Beaten Over The Head

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I’ve got a very old, rustic wood plaque with a poem called Desiderata on it, one of the best motivational poems ever written, with lots of great advice like “go placidly amid the noise and haste”, advice that applies very well to where I live (Los Angeles) and I sometimes find hard to follow.

I was cleaning out the garage today and knocked it off the wall. It hit me on the head. Hurt like the dickens. So I have now literally been “beaten over the head” with it. Do you think someone is trying to tell me something?

The poem is below in case you haven’t read it. It’s definitely worth your time.

The only line I take exception with is “. . . listen to others, even the dull and ignorant.” I mean, it may be true that some people are dull or ignorant or both (a few come to mind, actually), but it makes Max sound a bit on the arrogant side. Other than that, this poem is pure gold.

Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, (c) 1952

Journey to God (poem)

 

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I know most won’t read this because it is very, very, very long, so to the one or two who do, pat yourself on the back for not being afflicted with the A.D.D. the Internet has stricken 99% of the adult world with. I really opened a vein for it, so I think it will be worth your time. Thanks.

And to those who think a rhyming poem can’t be profound, please get out your Ouija board, contact Hank Longfellow, Emily Dickinson, Bob Frost and Billy Shakespeare (et al) and take it up with them. 

Journey to God

An old man passed away one night.
He’d had a good, long life.
and all that he regretted
was leaving his beautiful wife.

To others, her glory had faded
as the years had claimed their fee
but to him, she was just as lovely
as she was at twenty-three.

He saw his high school sweetheart
and remembered her sweet, shy smile.
He saw his bride in a gown of white
walking toward him down the aisle.

He saw her asleep in a hospital bed
as she cradled their newborn child.
He saw her quiet and thoughtful,
then passionate and wild.

He was so possessed by thoughts of her,
he hardly noticed he had passed.
He was still alive in spirit
and all his pain was gone at last.

He was surprised at how easy it was to die,
like shedding worn-out clothes
but even more to see himself below
as his spirit slowly rose.

He felt no urge or instinct
to return and get back in
for he knew the body on the bed
was never really him.

It was always just a vehicle,
now broken down and old.
What he’d walked around in all his life
was just a vehicle for his soul.

He had to laugh for, being dead,
he had never felt so great.
He couldn’t help but realize
this was a natural state.

Death was not the end of life,
just one more stanza in the poem.
It was not a sad departure
but a return to his true home.

But the cries of his dear wife
would not let him leave this plane.
He could not bear to leave her
while she was in such pain.

He saw her cry and hold him
as he lay still in their bed
and heard her whisper, “Rest, my love”
as he floated overhead.

He wanted to hold her and let her know
that he was free from pain.
He wished he could tell her not to cry
for they’d soon be together again.

But the wall between life and death
proved too thick and strong to breach.
The woman he’d held every day of his life,
for now, was out of reach.

So he cried, too, thinking of her
so frail and helpless there,
alone with his lifeless body
in the home they used to share.

Though at first he was elated
to be free of that painful shell,
he longed to return to tell her
that his soul was alive and well.

So as he floated like a feather
through the purple, misty air,
his sorrow and loneliness mounted
and he fell into despair.

When from far away, through the haze,
a strange melody reached his ears,
sung by a chorus of angels
to soothe and calm his fears.

He followed the voices, clear and sweet,
and could hardly believe the sight.
Radiant beings with glowing eyes
were guiding him toward the light!

“Do you remember me, John?” one of them asked,
“We were buddies in World War Two.”
“Do you remember me, John?” another voice called,
“You used to call me Grandpa Lou.”

“Hey, John! It’s me! Your brother, Joey!
I came here when you were ten.
I’ll bet you never thought
you would hear my voice again.”

This went on for hours and hours,
spirits wanting to say hello;
reunions with those he had loved so well
in the world and the life below.

His emotions were tossed seeing those he had lost
in the maelstrom of earthly life
where often the good are taken too soon
and heartache and sorrow is rife.

But there were two others he struggled to see
till he finally grew panicked and sad.
He said, “Wait a minute! Somebody tell me –
where are my mom and my dad?”

His brother whispered, “John, don’t worry.
They’re here and they’re happy you came.”
Then he saw them, bathed in golden light,
and their faces were just the same.

He cried with joy as he hugged them and said,
“Oh, I have missed you so.”
For years, he wished he could see them again.
Now, he could not let them go.

He was happy to hold them, to look in their eyes,
and laugh as they had before.
He was relieved that death is no different from life.
There’s just no pain anymore.

He told them he’d grown to appreciate
all that they’d done and said,
and as nice as it was to tell them now,
wished he’d told them in life instead.

But like most, he denied the fact of death
and refused to believe they could die.
He never allowed it to enter his mind
as the months and the years flew by.

Till he found himself standing beside their graves
and it finally sank in they were gone.
He was angry at God who allowed death to be.
It all seemed so senseless and wrong.

“Why are we given these feelings?” he had cried,
“And love that grows deeper with time?
If we’re bound to lose it all in the end,
then creating this world was a crime.”

And just the way he had wished
he could soothe his wife’s dismay,
his parents heard his anguished cry
and wished the same that day.

For they had already found their way home
to the fountain from which we all spring.
They had freed themselves of their mortal shells
and their souls had taken wing.

Now here he was, with them again,
and his joy could not be contained.
If only he’d known death was only a door,
his faith would never have waned.

“If you want to swim in the ocean,” they said,
“Just think it and you will be there.
Your body can’t slow you down anymore.
You’re as light and free as the air.”

“Remember those Sunday’s down by the sea?
Those summers that seemed without end?
Just close your eyes and imagine that time
and we’ll all be back there again!”

But he worried that God would not let him stay
and that all this was too good to last.
He feared that he would be banished
for his faltering faith in the past.

But his family and friends just smiled and said,
“John, you have nothing to fear.
A few things they said about heaven down there
are far from the truth up here.”

They said you had to go to church
for God to hear your prayer
but God can hear the softest whisper
anytime and anywhere.

You search for Christ was constant.
You fought for your faith since birth.
And the kindness you always showed in life
is the sole measure of anyone’s worth.

God doesn’t demand blind submission
or condemn you for questions or doubts.
It’s men that said God was vengeful,
a dictator who bullies and shouts.

You thought you needed pure faith
or God wouldn’t hear your call
but the times God tried to help you most
were when you had no faith at all.

You thought that sins were punished
with torture and endless pain
but the threat of hell is not for God
but for the church’s gain.

We don’t need a hell to burn in
or a devil to torture our minds.
Judgment takes place in our conscience
when we’re shown God’s vast design.

It’s not only the enemy of man
who compels us to do wrong.
Good and bad are side by side
within us, all along.

It all comes down to choices –
light or dark, right or wrong,
and they make or break our happiness
in life below and life beyond.

Every sin comes back to haunt us,
no matter how big or how small
and the pain we caused in earthly life
returns to us, after all.

We each have our own individual hell
and a battle none but us can fight.
Millions of souls are still spinning out there,
trapped in perpetual night.

For until they cure their own blindness,
in darkness their souls will bide.
God doesn’t force us to come back home
but patiently calls us inside.

Some men look at evil
and label it “God’s will”
but God gave life, and death for rest.
Only men can kill.

And some say God is dead
or he was never really there.
How else, they ask, can one explain
so many unanswered prayers?

How else can one explain
the pain and horror on the earth?
This has been the central question
since the dawn of mankind’s birth.

But like a mortal parent,
raising a baby all alone,
God did his best to teach us
then left us on our own.

And like a meddling father
who a child would push away,
God can’t live our lives for us
and he can’t cushion the way.

To take every hint of pain from life
would remove our right to choose.
If you really stop to think it through,
we’d gain less than we’d lose.

Some see the misery of human life
and ask God what it means
but the only way He could end it
would be to make us all machines.

So God does not stop evil,
though it hurts Him to let it be.
He can’t both rule with an iron hand
and allow us to be free.

The place that folks call “hell”
where sinners meet their fate
is distance from the light of God
and time to contemplate.

For once you feel God’s presence,
all your pain and sorrows cease.
All your questions then are answered
and your heart is filled with peace.

Men bent the words of Jesus
To control the multitude.
They took his divine message
and made it low and crude.

Men have always struggled for power,
from the caves to the streets of L.A.
Why wouldn’t they twist the word of God
and tell us we need them to pray?

The ring kissing, Hail Mary’s, and rosary beads,
right down to the Pope’s princely nod,
at best, is only good theater,
a bureaucracy between man and God.

You see, God is not some tyrant
who needs a chain of command.
You find God in the eyes of the aged
and in a baby’s hand.

You find God in a sunset
so pretty it makes you cry.
You find God in every warm embrace
and in a lover’s sigh.

You find God in generosity,
and in the meek and mild.
You find God in any gentle soul
who kneels to help a child.

You find God in the soft, pink light
when a new day has begun
and in the flower by the window
as it opens to the sun.

And yes, you find God in the dying
as the light fades in their eyes
and their spirit slowly slips away
to its true home in the skies.

God is in every one of us.
We can feel it when we’re young.
Then we’re snatched up by the world
and into the fray we’re flung.

We grow cynical and weary
and forget all that we once knew
when the peace and joy God gave us
has lost its native hue.

Oh, if only they knew, John! If only they knew!
What a wonderful world they might win
if they could only see past their differences
to the spirit that dwells within.”

He was shocked by these new revelations.
His mind spun around and around.
The chains that tethered his spirit in life
Lay shattered in pieces on the ground.

His parents said, “Welcome to heaven.”
He felt a peace he never thought he would know
and though his mortal life had just ended,
it seemed like a long time ago.

Then a hush fell all through the firmament.
Impossible colors filled the air, far and near.
His peace grew so deep, he sobbed out loud
and his mother whispered, “Look! God is here!”

– Mark Rickerby

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Yoga Makes Me Fart (a poem)

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Okay, this didn’t really happen to me, but I can’t say this really didn’t happen to me or it will sound like I’m lying and it did really happen to me, so I just won’t say anything at all. Oops, wait.

I thought this was a very original poem but after researching it a bit when I was finished writing it, it turns out farting in yoga class is kind of a thing. Who knew? I’ll share the product of my research with you at the end of the poem.

I took one yoga class many years ago and – well, let’s just say it didn’t go well. Again, fart suppression wasn’t the problem. I’m just not very bendy, which is surprising since the bendable Gumby and Pokey figures were my favorite toys as a child.

My next worry was that writing and posting a poem about farting would destroy my sophisticated reputation. I shared this worry with my wife. Her laughter (not at the poem – at my fantasy about anyone thinking I’m sophisticated) encouraged me to forge ahead. 

Anyway, all you yoga farters, ashamed or shameless, I hope it gives you a laugh.

Yoga Makes Me Fart

Well the misses and I,
We were growing apart
So I joined her yoga class
Cuz it’s dear to her heart
But I couldn’t bend that way
At least not at the start
And to make matters worse
Yoga makes me fart.

Yep, yoga makes me fart.
It makes me cut the cheese.
The yoga teacher got mad and said
“Just wait outside, please.”
I tried to show my sweetie
Just how much I care
But instead I left her yoga pals
Dying in there

If you’ve never done it,
Man, don’t ever start.
Yoga makes me fart.

Talk about your silent rides home.
I said sorry but she said, “Just leave me alone.
You did that on purpose,
Don’t you think I know?
If you didn’t want to do it,
You should have just said so!”

So I changed the subject and asked,
“How’d the rest of the class go?”
She said, “We had to put the windows down
and it’s twenty-five below!
But it didn’t help at all,
you big, flatulent schmoe!
It just smelled like somebody
Took a big dump in the snow!”

They all seemed so nice,
So enlightened and clever
So you can imagine my surprise
when they banned me forever.
They all seemed so peaceful,
At least at the start.
But what can I say?
Yoga makes me fart.

Yeah, yoga makes me fart.
The big, wet, slappy kind.
I made all them spiritual folks
go plum out their minds.
If you’ve never done it,
Brother, don’t ever start.
What can I say?
Yoga makes me fart.

 

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Talky Tina (for fellow Dollophobia sufferers)

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When I was a kid, I was constantly terrified.
My imagination was a bad neighborhood.
I read scary comics like “Tales From The Crypt”
and watched horror films more than I should.

The first Sunday morning of every month,
I could be found at the local drug store
looking for the latest issue of “Monster”
and other mags filled with blood, guts and gore.

On Saturday night, my buddies and I
would stay up late and watch B-horror flicks
presented by Vampirella or Seymour
and get our horrification fix.

One would think I was a pretty tough little guy
from all these “inappropriate” movies and rags
but I was actually the world’s youngest insomniac.
I had suitcases under my eyes, not just bags.

But the thing that scared me the most, by far,
didn’t haunt houses or howl, creep or crawl.
Frankenstein and Dracula were big sissies
compared to typical, everyday DOLLS.

During sleepovers at my best friend’s house
all the dolls in his little sister’s room
made me not just run back home to mommy,
I’d run straight back up into the womb.

I couldn’t stand their cold, lifeless grins;
their painted-on, glassy-eyed stares.
They attempted to murder me night after night
in tortured, tormented nightmares.

Then Rod Serling had to throw in his two cents
and make my night-time fear level climb
when he introduced me to a one “Talky Tina” –
the freakin’ scariest doll of all time!

Every night after that, I’d perform a routine
to make sure I was completely alone.
I’d check in the closet and under the bed
with fear that made me quake to the bone.

As I lay in my bed, hiding under the sheets,
a sweaty, petrified, nervous wreck,
I’d hear Tina say, “I’m going to kill you”
and feel her little hands grabbing my neck.

Of course, that was a long, long time ago.
Now I’m all grown up, brave and strong.
Talky Tina never comes to call anymore
and my slumber is peaceful and long.

But sometimes even now, when the moon is right
and the wind makes shadows dance on the wall,
I imagine I see a small figure run by.
I imagine I hear Tina call.

I pull in my dangling hands and feet,
yank the covers up over my head
and I’m that goofy kid all over again
lying scared and alone in my bed.

 

Little Things (poem)

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A man who hungers for the adulation of millions
and puts little importance on the love of just one
often finds nothing mattered more than that love
When the days and the battles of his life are done.

Little things like romance were a petty distraction.
Love taken for granted, vanity none could endure.
And at the end, in a lonely room full of trophies,
He finally learns how big the little things were.

How We Survive (poem on film)

A friend just made me aware of this homemade film (or maybe a short film project for school) made somewhere in England, based on my poem How We Survive.
Of everything I’ve written, that poem gets around the most, which I’m glad about because grief, as we all know, is a terrible burden.
These young ladies actually created some very touching moments. I especially like the ending.

You, Me and Sam (for Sam Cooke fans)

This is a poem I wrote when I was courting my wife. I read it to her over the phone late one night. She had heard the few Sam Cooke songs played on the radio (You Send Me, Venus, etc.) but no others. At one point as I read it to her, she let out a little gasp, one of those sudden inhalations that let me know I really got her. Since I quote some Sam Cooke’s lyrics in the poem, I give him more credit for that gasp than myself. But for all the enjoyment his singing has given me, it is credit gratefully given.

The poem will be vastly improved by listening to the Sam Cooke song referenced while reading – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwuCLxCfdB0

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I can’t watch a sitcom so soon after the news.
Too much sadness has left my heart barren tonight.
Sirens are screaming somewhere in the distance
In this old world, it seems like nothing is right.

Television and movies seem to thrive on this stuff.
I suppose it keeps the almighty bucks rolling in.
Maybe peace and quiet never last very long
Because so many profit from horror and sin.

So let’s turn off the TV and light a few candles.
Put on some Sam Cooke – an album, not a CD.
I know they sound better, but they have no charm.
I like the lived-in crackles of an old, vinyl LP.

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Turn it up loud enough to drown out the madness,
The hubbub of all this progress for its own sake.
Sometimes all the mayhem invades me too deeply
And I need some soft music to ease the heartache.

Yeah, that’s better. Nobody could sing it like Sam.
The sweet, simple melody makes you feel so fine.
I’ve heard this song so many times, it’s part of me.
It’s like I wrote it for you; like the lyrics are mine.

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If I go
A million miles away
I’ll write a letter
Each and every day
‘Cause honey, nothin’, nothin’
Can ever change this love I have for you

There aren’t many refuges in this old city;
The silence marred by shouts and alarms.
I’m just old-fashioned – born too late, as they say.
I hide in music, but especially in your arms.

Even Sam fell victim to the night and this city,
Shot down in his prime in some seedy motel.
He had so much left to give when he was taken.
His music makes me feel like I knew him so well.

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Those old songs never fail to quiet my soul.
I wish this world could be the one they created.
Though I know their harmony is just an illusion.
Back then, like today, folks still fought and hated.

Music brushes away the dust of this world
And reinvents it again the way it should be.
My favorite songs are a lot like fairy tales.
They turn their back on reality, just like me.

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Music and love both serve a similar purpose
For a union of souls is the grandest refuge of all.
In this slow dance, we create our own fairy tale.
I’m the prince and you’re the belle of the ball.

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Oh, you’re the apple of my eye
You’re cherry pie
You’re cake and ice cream
You’re sugar and spice and everything nice
You’re the girl of my dreams

Thank you for the peace you’ve given to me.
Thank you for loving me the way that you do.
I wish I could hold you just like this forever.
There’s no greater heaven than here, close to you.

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Sam’s singing all the words I don’t tell you enough.
Strong, clear and sweet, and wrapped up in a song.
He’s smiling in heaven, singing just for you and me.
The day’s washed away, and we have all night long.

If you wanted
To leave me and roam,
When you got back,
I’d just say welcome home
Cause, honey, nothin’,
nothin’ can ever change
This love I have for you

 

 

 

Sam Cooke 1/22/31 – 12/11/64

Sam is buried at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Glendale, California, a few miles from where I live. I visited his grave one day (against cemetery rules) and sang a few of his songs next to it. I hope he heard in heaven and was merciful in his critique. What they lacked in virtuosity, they made up for in sincerity. 

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