, he seemed quite confounded.
“Ya do yer best when you can’t do much about it.
If I said I’d no doubts, I’d be a liar
But to trust it’s now fixed, requires faith in who’s higher.”

Many years passed, as did the father
The boy grew to a man and had his own daughter.
One day she was fishing for cod by the sea
Caught a seagull instead, who she attempted to free.

It was flapping and flailing and squawking about
She couldn’t release it, called her dad with a shout.
When he got there her worry was deep for the bird.
So he held her, and it, and made them assured.

“I wanted to fix it and free it,” she cried.
“Ya got it to shore,” he joyfully replied.
Then the father lifted her chin off her chest
And said “My daughter, d’ya do ya best?”
She wiped her tears and responded “Yes.”
He held her cheek, with a warm caress.
“Then trust ya father, to handle the rest.”

Squeaky-Clean Politicians

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 0 Comment

I went on a search
For squeaky-clean politicians
The kind you could find
In important positions

I went to the mayor
He was kind and sincere
Yet spent most of his college
Shotgunning beers

I went to the senator
She was smart as a whip
But she fibbed in 8th grade
I watched the whole clip

I went to the judge
Justice was his passion
But he had one moral failure
Now he’s quite out of fashion

I went to the president
She was humble yet brave
But she lost me when I heard
She got high at a rave

So I’ve failed to find
A squeaky-clean politician
My vote is for fools
Full of sins of commission

No matter who graces
My unfortunate ballot
They surely won’t sate
My political palate

For they’re each full of pride
Yet a lot want to help
Every one of them flawed
At their best, like myself.

A Dad’s Spring Break in the Big Apple

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 1 Comment

What is spring break? Looking at the words alone implies stopping when spring comes, taking a rest from the busy things you normally do. You wouldn’t think it actually means speeding up to do thousands of things for thousands of dollars.

But if you take spring break to New York City, that’s exactly what it means. It’s a five-day, whirlwind, wallet-exploding adventure on taxis and trains, boats and planes, sidewalks and crosswalks, escalators and elevators. Even the walks—brisk ones through parks, fast ones over avenues, long ones across the island—are taxing and purposeful. It’s not a spring break. It’s a brakeless trip made possible by broken piggy banks. And it’s a crapload of fun.

Hello, New York

We flew into JFK Saturday afternoon, a dreary and stormy day casting doubt on what we could do. Our cab driver was a friendly fellow from Bangladesh, who told me about his journey to become a U.S. citizen. He commented on how the U.S. is unique in its support for helping immigrants into the country, compared to other parts of the world. It was interesting this was his experience and it made me thankful I never had to worry about living in a great country.

We stayed at a cozy yet satisfying hotel in Chelsea, with our room facing southward and offering a view of One World Trade Center. We dropped our stuff and made our way to Empire Diner, joining a bustling lunch crowd to tasty soups and sandwiches. As we stepped outside the overcast skies became clear and sunny, and we headed toward Hudson Yards on the High Line, our destination being the Edge, a 1,200 ft. skyscraper with an outdoor deck and glass floor. Disappointingly the sky deck was closed due to severe wind conditions. We had to make a choice to transfer to another day or go up with the chance they could open the deck back up. Given there was nothing else planned and the fam was given me the “better do something soon, in-charge man” vibes, we opted to go up. 

The clear day afforded us remarkable 360-degree views of the city. We were about to leave when we saw two staff members go outside with a wind meter. I was hoping and praying they’d let us out there. But as I was, I realized how fortunate I was to be up there in the first place. The fact that I lived in the year 2023 and could go to the top of a skyscraper to see such views was a gift in itself. They didn’t open the deck, but it was well with my soul.

Once that fun was over there became an unexpectedly urgent need for a hot dog. We found a nearby stand and did our first very New York thing: eating a sloppy hot dog on a bench with pigeons on standby for our crumbs. That was enough for the day. We’d need to conserve energy for the next.

American Museum of Natural History, Midtown, and Times Square

The plan on Sunday was to walk down to Washington Square for a bagel (20 minutes, come on people, that’s not so bad). Not so bad if you have man legs and don’t mind 35-degree wind whipping at your face. We made it 3/4 of the way, I took a wrong turn, and it was game over on that plan. New plan was find the nearest cafe for something warm. My tax for imposing a thoughtless, cold-weather-dad walk was a pair of four-dollar hot chocolates. The stop at Partners Coffee Shop in the Village was worth it. Alas, we needed an activity where we could be indoors, so we shifted gears and took a subway to the American Museum of Natural History. I love this part of Manhattan, the open, Central Park West area, home to trees, big streets, amazing buildings, and more hot dogs. We arrived at the museum, though not at its entrance, which was a decent walk from the subway. I didn’t realize how big this building was. There must be more stuff in there than I thought, I thought. 

Indeed, AMNH is a gargantuan museum. It’s five stories tall and covers the entire natural history of the universe. As a grown, introverted man not much would give me more pleasure than transporting my mind to civilizations that lived thousands of years ago or geeking out on the evolution of sauropod feet in the Jurassic era. Yet my crew doesn’t share this affinity for museum deep dives. They’re largely content to have a gander at a gander but not read about its complex migrational habits.

So the day’s mentality had to shift from “read stuff” to “look at stuff.” From “that’s interesting the megalodon had no cerebral cortex” to ” ‘dem bones were cool.” The fam did let me read some stuff, I just had to jog through exhibits to catch back up with them. Truly, we loved the experience and it really captured our wonder. Learning about natural history reminds me of how small I am, a tiny, almost insignificant speck in time and space. Yet that time and space is so majestically designed, so diverse and vast, so miraculously held together by the great Invisible. And that we tiny homo sapiens are significant and can actually do outstanding things.

From the museum we strolled Central Park, walked up to Belvedere Castle, and took a cab into Midtown. Hudson treated the Nike and NBA stores much like I did the AMNH, gawking at slick duds and memorabilia. Ella enjoyed the American Girl Doll Store, essentially a paradise for doll babies and their kid mommies.

When in NYC, you have to go to Times Square at night, right? Probably not, unless your kids haven’t experienced it, and then you just have to venture into all that fluorescent, commercialized cacophony. We arrived to street performers doing unimpressive things and people selling very expensive junk. We got a pie at Joe’s Pizza, a very New York experience. It was like standing, waiting, ordering, and eating a pizza with a crowd of people in an Amazon box. While having to pee. Thankfully we hustled our way into a nearby hotel and enjoyed their lavatorious spoils. When you pee semi-legally in Times Square, you’ve won.

World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty

The next day we subwayed to lower Manhattan and started walking the grounds of the World Trade Center. I hadn’t seen it since it was nothing but a cleaned-out crater ~10 years ago. The area is beautiful and the memorial was moving. It’s really an impressive tribute to such a world-altering tragedy.

The rest of the day was spent at Liberty Island and Ellis Island. The whole thing is an incredibly efficient New York operation. Getting hundreds of people onto a boat in mere minutes is the stuff Old West cattle herders would admire. The story of the Statue of Liberty was rich and intriguing and being up close to the monument was awe-inspiring. It was a picturesque day that gave us incredible views of Manhattan. Definitely a highlight of the trip. We also went to Ellis Island, also rich in history and something I’d love to do a deep tour of one day. But on this day the kids had museumed enough and could only stare at so many old pictures and glass-encased frock coats.

We returned to Battery Island and took a cab up to Midtown for dinner. Definitely the most interesting cab ride of the trip. I asked the guy how his day was, he said “good,” and then it was quiet for 15 minutes. Quiet inside the cab, that is. Outside was honking and sirens and bystanders gasping at near-death crosswalk encounters. Toward the end of the ride the cabby and I actually bonded over a very “I don’t give a damn” driving moment in front of us. It was sweet in a we-don’t-really-understand-each-other-but-we’re-trying-to-in-New-York kinda way. We enjoyed a tasty dinner at Javelina. It’s basically a Mexican restaurant that costs $125. New York wins again but I still felt like we won, too. The day ended with checking out the Harry Potter store and a nightcap of butterbeer.

Culture and couture – Midtown and Broadway

Tuesday was full of walking and visiting landmarks. Madison Square Garden, the New York Public Library, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockafeller Center, and boutiques and megastores in between. That afternoon, we thought we’d visit a few Broadway box offices and see if there were any tickets for the night’s performances. First we stopped at Wicked. There was only one group of four tickets left and I decided to not pull the trigger so we could visit a couple more places. So we walked briskly to Hamilton, which had one ticket left. But we saw Thayne Jasperson, a cast member, exit the theater on his bike, which made Ella’s day.

Then we hustled back to Wicked, with me saying little prayers like “if those tickets are still there, Lord, I know it would brighten my daughter’s day, but if not, I trust your will in me not dropping 500 bones on a play.” When we arrived, two of the tickets were still there–with another two in the very front row for the same price. One of those moments where you just gotta splurge. So we went back to the hotel to freshen up, had a nice Italian dinner at Chelsea’s Zia Maria, took a subway back to Broadway (which featured the train getting stuck for ten agonizing minutes followed by a healthy rat greeting us as the doors opened), and made it just in time for the show.

On our last day we visited Chelsea Market and indulged in various tasty treats, a taste of New York if you will. It was a great way to end the trip.

What New York is like

What can I say about New York? Perhaps I’ll try with how it appealed to my senses.

New York smells like marijuana. When you leave your hotel, when you step off the subway, when you walk into a park. Early in the morning, too, New Yorkers are consuming it like a cup of coffee. But really, NYC is full of smells. You pass through the stench of sewer fog to enter a bakery redolent of fine butter and the sweetest creams.

New York sounds like horns and talking. But there’s so much of that, it becomes white noise. It’s my family’s laughter I’ll remember hearing most.

New York tastes delicious. Food is good everywhere. It has to be because there’s so much competition, such high rental costs, such diversity in cuisines. Restaurants and cafes have to bring it, and we enjoyed the spoils.

New York looks huge, impressive, monolithic, dingy, and picturesque all at once. You walk by a building you’d surmise criminals or ghosts had been living in with the next one having a 200-year-old gothic design.

And New York feels like cold wind whipping between buildings to hot sun reflecting off of them. It feels like you’re in a metropolis that goes on forever. It feels like a great city in modern civilization, and it is.

We’ll always remember and be thankful for our amazing trip there.

The bugs I kill (and the few I rescue)

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 2 Comments

Life—all life—is precious. I’ve treasured this truth steadily more over the years. It’s taken me from my aggressive youth of smashing countless caterpillars upon an oak trunk, or waylaying helpless fireflies into gold dust with a tennis racket, to my enlightened (perhaps) adulthood of trapping bugs and taking them outside.

I’d like to think my high-falutin philosophy of life held true for all creatures. For if it didn’t, I’d invite the risk of being labeled a hypocrite—nay, worse, a ruthless Darwinian who picked and chose my victims based on their size and value to me.

And therein lies the rub, for not all bugs are created equal. Some are worthy of our greatest efforts of salvation, while some I’m content to damn to the deepest depths of my toilet bowl.

With that I permit myself to determine the destinies of these invertebrates like Caesar in the Colosseum with an outstretched arm and wavering thumb.

Live and let live

Ladybugs

Good golly if you kill one of these you have no soul. What is it about polka dots and teeny legs that transforms insect repulsion into grins and giggles? A litmus test for hexapod hanging is if the bug has a costume for babies, you shouldn’t kill it.

Crickets

They’re hoppers, not crawlers. Does that not add to the no-kill quotient? And it’s hard to think of this critter without a monocle and cane telling a boy that a dream is a wish his heart makes. How can you squash a dream weaver? You can’t, though they do make excellent fishing bait. Still, have fun catching it with the kids and taking it safely outdoors.

Butterflies

How did a butterfly get into your house anyway? Rejoice and just let that sucker enjoy the space, cuz who doesn’t love to watch its beautiful fluttering? Who can’t help but pause and wonder at its motions? Dogs, that’s who. Trap the monarch and release before nature clashes.

Use your best judgment

Spiders

Some of us respond to a spider in our house as if it’s a KGB operative. It snuck in from some crevice unannounced and is three seconds from killing us. We forget in these moments we’re roughly 76 times a spider’s size. If their eight eyes can see anything, they’re convinced they’re done for and would love nothing more than to exit back through the crevice. Most spiders can be gathered in a tissue ball and dropped outside. Unless it’s really hairy, fast, or looks like it dropped into your crib from the Amazon rainforest. Then you should find your biggest boot and pound it before it crawls onto your face and you eat it while sleeping. (Hey, “they” say that happens eight times in your life, so just know I’m not being provocative here.)

Seek and destroy

Woolly boogers

There’s not really a better name for those hairy fellas with 36 legs that scoot across your living room floor. Just like you’d handle any booger, that thing belongs in a tissue and a toilet, pronto.

Cockroaches

They’ve survived natural disasters, nuclear wars, and ages where other species were entirely annihilated. Somehow they’re designed not to die. Yet the sight of one fills us with such murderous rampage, we have to check if we care for living things at all. But then we justify that a cockroach isn’t really a living thing. It’s a filthy, brown-armored terrorist tank that will require the heaviest tome in the room to exterminate. Usually that won’t even do the job. We stomp the book over and over, jar it around to squish every angle, yet inexplicably and inevitably that sucker’s legs are still twitching like it’s training to scale a landfill. Even as you flush its carcass down the toilet, it’s in fact not a carcass but seemingly a slightly handicapped invertebrate swirling to its next adventure. All said I’d bet even the kindest entomologist would be keen to send this dastardly critter to an eternal abyss. So should you.

Mosquitoes

There’s no bug on the planet that makes life so miserable. Not only are they annoying blood suckers, they kill more people than any other animal. Murderous menaces. Is there any animal on earth we’re so immediately ready to kill with zero conscience? We feel its bite and simultaneously smash it to pieces. As soon as we realize it exists we end its life violently. Its parting gift to us is at best an itchy bump and at worst a life-threatening disease. Its contribution to civilization is death for itself and others. When you piece it all together, mosquitoes are pretty much Satan’s demons and must be dealt with mercilessly. That’s why they hold the dubious top spot of the bug most worthy of death.

Well, now you know what happens to bugs in my home. So what happens to bugs in yours?