Snippets of

 

A Life Mostly Lived

True Stories in 85 Syllables

 

A Haiku Memoir

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dan Dana

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Dan Dana, 2022            

 

Five Palms Press

Sarasota, Florida

dandana.us/fivepalms

Dedication

 

My Relief Generation

 

nearing the hand-off

of my lap with the baton

your turn has begun

 

our story’s passed on

distant past to far future

one life at a time

 

shrouded in folklore

memory’s fleeting half-life

decays to nothing

 

save this slim box of

Papi’s memory snippets

for your relievers

 

as future unfurls

preserve your lap’s key moments

the relay goes on

 

 

With Seamus and Claribel in 2006

Preface

 

I Forgot to Ask

 

Grandpa, where were you

when the First World War broke out?

I forgot to ask

 

Grandma, tell me tales

about my great-grandmother.

I forgot to ask

 

Dad, how did you choose

your career, and your first wife?

I forgot to ask

 

Mom, what did you like

about Dad when you first met?

I forgot to ask

 

kids, I’m getting old

anything you’d like to know?

don’t forget to ask

 

 

My mom on her final birthday, 2008

Preamble

 

My Schizoid Compromise*

 

how close do I come,

daring to let you see me

—real me, warts and all?

 

and, how far away

do I keep hidden from you,

safe from your arrows?

 

writing this memoir,

now shared on the world wide web,

reveals my answer

 

browsing these snippets,

you may peer into my self

through frosted windows

 

I’m only human,

managing my boundaries,

just like you, my friend

 

 

* A term from object relations theory, developed by psychoanalyst Melanie Klein

 

 

Grandmother Dana with my dad (top center) and siblings, circa 1900

 

 

Gant grandparents with my mom and two of her five brothers, circa 1919

 

 

§

 

I’m getting old.  Although in good health and seeing no lethal storm clouds on the near horizon, the finitude of my life has been made starkly evident by the quickening pace of the years speeding by.

 

This memoir contains haiku quintets that depict events in my life from earliest memories to the present.  As such, they represent a body of family history for many.  My daughter is my only child.  Having two rather prolific siblings, I am known as “Uncle Dan” by some seventy people.  Having even more fruitful grandparents, I am “Cousin Dan” to hundreds spread throughout the United States.  Go back a few more generations, and my family tree includes many thousands more distant cousins, perhaps sharing a branch with you.  Some of my life-snippets may intersect with your own memories or remind you of stories you’ve heard ‘round the family table.

 

Even more broadly, my immigrant roots date from the landing of the Mayflower in 1620 and are shared by tens of thousands of distant American cousins.  So, my family history may also be your family history.  (Curiously, my wife Susan and I recently discovered a common ancestor born in 1670, making us eighth cousins.)

 

What’s a haiku quintet, you ask?  Rooted in ancient Japanese poetry, this adapted form consists of five stanzas of three lines, each having five, seven, and five syllables, respectively, summing to 85 syllables.  A photo or image illustrates and completes the finished piece.  This derivative structure is my own humble creation.  The “life snippet” variant reports actual events as I recall them.

 

Many evenings at sunset and in its afterglow, when not preempted by some pesky obligation, I sit at our west window watching the daily "sunset movie" (a different show each night), headphones in place, listening to music chosen to complement my mood, a glass of decent cabernet near at hand. The plot is predictable, but the cinematography is gorgeous.

 

Immersed in this multi-sensory beauty, memory-snippets sometimes bob to the surface of my mind, posing for inspection.  Aware that life’s clock is ticking toward midnight, I snag these ephemeral critters before they slip back into memory’s murky depths.  I wordsmith each one into the shape of a haiku quintet and put it in a box for safekeeping. 

 

This memoir is that box. 

 

Relatives might enjoy riffling through the box for curious bits of our shared family story.  Non-relatives might stumble upon triggers of your own life-snippets.

 

Browse.  Let your mind wander.  Follow it there.  Repeat.

 

Contents

 

Part 1­—Life Snippets—tells true stories in chronological order as they occurred—Page 9

 

Part 2—Susan—celebrates my wife.  As the muse and frequent subject of my poetic reveries, life-partner Susan deserves a special place in this collection.  These poems are not about events per se that can be listed chronologically, but nonetheless represent a central feature of my experience.  As my steady companion since 1995, she was present and involved in most of the snippets reported in Part 1 since our pairing.  Together, we have crafted a model relationship that may serve as a helpful touchstone for others.  Certain ingredients of our secret sauce are revealed—Page 111

 

Part 3—Roots—digs deeper.  Several immigrant ancestors who first ventured from Europe to North America established familial lines that lead directly to me.  One Native American links my DNA to the first human inhabitants of the Western Hemisphere over 15,000 years ago.  Haiku about Viking and African roots probe pre-history­—Page 134

 

Part 4—Death—contemplates the end.  To write one’s memoir suggests that the writer’s life has been mostly lived.  I am 77 years old and cannot dispute that conclusion.  Meanwhile, I remain in the arena and continue playing the game—Page 144

 

Part 5—The Future—reflects upon today’s inflection point in American history with a worried eye toward the world that my grandchildren, and their grandchildren, may inherit—Page 162

 

Part 6—Write Your Own—is for readers who sense their own looming mortality and wish to leave a record for posterity.  Some kind of snippet—perhaps the haiku quintet form—is suggested as a more expedient option than traditional narrative storytelling—Page 166

 

About me—Page 169

 

 

 

 

 

 

.1.

Life Snippets

 

 

My Birth

 

I was a preemie

not ready for life outside,

or so I was told

 

siblings were stronger

my frail five pounds weighed on Mom

she’d practiced on them

 

somehow, I made it

earned farm-boy immunities

fending nature’s bugs

 

long before the Pill

I was my dad’s eighth and last

spanning five decades

 

thanks, Mom and Daddy

for giving me life to live

I might have not been

 

November 1945

 

Great-grandmother’s diary entry 23 September 1945: “Dan born at 1 am”

My Mom

25 December 1918 – 15 September 2009

 

Christmas-born baby

sturdy hardscrabble farm-folk

third of six, five boys

 

learned love from Grandma

sacrificed past my knowing

selflessness unseen

 

music, prized heirloom

kindness, greatest gift of all

I sip from her depth

 

I claim no esteem

by genes and her example

she created me

 

village raises child

nature’s treasures I’m bequeathed

but first, my mother

 

 

Bradford Louise Gant Dana, circa 1919

My Dad

14 December 1874 - 22 April 1955

 

on this Father’s Day

you’re one-hundred-forty-six

your last child salutes

 

totem of my youth

aspirational model

pedestal figure

 

dwindling few of us

remember your twinkling eyes

what thoughts stirred your mind?

 

when I reach your years

who'll recall my twinkling eyes?

some aging poet?

 

meanwhile, life goes on

I’m busy living each day

just as you were, Dad

 

 

J. W. Dana, circa 1919

The Grasshopper Plague

 

when I was a boy

my dad told me this story

he was an old man:

 

“they filled the whole sky

they turned the daylight to dark

they sounded like rain

 

they smothered our farm

they stripped the leaves from corn stalks

they ate our garden

 

we burned them in piles

we smashed them, but not enough

they left us hungry”

 

I cherish his tale

passing it along to you

I’m the old man now

 

 

Near Humboldt, Kansas, 1874, his birthplace and birthyear

Image source: Kansas Historical Society

My Dad and Roosevelt

 

story he told us

now faded like clippings from

the local paper:

 

on a rainy day

at John Brown’s memorial

I met Roosevelt

 

as a party man

I welcomed the President

to my Kansas town

 

hanging by a shred

this bit of family lore

would have turned to dust

 

but it’s now preserved

for one more generation

in today’s haiku

 

 

Theodore Roosevelt arriving in Osawatomie, Kansas, to deliver a speech on 31 August 1910 at a memorial for abolitionist John Brown.  J.W. Dana was a local Republican Party official at that time. 

Photo source: Kansas Historical Society

Why My Name Is Dan

 

I am third of three

Deana and Jon came first

then I joined the clan

 

what to name this one?

Dad proposed “Cornelius,”

—his own spurned birth name!

 

“no child of mine—no!”

Mom put her foot down squarely

I thank her muchly

 

his next idea:

“I had little brother Dan,

Jon should have one, too”

 

that’s what I was told

by my Mom, who surely knew

why my name is Dan

 

 

Uncle Dan Dana (1881-1964)

Knoxville

 

wide place in the road

no stop sign to slow traffic

two miles east of home

 

Cox General Store

old men spit chew on the porch

hitching post nearby

 

Charley’s blacksmith shop

forged horse shoes and gate hinges

pounding his anvil

 

Yoakum’s gas station

Sindy’s greasy repair shop

church, one-room schoolhouse

 

my rear-view mirror

reflects these seventy years

down Highway Thirteen

 

 

Knoxville, Missouri, population ~ 30 in the 1950’s

Photo: Revisiting Knoxville, March 15, 2022

Maple Tree

 

I found your young sprout

across Skunk Creek, up the lane

amid roadside brush

 

sister De helped me

transplant you to our back yard

near the cherry tree

 

how tall will you grow?

will you be here when I die?

how will my life end?

 

the boy sought answers

to impossible questions,

setting his life’s path

 

I left home, you’re stuck

we’ve grown these seven decades

will we meet again?

 

 

My childhood home near Knoxville, circa 1951

Photo:  Maple tree at age 70, 6 December 2021

Wrapped in String

 

at our stone fireplace

my dad read his newspaper

warming his old bones

 

he sat in silence

pretending not to notice

I wrapped him in string

 

“time for bed, you boys”

I thought I had him tied down

up the stairs we went

 

first thing next morning

I could hardly wait to see

if he was still there

 

string was on the floor

Dad’s at the breakfast table

how did he get loose?

 

 

Mom, Dad, Jon, me (sister Deana took photo, circa 1953)

Milking Old Red

 

I milked her each night

head nestled in her warm flank

savoring her smell

 

Old Red chewed her cud

surely glad to be relieved

her swollen bag eased

 

squeezing teats top-down

Tom meowing for a fresh squirt

then I took a turn

 

drafty barn door slats

slowed Missouri’s winter wind

cow’s warmth dulled its bite

 

my daily chore done

lugged sloshing bucket homeward

wider world called me

 

 

Family farm near Knoxville, 1951-1955

Photo source:  wisconsinhistory.org

Grandmother’s House

 

Sundays after church

dinner at Grandmother’s house

fond weekly routine

 

Granddad was born there

sagging creaky floors, throw rugs

loved his strong cigars

 

chicken, spuds, green beans

hymns sung ‘round the piano

four-part harmony

 

cousins, uncles, aunts

card games, pitch-and-catch

grown-ups talked, kids played

 

everyone’s gone now

house burned down long ago

sometimes, I’m still there

 

 

Knoxville, 1945-1963.  Photo circa 1957. 

My 6^th grade picture is taped to their wall (top left corner)

Minting Money

 

I melted wheel weights

in cupped tongs at the fireplace

meant for stoking coals

 

pouring molten lead

on the hearth to make play coins

my wealth grew nightly

 

inscribing each one

by hammer and screwdriver

to show year minted

 

rounding their edges

to perfect my creations

for posterity

 

those priceless lead coins

did not survive growing up

would be worth gold now

 

 

The fireplace hearth in my childhood home near Knoxville, 1950’s

Image source: Unknown (similar but not original)

Edda

 

my primal playmate

cotton dolls ‘neath grandmas’ quilts

church-basement Wednesdays

 

no nearby age-peers

country schoolmarm taught us well

square dance romance throbbed

 

our mothers had plans?

timid shyness kept me mum

but fantasies roared

 

Mizzou brought new worlds

each found our own path onward

fleeting decades passed

 

Sarasota lunch

glad to see you, oldest friend!

you’ve not changed, have I?

 

 

Class photos:  Knoxville two-room school, 1956

Reunion at Columbia restaurant, Sarasota, 2018

Underestimating My Mom

 

I fancied myself

a fast runner, at age nine

could I beat my mom?

 

she took my challenge

to the far mulberry tree

she easily won

 

I was deflated

she hugged me with love and grace

I learned a lesson

 

in whatever field

underestimate my mom

at your own peril

 

for years thereafter

she was sorry for winning

love’s the real lesson

 

 

Setting my childhood home, circa 1954

Photo:  Displaying another of her remarkable talents at age 89, April 2008

My Dad’s Earthly Afterlife

 

smoking was not blamed

no one knew it was cancer

that was killing him

 

coughing up dark blood

he got sick in mid-winter

did he see ahead?

 

I am his youngest

us kids stayed with Grandmother

to shield us, I s’pose

 

last time I saw him

snaked tubes in oxygen tent

he was not moving

 

and then he was gone …

glimpsed in wistful, wishful dreams

he still breathes in me

 

 

Photo:  J. W. Dana (12/14/1874 – 4/22/1955) with family, 11 June 1952

Ode to Mrs. Mason

 

seventh grade teacher

taught all subjects with finesse

classroom held four grades

 

farmland country school

sentence diagramming fun

weekly spelling bee

 

just carrots, no sticks

blackboard performances cheered

errors gently coached

 

seedbed sown with care

career trajectory launched

my sprout has grown tall

 

sixty-five years hence

living still, in this haiku

thank you, Mrs. Mason

 

                                                                                      

Photo:  Knoxville school 1956-57

Mrs Mason: bottom row, second from left; Me: top row, center

Price and Me

 

we were a good team

mowing pastures, plowing corn

manning our John Deere’s

 

laughing and waving

back and forth across the field

every time we passed

 

I was young, he’s old

he seemed happy as our hand

I never thought twice

 

Price “knew his place” there

always friendly, always kind

in our Jim Crow land

 

never shared a meal

he never entered our home

Price was Black, you see

 

 

In fond memory of Price Cunningham

Ray County Missouri, 1953-1963 (photo source unknown)

I Tried

 

I read the bible

I listened to Pastor Bob

I pushed down my doubts

 

each Sunday morning

I sat still, as expected

waiting for the light

 

Jews are confident

Catholics are sure they’re right

Muslims too, I’m told

 

Mom said to have faith

I feared the torture of Hell

“could I deserve that?”

 

my weak faith faltered

I tried to make sense of it

in the end, I failed

 

 

Setting:  Knoxville Methodist Church, 1945-1960

Photo:  The abandoned church of my childhood, March 15, 2022

 

Bertrand Russell

(1872-1970)

 

your words set me free

scales fell from wide teen-age eyes

young life's course re-set

 

superstitions foiled

country church's grip released

dogma's chains broken

 

freethought flowed freely

in secular humanism's

sensible worldview

 

these sixty years hence

I ponder the Universe

in your wise shadow

 

your book filled its task

enriched life beyond measure

thank you, Lord Russell

 

 

Photo:  Original personal copy of the book that changed my life in 1961

The Chicken

 

on the dusty road

by old neighbor Henry’s farm

a slow chicken died

 

three silage truckers

sped by many times that day

smashing that chicken

 

each time a welcome

moment of fun distraction

on a boring day

 

by evening only

feathers and brown smudge remained

to mark its flat grave

 

chuckling at day’s end

we three shared chicken stories

in fowl disrespect

 

 

Setting:  The gravel road between cornfield and pit silo on our family farm, Ray County, Missouri, August 1962

Image source:  shutterstock

 

 

 

Mowing Alfalfa

 

that pivotal day

summer before senior year

to farm was the plan

 

mowing alfalfa

was my chore, and my future

by noon, life transformed

 

lightning struck that day

a jolt of empowerment

“I can change the plan!”

 

dropping FFA

enrolling at Ole Mizzou

my new field was math

 

fickle plans took me

through six rewarding decades

to greener pastures

 

 

Ray County, Missouri, family farm, summer 1962

Photo source:  youtube (similar tractor and mower)

JFK Is Dead

 

playing hearts at noon

four guys on a dorm room bed

before chemistry

 

someone yelled out loud:

“the president has been shot!”

“of what?” I wondered

 

some students brought their

own transistor radios

to class, turned down low

 

he tried to teach, but

waved, “turn up your radios”

Cronkite: “he is dead”

 

prof openly sobbed

only then this moment in

history sunk in

 

 

Freshman year, Donnelly Hall, University of Missouri, 22 November 1963

Photo source:  history.com

 

A Decision Deferred

 

failing socially

failing in academics

failing with women

 

my future seemed bleak

happiness felt beyond reach

I despaired of hope

 

a flash of insight

suddenly brightened my mood:

I could end my life!

 

I’d found a way out

I could escape this prison

I was free to choose

 

so … do it today?

there’s no rush, I decided

and there still isn’t

 

 

Setting: Freshman year at University of Missouri, 1963-64

Photo:  On a return visit to campus with Susan, 2019

Hitchhiking

 

I’ve thumbed countless miles

Mizzou to Knoxville and back

weekend laundry runs

 

California called

to see a nameless girlfriend

after freshman year

 

our grand loop out west

sophomore summer junket

with dorm roommate Wayne

 

Michigan’s U P

weekend AWOL excursion

from Indy’s Fort Ben

 

it was safe back then

before the world went crazy

when trust was in vogue

 

 

The highways of America, 1963-1966

 

Tet 1968

 

was I even there?

memories succumbed to age

or, suppressed by fear?

 

three stuporous nights

minigun fireworks traced sky

choppers pounded air

 

silent tunnel maze

beneath my senseless slumber

Viet Cong cooked rice

 

mortars shook death’s door

fickle fate skipped my bunker

by pure random chance

 

today I wonder

this surreal lifetime later

was I even there?

 

 

Setting:  Cu Chi Vietnam, January 31, 1968

Photo:  Inside Viet Cong tunnel beneath Cu Chi, May 1, 2015

 

Clerks Ran the Army

 

good old Uncle Sam

in his paternal kindness

thought of everything

 

gave us GI’s weeks

of Rest & Relaxation

in exotic lands

 

chartered flight, hotel,

poor man’s VIP treatment

once per year, they said

 

a mere records clerk

went to Taiwan, Philippines,

and Singapore too

 

I could do favors

a “lost” reprimand, perhaps

clerks ran the army

 

 

Photo:  In Taiwan on R&R leave from Vietnam, 1968

Man of the World

 

I longed to be grown

to escape childhood’s stigma

a man of the world

 

innocence was shame

my boyhood’s war with myself

hidden scars remain

 

you’re well on your way

beyond me at your same age

wise beyond your years

 

your confidence shines

sure of your adequacy

you are my heart’s pride

 

I’ll dwell within you

as you follow time’s arrow

a man of the world

 

Papi at 22  (1968)

Seamus at 22  (2022)

Getting Short

 

we started counting

the day we got in-country

how many days left?

 

serving our country?

our job was to stay alive

get home in one piece

 

days of typing forms

nights of music and good weed

“coffee” break boosters

 

“hey, how short are you?”

we always knew the number

“Fuck The Army, Jack!”

 

the bird’s lifting off

Cam Ranh Bay’s behind me now

gone back to the World

 

 

Camp Granite, 527^th PSC, Qui Nhon, October 1967-October 1968

 

Vietnam Afterthoughts

 

I came and I went

different people, it seems

a fork in my road

 

opportunities

some seized, even more wasted

but what might have been?

 

death seemed far away

I never saw body bags

in my bunkered mind

 

war can be good, eh?

only lessons learned, too late,

in history books

 

war can be just, eh?

saved us from Hitler's Nazis

Vietnam, not so

 

 

Qui Nhon, 1968

Finding Myself

 

wanting to get back

to where I had never been

to find my people

 

for three restless years

trapped in army’s stifling cage

the world changed—me, too

 

I found some hippies

peaceniks on a peaceful beach

they seemed much like me

 

skinny-dipping fun

hitchhikers shared campfire tales

tripping on acid

 

old shackles cast off

I had heard of these people

now I could be one

 

 

Puerto Ángel, Oaxaca, Mexico, January 1969

Photo: Puerto Ángel beach today, source: windows10spotlight

 

 

Motorcycle Mishap

 

I rolled to a stop

in grass beside the asphalt

hearing myself groan

 

opening my eyes

bike lies beside me, running

it slid, undamaged

 

disc brakes had heated

rusty from months in storage

I flung myself off

 

escape tumbling bike

I thought the safer option

novice rider’s goof

 

two passing farmers

in their dusty pick-up truck

stopped to rescue me

 

 

Pan-American highway (then a narrow asphalt road), near Nacaome, Honduras, January 1969.  Photo 2020 same road, source: trip-suggest

 

 

 

 

Motorcycle Mishap Sequel

 

two weeks with two priests

recovering from mishap

scrapes and broken wrist

 

a friend of a friend

returned to scene of the crash

to check on my bike

 

a roadside peasant

had kept it from thieves and knaves

tethered by a string

 

his toe to its wheel

not knowing its true owner

each night for a month

 

doing his duty

honor-bound to keep it safe

wish I could thank him

 

 

Photo:  A hut similar to the home of my motorcycle’s caretaker

Source:  Architectural League

 

My Ticket to Ride

 

if no GI Bill

you would not be reading this

I’d be somewhere else

 

my ticket to ride

no other path would lead through

life’s maze of crossroads

 

no teaching career

no MTI, no haiku,

no books on my shelf

 

no Susan, no Su,

no Seamus, no Claribel,

no Sarasota

 

counterfactuals

would have mapped my route

glad I wound up here

 

 

Photo 2022.  I depended on GI Bill educational benefits for veterans from 1969 until completion of my PhD in 1977.

 

Woodstock (Getting There)

 

it was billed to be

“three days of peace and music”

—no mention of mud

 

three guys from Mizzou

toked our way through thick gray smoke

in Jack’s old Plymouth

 

“a free festival”

New York radio broke news

free-for-all stampede

 

we parked miles away

planned to come back for our stuff

but crowd swept us up

 

no need for tickets

only the shirts on our backs

we plunged in, head first

 

 

Columbia MO to Bethel NY, August 1969

Photo:  2020 with original Woodstock tickets, framed

Woodstock (Being There)

 

rain soaked the first night

no refuge for wet hippies

we huddled masses

 

Arlo, Jimi, Sly

our pot-stoned mind-trip’s soundtrack

joints toked, passed along

 

a more prepared girl

shared her soggy sleeping bag

shelter from the storm

 

making our own path

stepping over strewn bodies

to johns and bushes

 

in peace-and-love meme

I found my generation

it is called “Woodstock”

 

 

Woodstock Festival, Bethel, New York, August 15-17, 1969

Photo source:  Google Sites

 

 

Woodstock Souvenir

 

Jack googled my name

we’d shared trek to Yasgur's farm

long memory lane

 

his aging Plymouth

our ride to historic heights

powered by good weed

 

trampled fence opened

three days of mud and music

strewn bodies, stoned minds

 

peace-and-love stickers

happy humanists, our tribe

culture tacking left

 

we stumbled upon

one of life’s sparkling jewels

life’s a trip, eh Jack?

 

 

Jack in our Woodstock days

I Once Shot a Bird

 

old army pal Ron

asked me to go bird hunting

(I hate sport-killing)

 

we walked through the woods

our four-ten shotguns loaded

scanning trees for birds

 

Ron spied a sparrow

“take a shot,” he pointed

reluctant, I did

 

she fell to the ground

we hurried to see my kill

pellet in her eye

 

“awwww, poor little bird”

“you’ll never make a hunter”

so true, Ron, so true

 

 

Setting: Near Jefferson City MO, 1969(?).  I fact-checked this poem with Ron, who questions its accuracy.  My photo of Ron (right) and buddies overlooking Miraflores Locks near Fort Clayton, Panama Canal Zone, 1967

Escaping a Killer

 

German car-runner

needed driver and Spanish

Belize-San José

 

“we’re going there too”

he was an evil bastard

shooting roadside pigs

 

we feared his handgun

“let’s escape at next border,

armed guards will protect”

 

“I will kill you, Dan!”

a trucker kindly took us

on to Managua

 

we hid on side streets

until sure he had passed through

then on to safe Zone

 

 

With Mary at Honduras-Nicaragua border, January 1972

Photo:  After arriving in Panama Canal Zone

Helado

 

not knowing the word

he tried to order ice cream

I offered to help

 

“I’ve come to visit

a foster child I’ve not met”

“my first time down here”

 

“I need a driver

who speaks Spanish for this trip”

I offered to help

 

for a grad student

seeking summer adventure

this was tailor-made

 

three days as his guide

my first interpreter gig

best ice cream ever!

 

 

Bogotá to Chiquinquirá, Colombia, summer 1972

Photo 2022:  Holding the unstrung tiple I purchased from its maker in Chiquinquirá

 

Encounter Groups

 

we were eight strangers

exploring inner mindscapes

for twenty rich hours

 

known just by first names

pasts and futures cast aside

we stayed here-and-now

 

feelings outranked thoughts

urged to unveil our real selves

not the roles we play

 

challenged to own up

to submerged needs, shames, and fears

found we’re much alike

 

I was a shy boy

feigning maturity while

trying to grow up

 

 

NTL Institute (Bethel, Maine) and other venues from 1972.  I experienced, as member and leader, many personal growth groups and their variants during graduate school and beyond.

 

My One Night in Jail

 

middle of the night

police tapped on our window

we were fast asleep

 

unaware of law

“public sleeping” was a crime

in Conch Republic

 

Lucy’s with putas

my cellmates were drug dealers

not our normal friends

 

break from summer school

two psychology students

collecting field notes

 

a farcical fluke

that spawned this haiku sitcom:

My One Night in Jail

 

 

Preparing for our drive to Key West (the “scene of the crime”), July 1973.  My station wagon was furnished with a mattress and privacy curtains, but was declared “public sleeping” by local authorities.

Remembering Lucy

 

friends, lovers, mentors

never bored—just start talking

psych was petri dish

 

Jamaican journey

did not fret our danger

dodged bullets with wits

 

Key West summer jaunt

sailboat, midnight leftovers,

Duval Street pool shark

 

Freud's ardent student

analysis was your thing

migrant of the mind

 

you left waaaay too soon

never got to say goodbye

you haunt my id, still

 

 

Lucy and I lived together 1974-1977 during graduate school and remained friends until she died in 2001.  Photo: “The Witness” retrieved from Lucy’s desk, now on mine.

Discovering Workplace Mediation

 

I’m new to this job:

resolving workplace conflict

as a third party

 

like couples, perhaps?

let them talk it out, don’t quit

no advice-giving

 

they have sovereign choice

listen for peaceful gestures

“say more about that”

 

my job’s not to fix

this magic process does it

I simply convene

 

mediation works

(without special credentials)

if I just let it

 

 

US Department of Education, Washington DC, late 1977, where I first adapted systems-theory couples counseling to workplace relationships, from which MTI’s Manager-as-Mediator and related curricula evolved.

Teaching Lessons

 

“seven years and out”

I ignored tenure’s dictum

self-employment called

 

teaching was my bridge

to goal of independence

my farm roots ran deep

 

soon found my focus:

how conflict plays with our minds,

how to win the peace

 

taught my final class

cut cord to holy paycheck

dangled by a thread

 

failure stalked my pride

life became my stern teacher

serving humble pie

 

 

Early teaching years, University of Hartford, 1978-1985

 

American Rubles

 

a fun course to teach

learning laboratory

a simulation

 

it felt real—and was

company of grad students

played corporate roles

 

performing real work

earning real compensation

to purchase their grade

 

produced case studies

about workplace behavior

for analysis

 

they did not get rich

in American Rubles

but they learned a lot

 

 

The “American Ruble” picturing Seamus was used as currency in the General Case Study Company classroom simulation, University of Hartford, 1979-2003 (artwork by Sean Connor)

 

 

Marathon

 

not really a “race”

I had not trained hard enough

and I lacked talent

 

four slow hours and change

hit the wall at mile twenty

just as predicted

 

Woodstock 5-K “race”

one last dash for the daisies

finished next-to-last

 

“I might try again”

never got a round tuit

goals without plans fail

 

sour grapes suit my taste:

winning is overrated

life is not a race

 

 

Newport, Rhode Island, November 4, 1979—photo: July 2022

Tavistock

 

in small and large groups

we studied our behavior

in the here-and-now

 

there’s little to teach

that we could not discover

searching our own minds

 

our ids and egos

supplied all the rich, raw grist

needed for learning

 

the infrastructure

of large organizations

was found in our selves

 

we excavated

our collective unconscious

those long, deep weekends

 

 

Annual Group Relations (Tavistock) conferences organized by The George Washington University in Longmeadow MA, 1979-1985

 

Photo:  Statue of Sigmund Freud at the Tavistock Institute, London, England.  Source: Wikipedia

 

Bob

 

we two young seekers

serendipitously met

five decades ago

 

we would change the world

ardent psych-fueled zealots

open skies beckoned

 

supportive duet

exchanging brilliant brainstorms

pollinating dreams

 

your maps showed real Earth

my mediation showed how

to reach common ground

 

careers now complete

in rear-view mirror I see

we grew each other

 

 

Bob Abramms and I supported each other’s work through our early professional years (1980’s)

 

 

Bulgarian Shakedown

 

police came aboard

our overnight non-stop coach

—or so we’d been told

 

checking our passports

foreigners just passing through

“you have no visa!”

 

as if offended

“but you are in my country

without permission!”

 

“you must pay your fine

or I’ll take you off this train”

“how much, sir?” I smiled

 

through window I watched

a man is taken away

I’ve wondered his fate

 

 

In Sofia, Bulgaria, with Trish enroute from Ljubljana, Slovenia, to Istanbul, Turkey, summer 1981.  Photo: Sofia train station today (rail.cc)

 

What Did Paul Believe?

 

with Trish in Izmir

met a history teacher

going to Efes

 

“may we tag along?”

bus driver dropped us nearby

we climbed a wire fence

 

walked through field of oats

no gate, no guards, no tourists

only we were there

 

Jeff gave us lectures

as we wandered fabled ruins

history awoke

 

when Saul of Tarsus

preached his gospel on this stage

what did he believe?

 

 

Trish “performing” at the amphitheater in Ephesus (Efes), Turkey, Summer 1981

Growing MTI

 

the sprout was struggling

headwinds battered her start-up

few thought it would work

 

needs more time, they said

credentials required, they said

not so, I believed

 

mediation works

just have the conversation,

with safeguards, I said

 

early adopters

made the sprout a sturdy tree

you proved me correct

 

dear trusty old friends

retired, but our bond remains

how can I thank you?

 

 

Bruce Newman and Ray Rusin, early adopters of Managerial Mediation from 1980’s, now dear friends.  Photo: July 2022, Westerly, Rhode Island

 

Landing in Leningrad

 

arrived on White Night

we expected a greeter

I don’t speak Russian

 

sent by Moscow host

eager to meet next colleagues

no greeter showed up

 

“do. you. speak. English?”

I called out to airport crowd

helpers soon appeared

 

so, we found Masha

driving empty city streets

midnight’s eerie dusk

 

her Stalin-esque home

no Cold War tensions found here

kind folks everywhere

 

 

With Masha and my daughter Su at Kirov ballet and opera theater, Leningrad (now St Petersburg), summer solstice, 1990

Night Train to Kiev

 

we boarded early

settling into our couchette

a tap on our door

 

“you are in my room”

or something like, in Russian

my two-tongue reflex:

 

“¿ay, hay problema?”

(not English? — then the other)

he grinned in surprise

 

Cuban diplomat

found our one common language

wheels began rumbling

 

over bowls of borscht

a lucky conversation

through the night to Kiev

 

 

With daughter Su aboard overnight train from Moscow to Kiev.  Photo taken by our new Cuban friend, June 1990

My Midlife Crisis

 

life was pretty good

but not good enough, I feared

is this all there is?

 

I yanked up my roots

to transplant myself back home

rebooting my life

 

harder than I thought

tears blurred my westward vision

U-turn tempted fate

 

now, thirty years on

right choice, but poorly thought out

my foresight was dim

 

it’s worked out, somehow

Lady Luck wed persistence

crisis got resolved

 

 

From Connecticut to Kansas, October 1991. 

Photo: Circa 1990, Bloomfield, Connecticut

An Old Flame

 

she reached across miles,

decades, and careers long past

an email surprise

 

our life-plans in flux

rescripted in middle age

by personals ad

 

we explored ourselves

with witty conversation

warming our shared space

 

our journeys diverged

seemed lost to forgotten times

then … my inbox rang

 

how are you, old friend?

I want to learn about you

and about myself

 

 

Mary Sue, early 1992, reconnected 2020.  Photo undated

A Bridge in Cairo

 

a dad and daughter

houseguests of taxi-man’s aunt

toured sights by day

 

small home packed nightly

curious neighbors dropped in

check out foreigners

 

young ones shared card games

Su’s teen-girl celebrity

American myth

 

practicing English

“to where you go tomorrow?”

“Israel, by bus”

 

Ahmed’s cautious smile

bridged the fraught chasm between us

“we like Palestine”

 

 

Photo: 1992

Mandela

 

the air’s electric

yesterday’s election’s done

Madiba has won!

 

apartheid is dead!

Blacks’ dreams rise from deep despair

Whites hope for the best

 

my host is driving

campaign posters falling fast

from wooden light poles

 

“think I could take one?”

we stop quickly in the street

souvenir captured!

 

from above my desk

my political hero

speaks to me today

 

 

Durban, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, May 11, 1994.  Photo 2021

Papa Smurf

 

my five young charges

Lima, Nazca, Cuzco by

intercity bus

 

hablo español

¿cuánto cuesta boleto?

¿hay baño cerca?

 

guiding my small flock

through colorful mercados

on cobblestone streets

 

I’m called “Papa Smurf”

proud title for this old dad

swells my loving heart

 

back home, I received

this memorial statue

my prized possession

 

 

Peru, August 1995

Photo 2022:  My daughter’s gift has graced my desk since 1995

We Chose to Hike

 

only half-way up

the bus is already there

Inca sun’s burning

 

blisters start to bleed

no one thought to bring water

our legs are rubber

 

bounding far ahead

Quechuas jog with backpacks

coca in their cheeks

 

we rest on boulders

the ruins still not in sight

how bad could this get?

 

our plight demands grit

straining to rise to our feet

no choice, must slog on

 

 

Sean at Machu Picchu, Peru, August 1995.  Photo by Su

 

Earthquake

 

wobbling and stumbling

through an archway’s cool shadow

is this vertigo?

 

I knelt to not fall

others scream—it’s not just me

must be an earthquake!

 

big waves in small pool

sloshing bathers side to side

frantic to climb out

 

I stood to see beach

is Banderas Bay still there?

tsunami coming?

 

a temblor for my

experience collection

the “big one,” so far

 

 

Puerto Vallarta, Colima–Jalisco earthquake, 9 October 1995, 9:35 am

Photo: Los Tules Resort, scene of the earthquake experience

How MTI Got Its Website

 

I’m falling behind

last guy without a website

tech is marching on

 

renting mailing lists,

printing flyers, licking stamps

—buggy-whip business!

 

poured another cup

at Sunday’s breakfast table

where to go from here?

 

the best sites are taken

I need a home on the web

think outside the box!

 

triple entendre:

“mediationworks” dot com

holy eureka!

 

 

At home with Susan in Prairie Village, Kansas, 1996

MTI’s website and its contents were acquired by Eckerd College in 2012

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Brief Voyage of Resolve

 

the Resolve set sail

from a suburb in Kansas,

an ill-conceived launch

 

grossly unprepared,

she ran out of provisions

at the boarding dock

 

her novice skipper’s

charts did not show rocky cays

lurking ‘neath her hull

 

savvy reporters

saw Captain Dan’s naiveté,

predicted shipwreck

 

Resolve sunk promptly,

but a treasure was salvaged:

“never sail again”

 

 

I was a candidate for the U.S. House of Representatives from the third district of Kansas, 1998—“The first non-adversarial campaign in the history of politics” whose slogan was “Put a mediator in the House.”  Lost primary to Dennis Moore, who won the general election in November.

 

 

9/11

 

my sister called me

“are you watching TV now?”

“no, I’m at my desk”

 

he is at his desk

North Tower, floor ninety-six

first one to see it

 

he stands, stares, transfixed

the speck is growing larger

“what the hell is that?”

 

now, others see it

someone screams, “is that a plane?”

all jump up, look out

 

others try to duck

his eyes open ‘til it strikes

wants to see The End

 

 

September 11, 2001, 8:46:40 am (7:46.40 in Prairie Village, Kansas)

Photo credit:  CNN (second plane hitting South Tower)

What of Me is You?

 

we gathered one day

Gant-side cousins in one place

a rare reunion

 

years have grown us up

grandkids of Katherine and Guy

death lurks our cohort

 

Midwest country stock

our shared genes sum twelve percent

nature-nurture blend

 

from these common roots

our branches have spread afar

distant twigs lose touch

 

I stand in wonder

what parts of me are in you?

what of you is me?

 

 

Summer 2003, Rayville, Missouri

First cousins, from left:  Lonnie, Deana, John, Kay Jon, Sheila, Bob, Liz, Dan, Delores, Dennis.  Not present:  J.K.’s Jim, Randy’s family

 

Mile High

 

approaching Mile High

we have all come, our hearts thrill

to see Obama

 

giddy faces glow

hope and change feel within reach

in rainbow skin tones

 

sixty thousand friends

congratulating ourselves

trust is in the air

 

my spine tingles as

his family walks on stage

folks like us, they seem

 

but dreams have been crushed

enemies of the people

have won the race war*

 

* So it seems in July 2022

 

 

Obama’s acceptance speech, Denver’s Mile High stadium, 28 August 2008

Dedication

 

you can't comprehend

how precious you are to me

I was your age, once

 

filled with future's dreams:

goals, adventures, loves, hatchlings(?)

yet to be made real

                                                                                               

Nan felt what I feel

reaching out, yet holding back

her love ached, like mine

 

I watch from afar

your special stars beckon you

you're on your journey

 

you're Papi's vectors

to future's remnants of me

this book is for you

 

 

Dedication for Haiku Quintets, published 2021

Photo:  Puerto Vallarta, 2010

Big Guy

 

“wait for the big guy”

the hike leader told our troop

I glanced back … who’s that?

 

morning mist-slick trail

day-trek through Alaskan pines

up steepening path

 

we brought up the rear

youthful speedsters raced ahead

we’re aging strollers

 

breathless, we catch up

rested, they’re eager to go

our troop’s out of sync

 

“you okay, big guy?”

I am Jon’s little brother

I’m not a “big guy”

 

 

Sitka, Alaska, July 2010, with Susan

Image source: pixels (2019 photo, the same trail referenced in this haiku

My Pakistani Seatmate

 

seemed a nice fellow

engineer from Karachi

back home to visit

 

he sought to teach me

while captive on this long flight

nine-eleven’s truth:

 

“you must understand

Zionist conspiracy

to hate all Muslims”

 

I listened with care

sincere views of a smart man

mired in crazy myth

 

not so different

from others that come to mind

we deplaned with tact

 

 

Aboard non-stop flight from Chicago to Istanbul, September 3, 2011

Image source: ancient-symbols

 

Hanoi Haircut

 

the sidewalk barber

invited this old GI

had we been foes, once?

 

his improvised shop

mirror hanging on the wall

with tools of his trade

 

cyclos streaming by

narrow street’s pedal traffic

amused riders watched

 

fifty years ago

beyond my imagining

“wow! I’m in the North”

 

he did a good job

his paltry fee’s not enough

—hundred percent tip

 

 

Hanoi, Vietnam, 3 May 2015

Pitch Tales

 

our family game

every Dana and Hendrix

had to learn to play

 

each new baby served

as table’s next centerpiece

to pass cards around

 

Duncan shot the moon

through Granddaddy’s cigar smoke

with no trump to lead*

 

Nannie’s shy bidding

Lowell’s odd dealing logic

Jon’s intrepid play

 

we laughed ‘til we ached

decades of witty banter

cemented our bond

* Circa 1960

 

 

At Deana’s house in 2016, just one generational snapshot since the1950’s.  From left:  Su, Seamus, Claribel, Jon, Deana, Dan, Lowell.  Photo by Susan

 

Iceberg

 

my head whipped around

rifle-shot sound cracked the air

echoes of echoes

 

morning quiet’s rocked

two house-size chunks rolled over

roiling the gray sea

 

a small tsunami

splashed clunking stones at my feet

stirring salty smells

 

pregnant icebergs speak

Inuits know by their shape

when a birth is due

 

locals paid no heed

nothing to see here, it seemed

just avoid the shore

 

 

The subject iceberg moments before it split with a bang

Qaqortoq, Greenland, September 1, 2016, 10:05 am

The Pickpockets

 

“bird poop” dropped on me

walking under leafy trees

it looked very real

 

immediately

two kind señoras appeared

pointing overhead

 

they wiped off my shirt

one in front and one behind

they worked so quickly!

 

then, just as quickly

they hopped in a passing car

my, how convenient!

 

thanking them, I found

my under-shirt pouch unzipped

those gals knew their tricks

 

 

Buenos Aires (Palermo), Argentina, February 2017

Photo credit: Essential Destinations

 

The Great American Eclipse

 

once in a lifetime

we gathered in Sister’s yard

my grandkids flew in

 

dusk overcame us

special sunglasses in place

cows went to their barn

 

corona’s ring shone

“oooooo! wow! awesome! holy cow!”

was all we could say

 

nightfall in daytime

what did our ancestors think

without the science?

 

two minutes later

confused cows returned to graze

wondered “what the eff?”

 

 

Near Millville, Missouri, 21 August 2017, 1:21 pm

Escaping Saigon

 

“are these seats taken?”

thus began conversation

we told our stories:

 

as Saigon collapsed

he was Nguyen Cao Ky’s pilot

to a U.S. ship*

 

she came with three kids

among the last to escape

on later chopper

 

a sailor saved them

son vowed to thank him, when grown

their lives hung by threads

 

two rapt hours later

we bid them, “have a good day”

my story was brief

 

* USS Blue Ridge, April 30, 1975

 

 

Aboard Seattle-to-Sydney cruise, October 16, 2017

Newspaper photo of the mom, her kids, and the sailor

Saruni

 

our dear Maasai friend

animal interpreter

Serengeti whiz

 

knows wild’s secret ways

mother died by buffalo

his shield is savvy

 

Superman’s eyesight

hippo, elephant, giraffe,

lion whisperer

 

he seeks two more wives

anglophone guide who can drive

may be chief some day

 

saw Nairobi once

"why would anyone live there?"

home is paradise

 

 

Saruni and friends, Maasai Mara, Kenya, August 2018

Puerto Vallarta

 

Mexican home town

gem of the Pacific side

warm air, warm people

 

relaxed or rowdy

choices galore, pick your style

Banderas playground

 

malecón strollers

buskers, artists, vendors vend

stone-stackers stack stones

 

palo volador

deft gravity-defiers

I'll just watch, thank you

 

zona ‘mantica

gays and straights happily share

phobes might just stay home

 

since Richard and Liz

flocking snowbirds come to roost

“I just love this place!”

 

 

Photo:  February 2019.  We stayed in PV for up to three months most winters until pandemic struck in 2020

Sunset

 

masts pierce sunset's glare

my bay shimmers and glimmers

night-time coming soon

 

perfect wavelengths blend

reflecting sky and water

photons touch my eye

 

uncorking my mind

music’s harmonies give voice

to my struggling heart

 

colors morph slowly

cotton clouds keeping close watch

day’s sun all gone now

 

dark descends in haste

sun's light fades, my pen is blind

last haiku tonight

 

 

Photo: 19 September 2019 from our west window in Sarasota.  This is my first haiku quintet and the sunset that inspired it.  In the three years since, I have written over 300 more, including all contained in this memoir.

My Nigerian Atheist Friend

 

half a world away

my neighbor in cyberspace

he must hide his truth

 

wife, friends, family

die-hard zealots of dogma

religionists all

 

God's set men seek wealth

streets littered with loud churches

monstrous billboards shout

 

so many pastors

shrilling mindboggling song-sprees

launch zombie-like trance

 

African dark zone

be careful, my new-found friend

your brave words give hope

 

 

Composed 16 December 2019.  He reached out to me after reading my e-book The Reason Revolution.  Most words above are lifted from his emails to me.  He's the poet.  I am his haiku arranger.  Image is a generic silhouette, not his likeness.  He must remain anonymous for his safety.

Superbowl 2020

 

some haiku snapshots

in case you missed the big game

Chiefs beat SFO

 

fifty-year drought ends

comeback kid, passing maestro

MVP Mahomes

 

Hard Rock’s sea of red

half-time: J-Lo, Shakira

Reid’s Gatorade dunk

 

ads more fun than game

Bloomberg's ten million bucks … poof!

take breaks during play

 

KC wild tonight

so sorry, San Francisco

oh well, there's next year

 

 

TV screenshot 2 February 2020.  I am not a sports fan, but we watched this special game while in Puerto Vallarta.  KC was once our home.

Journey of a White Liberal

 

I thought I was clear

black sheep from White upbringing

have I been redeemed?

 

Woodstock, Africa

wept at Uncle Tom's Cabin

own my privilege

 

Floyd’s murder by knee

Breonna killed while she slept

Brunswick jogger shot

 

Black voices stirred me

Black history haunted me

Blacks' burden crushed me

 

racism’s stain laid bare

justice-shattering newsflash

shook me to my core

 

 

Composed 29 August 2020 as the afterword for my e-book, Common Ground: Haiku, Mediation, and Police Reform.  Image source:  CNN.com

2020

 

existential year

pressing us to glean meaning

from its stark darkness

 

a pinhole of life

lush verdant complexity

one glimpse at a time

 

unmask hidden joys

in the leaded gray cloudscape

of collective grief

 

find strength or perish

trust Blind Instinct to survive

like Victor Frankl

 

Covid's simple quiz

each day's choice to live or die

I'll say Yes to Life

 

 

Composed 24 October 2020. Inspired by Frankl’s writings on logotherapy.  Photo:  Victor Frankl revisiting Auschwitz.  Source: Victor Frankl Institute, Vienna

 

Aging in Quarantine

 

yep, been there, done that

bucket list mostly checked off

one hell of a ride

 

to-do list is done

my book is eight decades thick

awesome read, so far

 

golden years rush by

then is gone, but now is sweet

quarantine cocoon

 

young folks’ dreams burn bright

time's a-wastin’, boredom screams

fear of missing out

 

old man's few coins left

young man's wealth cries for splurging

I’ve plenty to last

 

 

Composed 14 November 2020.  Image: Name tag at breastfeeding conference attended with wife and daughter, Washington DC, circa 2003

 

January 6

 

reciting haiku

zoom with my humanist friends

a normal Wednesday

 

CNN on mute

ominous morning headlines

what’s the Breaking News?

 

Trump’s mob storms the steps

smashing capitol’s windows

Proud Boys shout MAGA

 

we quit zoom to watch

glued to news for hours and months

will his slow coup work?

 

thick dread fills this room

dying dream’s sickening stench

hard to breathe in here

 

 

Composed 6 January 2021.  Photo source: CNN

 

 

Covid Chicks

 

locked down in home jail

virus-tethered, time to spare

why not hatch some chicks?

 

high-rise condo perch

not your grandpa’s chicken ranch

fitting view for fowl

 

rooster’s dad-deed done

delivered by Fedex stork

don’t scramble these eggs!

 

three weeks ‘til hatch-day

incubator surrogate

warms and turns her kids

 

pecks and chirps announce

freedom from shell confinement

set to fly the coop!

 

 

Composed 14 January 2021.  Photo:  Day four of life on the outside

Pedicure Bobbi

 

my monthly friend

my happy toes’ hottest date

my feet’s indulgence

 

my daughter’s cohort

mom of kids of like ages

as my two grand-ones

 

your listening ear

calls forth tales of younger years

buried in time’s dust

 

your wide-open mind

invites my odd flavorings

of life’s smorgasbord

 

our calendared chats

stir this Papi’s yearning for

Covid’s hostages

 

 

Composed 16 February 2021.  I have been seeing “Pedicure Bobbi” for the past two years (as of July 2022).

In Your Hands Now

 

here’s Martin, my gem

we’ve made gorgeous harmony

since my Woodstock year

 

picking and strumming

with friends and in reverie

my hands shaped her sound

 

your deft touch will form

next half-century’s moments

you’re her new escort

 

in groups and solo

you’ll make magic together

long beyond my years

 

what a trip we’ve shared!

Seamus, take this worn baton,

she’s in your hands now

 

 

Composed 1 April 2021 as I gifted my Martin D-28 (owned since 1969) for Seamus’s  21^st birthday.  Photos: 2000 and 2021 (same guitar in different light)

 

 

Fresh Start Café

 

by haiku or prose

we Scribes of many flavors

flee our covid caves

 

quiet, shady brunch

clever, savory menu

—pure Sarasota!

 

our neighborhood spot

for unrushed conversation,

downtown’s hidden gem

 

balmy day’s fresh start,

twice-jabbed nearby denizens

munch our lunch mask-free

 

tell no one but friends:

six-thirty south orange ave,

please keep our secret!

Scribes, a Sarasota writers’ group, at brunch, 30 May 2021

Soar, Claribel, Soar!

 

our clan’s loved fledgling,

eager eagle set to fly,

your world awaits you

 

your wings will lift you

to wuthering distant heights

beyond now’s knowing

 

your mind will be blown,

your horizons will recede,

your wisdom will surge

 

you’ll meet sage teachers,

life-school’s diverse faculty:

people unlike you

 

launch your journey with

this ticket to anywhere

—soar, Claribel, soar!

 

 

Composed 6 June 2021, graduation gift.  Image credit:  Dad’s Productions

 

Restrictions and limitations:

1.     Effective date:  6 June 2021

2.     Expiration:  One year after ticket holder’s graduation from college

3.     Destination limited to surface of planet Earth.  Ticket not yet valid for interplanetary travel.

A Tree of Wonder

 

thirty years ago

I planted seeds in Moscow

now, I’m wondering …

 

how did they first sprout?

who kept them fed and watered?

did a forest grow?

 

were conflicts resolved?

were relationships repaired?

did they talk it out?

 

Russians read my words

in a language I don’t know

their minds thought my thoughts

 

at long last I’ve found

a sapling in Cold War’s land

a tree of wonder

 

 

Composed 16 September 2021, the day I first received a photo of the Russian edition of my 1988 book, Managing Differences (translation: “Overcoming Disagreements”), held by a friend in Latvia.

 

Paper Trail

 

I hope to preserve

this Papi’s love-crafted words

on holiday cards

 

haiku memories

rescued from Yule’s common fate:

Christmas morning's trash

 

shredded red ribbons

and crumpled wrapping paper

shall not be their grave:

 

beloved gap year girl,

seems you've caught the travel bug,

a healthy virus

 

our own tech wizard

who can see under the hood

of our devices

 

 

Composed 13 December 2021, back-up to haiku in holiday cards to Claribel (fourth stanza) and Seamus (fifth stanza)

Bigoted Goats

 

poor little Greta

is it her ears, or her breed?

she is an outcast

 

Blossom’s kin shun her

blocking her from the haystack

with selfish head-butts

 

Blossom’s clan snuggles

to warm against winter’s chill

Greta sleeps alone

 

Greta’s LaMancha

Blossom’s Nigerian Dwarf

unlike visages

 

are goats bigoted?

surely not my dear grandkids!

they were raised with love

 

 

Composed 25 January 2022.  Photo:  Holding one of my Nigerian Dwarf grandkids at the Connor mini-farm near Woodstock, Connecticut, 2016

Watching War Begin

 

we stand on the bank

of Ukraine’s river of blood

awaiting Putin

 

his fragile ego

breeds deranged lust to rebuild

Soviet empire

 

at what human cost?

horrific suffering pays

toxic hubris’ toll

 

did the sweet scent of

the Orange Revolution

merely stay this stench?

 

shall evil prevail?

today we know fate’s answer

watching war begin

 

 

CNN screen, minutes after Russia launched attack, 23 January 2022

 

 

The Swing

 

the little Black boy

walked with his mom on the path

in front of my swing

 

he gazed longingly

I looked up from my reading

brown eyes met blue eyes

 

we each understood

this instant in history

through our race’s lens

 

standing, I gestured

“would you like to have the swing?”

Mom smiled “thank you, sir”

 

one more grain of sand

to resist racism’s vile tide

—White men can be kind

 

 

The swing where it happened, Bayfront Park, Sarasota, 9 March 2022

 

My Last Hike

 

no bones were broken

just bloody scrapes and bruises

face down in red dust

 

loose sand on steep rocks

my aging reflexes lagged

as if paralyzed

 

close calls teach lessons

averted catastrophes

draw one’s attention

 

my youth’s carelessness

fading to old man’s caution

 fragile future’s risk

 

I’ve had my fair share

good luck’s limited supply

I’ll hike flatter trails

 

 

Composed 13 May 2022.  Photo by Susan 10 minutes before my crash in Canyonlands NP, Moab, Utah

Mormons

 

Mormons are nice folks

sister-missionary pairs

strolling Temple Square

 

one week in Salt Lake

no scientific study

just first impression

 

every smiling face

tells us “you are welcome here”

scripted care still works

 

courtesy abounds

even drivers are polite

no rude honks or shouts

 

Mormons are nice folks

like secular humanists

but with religion

 

 

Susan with a pair of sister-missionaries, Temple Square, Salt Lake City, 19 May 2022

 

We Got Covid

 

dodged virus ‘til now

tested positive today

Susan got it first

 

we thought we were safe

twice jabbed and twice boosted, but

Omicron broke through

 

mild symptoms so far:

just sniffling, sneezing, coughing

—and quarantining

 

no worries, dear friends

dying is not on our chart

we’re old, but healthy

 

just one more fun bit

tossed in this memory box,

for grandkids’ grandkids

 

 

Composed 13 June 2022

 

Smorgasbord of the Mind

 

scribes brunch together

authors, novelists, poets,

the odd haikuist

 

word-nerd gathering

careers done, brains still cooking

write, read, talk, repeat

 

scribblers serve their dish

steamed, grilled, poached, stir-fried, half-baked

twice-monthly mind-snacks

 

word salad welcome

creativity simmers

in scriveners’ kitchens

 

nourishing munchies

our smorgasbord of the mind

a writers’ pub crawl

 

 

Lakewood Ranch (Florida) Scribes admiring a table-full of our creations, led by Aroon Chaddha (center above), 25 June 2022

 

Ancestral Cave

 

on this very spot

two thousand generations

stood here before me

 

smoke from your fire pits

still blacken this cave’s ceiling,

preserving remains

 

babies were born here

children played with rustic toys

old, injured, sick died

 

each life’s like the last

through unfathomed far-future

my genes contain you

 

I flew above clouds

on a silver eagle’s wings

to reach back to you

 

 

Cave near Pont du Gard in southern France inhabited by ancestral hominids for 600,000 years, including interbred Homo sapiens and Neanderthals from 40,000 years ago.

Photo: 8 September 2022

Struthof

 

she flies overhead

in dove’s feathered innocence

at a safe remove

 

watching “pieces” crawl

up icy steps for roll call,

then falter and die

 

smelling stench of death,

of their shit, of rotting flesh,

of chimney’s vile fumes

 

these are my own kind

“Honor and Homeland” calls us

to fight senseless wars

 

no dove’s innocence;

nationalism is poison,

humanity’s curse

 

 

Photo 22 September 2022: Shadow selfie between double barbed wire fence surrounding prison where 22,000 victims of nationalism died 1941-1944, Natzwiller-Struthof, Nazi-occupied France

Hurricane Ian

 

we’d been gone a month

Ian chose to come visit

such awkward timing!

 

on collision course

we’d hoped to land before him

nay, quoth weather gods

 

stranded near Dulles

while he wreaked windy havoc

we watched helplessly

 

he didn’t stay long

but left a trash heap behind

a most thoughtless guest!

 

so that’s my story

a final haiku quintet

to end this memoir

 

 

AccuWeather screenshot 28 September 2022.  Hurricane Ian struck near Sarasota the same day we were scheduled to return from France.  Our condo was undamaged. 

Now

 

wishing there were words

to meet this morning’s moment,

to preserve its truth

 

pelicans diving

for breakfast of chilled herring,

starting their day, too

 

blue herons flying

to their daily hideaway,

knowing their way back

 

our world is spinning,

giving us this fine morning,

moon’s nightshift is done

 

this eternal now

cannot be captured and kept

for there are no words

 

 

Full moon setting over Sarasota Bay, 18 March 2022, 8:00 am

Although this life-snippet was composed earlier, it is always “now”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.2.

Susan

 

 

 

I would not attempt to illustrate this remarkable woman in grayscale—her exquisite being defies plainly descriptive language.  The medium of poetry allows me to paint her in more beguiling colors. 

Song for Susan

 

dear co-traveler,

this path we chose together

hand in hand we go

 

your innate kindness

guiding me and growing me

showing me myself

 

our trust locks our bond

no dark suspicions intrude

e duo unum

 

plain humanism

no supernatural myth

we believe in us

 

onward 'til our end

living day by precious day

my friend, love, heart, mate

 

 

Photo: our wedding, 1 July 2000

Finding Her

 

like ripening fruit

he was growing more ready

to re-pair his life

 

he’d relived a time

he had never lived before

only imagined

 

wiser choice this time

having learned the recipe

of love’s secret sauce

 

armed with his treatise

he sallied Cupid’s broad plain

vision in focus

 

his arrow struck gold

two puppies snug in our box

‘til death we’ll remain

 

 

We met in 1995, married in 2000

Photo: Lofoten, Norway, June 2019

 

The Wrong Susan

 

“good morning, Susan,

I’ve landed in Miami”

she paused, seemed confused

 

it was a long flight

my reminder notes got mixed

“sorry, my mistake”

 

I owed her a call

back home, I apologized

I blew it, I thought

 

not the jealous type

one of her fine qualities,

partner-type, for me

 

retired together

in our condo by the bay

she’s the right Susan

 

 

Setting: Miami International Airport, August 25, 1995, ~ 5:00 am

Photo:  At home in Sarasota, 2019

 

My Valentine

 

there’s mojo in two

one eye’s not enough, nor ear

one leg cannot stand

 

one heart’s not enough

mine hardly beats without you

my self’s other half

 

one plus one is three

in love’s odd mathematics

our equation works

 

one half-life’s too short

I have doubled-down on you

a winning wager

 

mi Valentina

you are twice the worth of me

with you, I am whole

 

 

Composed Valentine’s Day, 2021

Caricature by Sean Connor, 2000

Angel on Earth

 

no spirit-elf myth

if angels on earth there be

I know one quite well

 

foresees others' wants

nurse-caregiver at her core

off-scale thoughtfulness

 

nurtures by nature

needy children’s advocate

voice-and-choice's champ

 

tenacious pit bull

restores sundered families

mama-bear fierceness

 

makes our house a home

kindest person ever known

I kiss her nightly

 

 

Photo:  The angel in 1953

 

Bon Voyage

 

we're a cruising team

crossing fierce Pandemic Sea

each other’s first mate

 

rising every morn

navigating through each day

'til our goodnight kiss

 

we share the tiller

steering clear of rocky shoals

and Covid's dark reef

 

yon fog-shrouded shore

who can see this journey's end?

we bid bon voyage

 

dear co-traveler

quarantine’s sweet companion

let's sail on, my love

 

 

Composed as dedication for Songs of the Pandemic

Photo:  Greenland, August 2016

Puppies in a Box

 

it’s often declared

among relationshipped folk:

“marriage is hard work”

 

not so, in our nest

I don’t own you, nor you me

we are more than two

 

no promises bind

I choose you afresh each day

our freedom’s unchained

 

kindnesses gifted

each in debt to the other

we’re each the winner

 

primal friendship, the

simple secret sauce known by

puppies in a box

 

 

Image source:  wallpaperplay.com

How to Make Love

 

no deep secret here

simple truth for keen partners

use this power tool:

 

pay close attention

mate's small bids for connection

accept, don’t reject

 

turn toward, not away

turn-aways kill trust, troth, love

turn-towards cement bond

 

listen when she speaks

applaud her career success

laugh at her fun pun

 

meet kiss-hint with yours

subtle gestures flow both ways

turning toward makes love

 

 

Photo:  Walk-bridge at home of Elizabeth Taylor, Puerto Vallarta

Microeconomics of Love

 

fairness your focus?

getting less than you're giving?

wrong frame for true love!

 

keep score = self-defeat

tally win-lose = ensure loss

bean-counters divorce

 

one plus one is three

giving yields rich abundance

re-think common sense

 

transactional love?

oxymoron can’t compute

quid pro quo cheats both

 

frank talk is core task

caring truth is love’s tonic

surrender control

 

 

Photo:  Belgium, 2008

 

Three Magic Words

 

practiced life-partners

know well I-Love-You's effect

when sincerely voiced

 

triggers like response

reciprocity's reflex

ripens love's sweet taste

 

less known and practiced

three more magic power-words

each toolbox should hold

 

when disputes erupt

blame, fault, anger take the wheel

drives us in a ditch

 

harness that reflex

take high road to love’s repair

asking, Tell-Me-More

 

 

PowerPoint slide from MTI’s mediation training course

Source: mediationworks.com

Inexpressible

 

in one precious frame,

the three women I love most

my heart’s joy I’ll tell

 

this measly haiku

struggles to carry the freight

of love’s sundry forms

 

too few syllables,

my thin thesaurus falls short

surely there’s a way!

 

for want of language,

all who burst with love’s heartbeat

wear this poet’s shoes

 

inexpressible

in words known to humankind

d’ya know what I mean?

 

 

Susan, Claribel, and Su in Woodstock Valley, Connecticut, June 2021

Kissing Quandary

 

so snug on the couch

blanket tucked under your chin

blonde wisps frame your face

 

your afternoon nap

this precious at-home Sunday,

you’ve been working hard

 

sweet love swells my heart,

we’re two puppies in a box

sharing life’s comforts

 

might I sneak a kiss

on your cheek, but not wake you?

my lips want your warmth

 

no, you need this rest

you would lift your sleepy head

to greet my sly kiss

 

 

Photo taken from my desk while writing this haiku

Dancing Queen

 

ABBA’s lively tune

brings forth a dazzling pixie

a spirit unleashed

 

her standard request

at cruise ships’ midnight parties

and anyplace else

 

arms wave overhead

sparkling eyes, rapturous smile

her inner sprite glows

 

a gogo dancer

she coulda been a Rockette

or ballerina

 

standing here in awe

I’m her stiff, artless partner

she’s my Dancing Queen

 

 

Photo:  At her granddaughter’s wedding, 5 August 2022

Susan’s Not Done Yet

 

morning's alarm sounds

wake me at eight, you had asked

"I am not done yet"

 

did you finish it?

audiobook on your walk

"I am not done yet"

 

bacon on your plate,

I eye it with interest

"I am not done yet"

 

birthdays piling up,

stack getting fretfully high

"I am not done yet"

 

my idle question,

do you still love me, my Dear?

"I am not done yet"

 

Susan’s Family

 

seven Moore cousins

Grandma's and Grandpa's treasures

formed their Kansas clan

 

from seventy-two

seven years of pregnancy

brought forth seven lives

 

three loyal sisters

new moms chasing girlhood dreams

filled with love and hope

 

heartland family

each one’s future seemed secure

but three became two

 

lives, loves, losses borne

spanning time, miles, broken hearts

seven became six

 

 

Photo:  All children of the Moore sisters, 1984

My Dream

 

she died in the night

I nudge her lifeless body

in bed beside me

 

her skin has grown cool

was she aware of dying?

did she not suffer?

 

panic engulfs me

what will life be without her?

dreadful thoughts rush in

 

what do I do now?

crushing grief clenches my heart

I’m lost and afraid

 

I startle awake

teary, I touch her warm skin

she stirs, “what’s wrong, Sweets?”

 

Only a Mother Can Know

 

her soul-crushing loss

secreted behind a veil

of smiling good cheer

 

grief’s smothering shroud

cloaks her tomb of living death

no gladness can pierce

 

some few know her pain

mothers’ tear-drenched lost-child club

woe to those who join

 

pin-hole view between

our safe home and lucky life,

her dark lonely cave

 

despair’s icy grip

can’t endure but can’t move on

none but moms can know

 

 

Photo:  Tyghe’s foot molds in bronze

 

Just You and Me

 

for nine loving months

before birthing, sharing you

with the waiting world

                                                            it was just you and me

 

I nursed you to life

I fiercely held you to me

I protected you

 

now you're gone, so gone

lost to my sore, sobbing soul

no soft skin to sooth

 

none knew you like me

none loved like I loved you

no one cared like me

 

my mother-love aches

you remain inside me still

a hole in my heart

                                                         again, it's just you and me

 

 

Photo:  Mother and son, shortly before his death

Susan’s reality through Dan’s words

Reunion

 

four hard years have passed

I saw love in your sad eyes,

and you in mine

 

discovering now

Nana’s back, I was not gone

my love did not lapse

 

stunned tears tell your grief

clever girl, but truth withheld

I now reappear

 

may joy now resume?

may years of needless sorrow

now fade behind us?

 

our searching eyes meet

how can the door be unlocked?

we don’t hold the key

 

 

Photo:  26 September 2019, 8:15 pm, Olathe, Kansas

Surrender, Move On

 

the good fight is lost

what should have been cannot be

just more needless hurt

 

mother’s fierce duties

intending love and shelter

gaslit in darkness

 

toxic puppeteer

psychic danger found too late

poisoned soft young minds

 

how could I have seen

unforeseeable outcomes?

the damage is done

 

I’ve done all I can

now, accept futility

surrender, move on

 

 

Susan and her boys in 1983

Skin Therapy

 

grief overwhelms you

no good answers can be found

no words sooth your pain

 

can nothing be done?

am I helpless to help you?

must you just endure?

 

skin therapy heals

we lie together naked

skin-to-skin-to-skin

 

my skin feeds your skin

you absorb love through your pores

no talk, no action

 

our bodies soaking

in pure animal essence

therapeutic balm

 

Dan

Susan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patches of skin that often touch each other, communicating somehow

 

 

Resilience

 

you are kind, thoughtful,

and generous to a fault

you are an angel

 

we who know you best

who return your love with love

are the lucky ones

 

strangers who stumble

into your warm sunshine are

stunned by your goodness

 

but those who squander

who trample your sweet kindness

discard your precious gifts

 

your softness is strength

you can rally from setback

you’re resilient

 

 

 

 

 

 

.3.

Roots

 

 

 

Bayfront Park, Sarasota

 

Immigrant roots:

 

My earliest American ancestors immigrated from England in the decades following 1620.  All lived full, eventful lives, about which I know nothing except dates and locations of their births and deaths.  Below is a selection of people who were born in Europe and died in America and whose DNA I carry.  Last is a native forefather who links me to the people who first populated the Western Hemisphere over 15,000 years ago.

 

The mission of this memoir is to capture some snippets of my own lived experience between those date markers in case some future descendant may wonder what happened in my world and time. 

 

Immigrants on my father’s side:

·    Richard Dana (6^th great-grandfather), 1617-1690, b. Manchester, England, d. Cambridge, Massachusetts

·    Ann Holyoke (7^th great-grandmother), 1620-1665, b. Warwickshire, England, d. Salem, Massachusetts

·    Elizabeth Bancroft (8^th great-grandmother), 1626-1711, b. Norwich, England, d. Lynn, Massachusetts

·    Richard Warren (10^th great-grandfather), 1585-1628, arrived aboard the Mayflower, December 21, 1620, b. Hertfordshire, England, d. Plymouth Colony, British Colonial America

 

Descendants’ surnames include Dana, Brainard, Pratt, Stone, Bancroft, Holyoke, Warren, Buckminster, Gillis, Markham

 

Christina Brainard grandmother	Alfred L. Dana grandfather	Mary Bancroft 3d-great-grandmother

Westport Landing

 

we’ve arrived at last!

I’ll soon leave this steamboat’s deck

of stench and danger

 

by grace we’ve survived

may I never sail again

this blasted river!

 

days more by wagon

‘til we start building our new

prairie home of sod

 

I shall not return

my kin stayed home, hereafter

known but by letter

 

seizing this moment

what will my grandchildren know

of my great journey?

 

 

Gazing downstream at Westport Landing, Kansas City, August 10, 2022, the site where my teenage grandfather Alfred Luther Dana arrived in 1843 with his family from Marietta, Ohio, completing a months-long journey.  Another week by wagon lay before them to their new homestead near Humboldt, Kansas, my father’s birthplace, December 14, 1874.

Immigrants on my mother’s side:

·    Thomas Gant (7^th great-grandfather), 1652-1721, b. Northamptonshire, England, d. Prince George, Virginia

·    John Waller II (6th great-grandfather), 1673-1754, b. Buckinghamshire, England, d. Spotsylvania, Virginia

·    Ellen Patterson (5^th great-grandmother), 1707-1774, b. Dublin, Ireland, d. Berkeley, Virginia

·    Powhatan (12^th great-grandfather), 1545-1618 (Chief of Algonquin tribe in coastal Virginia, father of Pocahontas)

 

Descendants’ surnames include Gant, Waller, Patterson, Hillyer, Grimes, Randolph, Kincaid, Robinson, Wyatt, Hanks

 

 

Curiously, Susan and I discovered that we are 8^th cousins once removed.  Our most recent common ancestor was Sarah Elizabeth Mason (1670-1726) of Stafford, Virginia, who was my 8th great-grandmother and Susan's 7th great-grandmother.

 

The source of this information about my immigrant roots is the Family History Research Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, May 2022.

 

 

 

You Came Before

 

you have made me me

across centuries and seas

else, I would not be

 

each mating doubled

the rich depth of my gene pool

now, beyond measure

 

choices that you made

in England and Africa

gave me this one chance

 

my end could have come

but you survived lethal risks

forecasting my life

 

then, it was my turn

compelled so by Nature’s laws

my root lengthens yours

 

 

Family History Library on Temple Square, Salt Lake City, 18 May 2022

Viking roots:

 

According to DNA results from 23andme.com, I am 1.5% Scandinavian.

 

Am I a Viking?

 

Vikings ruled England

ruthless seaborne invaders

planting seeds and genes

 

English called them “Danes”

before Normans brought surnames

and standard spelling

 

what are my Norse roots?

“Dana” traced five hundred years

to medieval time

 

Danes changed history

by their bold expeditions

and seafaring ways

 

but my soft nature

seems less warlike Viking than

peaceful Norwegian

 

 

Photo:  Viking Museum, Bøstad, Norway, 16 June 2019

 

Neanderthal roots:

 

According to DNA results from 23andme.com, I am 3% Neanderthal.  All people alive today, except sub-Saharan Africans, share a similar percentage.  This species of early human populated Europe from 400,000 to 40,000 years before present.  They interbred on countless occasions with Homo sapiens from 100,000 YBP until their eventual extinction or absorption into the genome of modern humans, which amounts to about 60,000 years of coexistence.  Assuming an average generational span of twenty years and allowing for multiple descendant lineages from a single Neanderthal ancestor, we of European ancestry could statistically have had billions of direct ancestors—an impossible number far beyond the peak Neanderthal population during that time, estimated at only 5000 to 50,000 individuals.  So, you and I are direct descendants of several (perhaps all) Neanderthal individuals whose personal descendancy did not die out, including those who lived in the cave pictured here:

 

 

Photo: Grote Mandrin, one of many caves in France occupied intermittently by both Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens for thousands of years.  Source:  CNRS

 

Controversy surrounds the question of whether, or with what relative frequency, matings between Neanderthals and Homo sapiens were consensual.  I depict two scenarios below representing the alternatives and leave it to science to find conclusive evidence to answer the question.

We Are Neanderthals

A consensual scenario

 

early one evening

she was gathering firewood

not far from her cave

 

in nearby forest

a man—one of the Others—

hunted for squirrels

 

their young brown eyes met

gaze ignited yearning loins

in those guiltless times

 

some nine months later

Baby joined her shrinking clan

loved, as mothers do

 

my grandmother’s love

three thousand lifespans ago

lives in me today

 

 

            Image of a Neanderthal woman.  Source:  Earth Archives

 

 

We Are Neanderthals

A nonconsensual scenario

 

early one evening

she was gathering firewood

not far from her cave

 

in nearby forest

a man—one of the Others—

hunted for squirrels

 

alone and helpless

her trusted kin did not hear

her faint anguished calls

 

such was the danger

when We and They encountered

in those lawless times

 

my grandmother’s cries

three thousand lifespans ago

call to me today

 

 

The aggressors could have been, and no doubt were, of either species.

 

African roots:

We Are African

 

Swahili greeting:

Sisi ni watoto wa

Afrika ... jambo!*

 

grandmother left home

three thousand lifespans ago,

adventuring forth

 

inching around globe,

cave-steads lent safety from threats,

warm respite from harm

 

Eurocentric myth,

“invasive species” is us

who’s the next “native”?

 

our bloodlines alloy,

we're all family, my friend

—African cousins

 

* Translation: "We are all children of Africa … hello!"

 

 

Image:  Our grandmother (100,000 generations ago). Fossil reconstruction from likely period of the most recent common ancestor (concestor) of all humans alive today.  Source: Houston Museum of Natural Science

 

 

 

.4.

Death

 

 

My will instructs a gravestone with this inscription be placed with my ashes in Knoxville Cemetery, Ray County, Missouri.

 

 

The number of members of my contemporary extended family who remember my father as a living person can be counted on the fingers of one hand.  A few elderly unrelated people who recall him, but who have less reason to do so, may still be standing among life’s survivors.  Soon, there will be none. 

 

A Spanish phrase—“generación relevo”—helps visualize this passing.  My sister Deana, brother Jon, and I are our parents’ “relief generation”—picture a relay race where a runner takes the baton from the previous one, carrying it another leg onward.  In this sense, our family lineage is a team, carrying forward our family history into the ever-receding future.  This memoir is my turn at passing on our family’s baton.  I am endeavoring here to not drop it.

 

Harboring no supernaturalistic illusion that an afterlife may follow, I recognize that we are biology.  Our place in the universe is cosmology.  My life will term-out in a decade or two, if I’m lucky.  Then, my own relief generation—Su, then Seamus and Claribel—will take their turns.  My time aboard spaceship earth may be noted in the record only by birth date, death date, and a few sketchy details about what happened in-between. 

 

Such paltry knowledge is all I have of the lives of my own ancestors of only a few generations ago.  Their lived experiences (“life-snippets”) died with them, and so are not knowable to anyone today.  Prior to a few centuries ago, our ancestors’ life-snippets—mine and yours—are lost forever.  Yet, they lived full, interesting, busy lives every day, just like you and me, for hundreds, thousands, millions of years.  Now it is our turn.

 

My intent and modest hope in compiling this memoir, in the year 2022, is to create a digital and physical document that may postpone the inevitable demise of all records of my existence.  If successful, its contents will be known to my descendants for another generation or two.  That’s the most, it seems, that one can hope for without resorting to mysticism.

 

Meanwhile, as I imply in the poems below, I’m striving to make the most of my one shot at life.

Autobiography

 

I was born, I'll die

meanwhile, stuff is happening

this is no dry run

 

haiku tell my tale

snippets of chance, mind-glimpses,

snapshots of being

 

I'll live 'til I don't

in awe of my existence

mere speck in fate’s scheme

 

this life will fade soon

descendants will know little

but my name and dates

 

must go “be here now”

thanks for your kind attention

I’ve got more to do

 

 

 

Life’s a Movie

 

what a show this is!

director’s chair? – nah, just watch

seems almost real, eh?

 

laugh at comic bits

suspense—what'll happen next?

cry in tragic scenes

 

take a seat, my friend

relax, it’s not about us

let's watch together

 

que será, será

whatever will be, will be

will be fun to see

 

far-future is known:

red sun will vaporize Earth

meanwhile, share popcorn

 

 

Inspired by comedian-philosopher George Carlin (1937-2008)

Image source:  georgecarlin.com

 

What If?

 

counterfactual

ghosts lurk this reality,

shadows of what-if

 

who would “I” have been

if other sperm won the race

at my conception?

 

wife would not be mine,

daughter’s, grandkids’ lives unlived

who else might have been?

 

my choices have touched

those of myriad others

these tangled decades

 

alternate beings

died at the blind corner of

This or That

 

 

A choice-point in Bayfront Park, Sarasota

 

 

Have I Made a Difference?

 

most mortals hope to

leave the world a better place

as their exit nears

 

my career’s true north

was teaching peacemaking skills

for both work and home

 

I often wonder

where and when those talking tools

made a difference

 

in lands I’ve not seen?

in languages I don’t speak?

in lives not yet lived?

 

now, I write haiku

a frivolous enterprise

but maybe worthwhile?

 

My Bucket List

 

yup, been there, done that

I have sailed Earth’s seven seas

I’ve climbed Rockies’ peaks

 

untold adventures

fill my memory neurons

life’s been great—still is

 

old age marches on

contentment replaces thrill

pleasure’s in small things

 

gazing on the bay

admiring other men’s boats

glad they are not mine

 

pass time patiently

have meaningful fun each day

that’s my bucket list

 

 

Photo:  The haikuist at work

GOAT or GEFN?

 

athletes and heroes

strive to wear that gilded crown:

Greatest Of All Time

 

lust for fortune feeds

youthful pride’s hungry soul while

I watch from afar

 

I’ve never summoned

enough fire in the belly

to climb pointless peaks

 

I’m competitive

about which of us is the

least competitive

 

as my race winds down

I’ll wear my drab well-worn cap:

Good Enough For Now

 

 

Along for the Ride

 

I’m a spectator

of world's unfolding drama

one unit of life

 

I’m not at the wheel,

just a wide-eyed passenger

hurtling through spacetime

 

on Earth’s fragile skin

voyaging the vast unknown,

along for the ride

 

awash in deep awe

of this accidental trip

as long as it lasts

 

I'll binge on life’s feast

with gratitude for blind luck

'til my final bite

 

 

Photo: Our home-hatched chick driving an unstrung 1972 Colombian tiple, rather like me

Unspent Wealth

 

a lifetime of gems

assayed as worthless pebbles

can't take them with me

 

my elders' wisdom

gone to their final abyss

with their priceless wealth

 

young ones so busy

tending to vital concerns

as was I, back then

 

wishing I knew then

a smidge of what I know now

life's costly lessons

 

here, take these pebbles

this memoir of unspent wealth

my lifetime of gems

 

 

Photo 2016

Time Flies

 

days pass too quickly

each sweet moment should linger

if I had my way

 

bygone childhood wish:

“can’t wait until tomorrow”

—tomorrow is now

 

hazy road ahead

my car seems stuck in high gear

near-sighted headlights

 

life’s a one-meal deal

an exquisite cosmic feast

mystery salad

 

I’ll savor each bite

my plate will be bare one day

so, dine with gusto

 

 

I Have Survived, Somehow

 

so many close calls

this seventy-six-year romp

lucky twists of fate

 

motorcycle crash

Honduran priests saved my butt

kept souvenir scars

 

year in Vietnam

hazy memories survive

pot smoker's Bronze Star

 

now, safely cocooned

in Sarasota treehouse

for the duration

 

few dangers ahead

except the one that kills me

… waiting … patiently

 

 

 

You Are My Afterlife

 

my atoms will roam

join other earth-bound life forms:

mouse, bird, fish, worm, weed

 

as dad, my genes will

walk, talk, think, feel, reproduce

keeping human form

 

my molecules float

in air until Earth’s days end

five billion years hence

 

Sun’s sons go nova

generations of star-stuff

flung galaxy-wide

 

as teacher-writer

some wise bits may carry on

perhaps this haiku?

 

 

 

Misplaced Grief

 

when I die, I’ll cease

no missed bucket-list regrets

just pure nothingness

 

won’t be me who grieves

you may mourn your loss of me,

a hole in your heart

 

our culture’s last rite,

my funeral’s not for me

I will not be there

 

celebrate my life

it’s been a hell of a ride

then, get on with yours

 

I’ll drink life’s last drop,

but if the end’s too bitter,

please pass the hemlock

 

 

With my life’s sunset at a distant(?) horizon, I inscribe this non-mythologized view of end-of-life on a slate of haiku for my friends’ comfort and other mortals’ reflection.

Jim’s Last Gift

 

he reached out to me

final-exit day nearing

to bid me farewell

 

I admire him so

foresaw slippery slope’s brink

drew clear-eyed courage

 

choice was his to make

appraised remaining time’s worth

as is Reason's way

 

his life richly lived

left this world a better place

dignity enshrined

 

Jim’s last gift to me:

priceless light on road ahead

thank you, my wise friend

 

 

Photo source:  unknown

 

 

That Good Night

 

quoth the young poet:

“rage, rage against the dying

of the light” – not yet!

 

myself, I think not

– I’ll marvel in that moment,

what a trip I've had!

 

thankful for my mind,

thinking thoughts about this thought,

awesome cosmic gift

 

as life's process ends,

savoring final moments,

drifting into void,

 

I intend to go

“gentle into that good night”

I was here ... that's all

 

 

Photo: Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), source:  Dylan Thomas Centre.

 If I had faced death at age 39, I, too, may have raged. 

 

Rest In Peace

 

closer to life's end

than to its brash beginning

I watch world's demise

 

at an odd remove

as if from a mountaintop

through rose-colored lens

 

aaah, but you young ones

and those zillions yet to live

my heart bleeds, helpless

 

what will beset you?

what torment will you endure?

what fate will snare you?

 

meanwhile, life is good

I’ve lived in charmed time and place

I’m resting in peace

 

 

Overlooking Yosemite Valley from Columbia Rock, 2015

On Dying

 

as life leaves this eye

what will I say to the world

on final exit?

 

to Mother Cosmos

returns borrowed molecules

deep thanks for the loan

 

such blind luck at birth!

fate has smiled kindly on me

vastly more than most

 

I'll live 'til I don't

the day unknowable yet

but I choose to choose

 

my life, not others’

when its end comes into view

it’s mine to decide

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.5.

The Future

 

 

 

James Webb Space Telescope ultra-deep field, 2022

Born at the end of World War II, I have lived in a golden age.  My demographic has enjoyed unearned privileges incidental to my birth—personal safety, economic opportunity, human rights, legal protections, freedom of speech and thought, quality medical care, retirement security, and more comforts not enjoyed by most people in the world today.  These riches exceed even the luxuries of royalty in prior passages of human history. 

 

But I fear my generation’s gilded age is closing.  It appears we are entering an inflection point in America’s 250-year experiment with democracy.  Those privileges feel increasingly fragile under the toxic influences of xenophobic nationalism, entrenched tribalism, white supremacy, gun rights militancy, widening wealth disparity, and resurgent anti-science theocracy.

 

I dearly hope that future readers will correctly regard my current worries, in 2022, as foolishly misguided, and that the American project will continue to flourish beyond today’s political controversies.  Let us hope that my grandchildren’s age cohorts, and the generations who follow them, will find a path through today’s thicket of socio-political crises.  Let us hope.

 

I will await future’s verdict as a law-abiding, tax-paying, voting American expat living snugly in Sarasota, Florida.  I fear my homeland is irreversibly sliding toward an illiberalism I would not wish to be associated with.  Will I be judged a gullible swallower of liberal propaganda—or a justifiably gloomy forecaster of the demise of democracy and its pleasures?  I hope to live long enough to read the next chapter in American history.  Thereafter, I can only hope that Seamus and Claribel may find happiness and meaning as citizens of the world they inherit.  Beyond their terms, I leave to the Fates.  Would that the golden age continue.

 

 

 

Meanwhile, I am at risk of becoming an …

 

American Expat

 

midwestern farm boy

alien in my homeland

is this still my place?

 

Trump's America

clenched in MAGA’s gun-crazed fist

I do not belong

 

autocracy looms

demagoguery ascends

it’s all on the line

 

Founders' dream’s deathwatch

if fake “patriots” take charge

I’ll be an expat

 

I’m too old to flee

young ones may yet find a way

where will they call home?

 

 

 

 

.6.

Write Your Own Memoir

 

If you calculate that your life may have been mostly lived, I suspect you have considered writing your life story.  Your descendants might like to know something of your lived experience, not just your birth and death dates and where to find your grave.  What happened between those markers?  The quest to make myself known to my descendants, born and yet unborn, inspires this memoir.  I would be grateful to any of my ancestors had they done the same.

 

Writing one’s conventional autobiography can be a daunting task.

 

You may find, as I did, that composing bite-size chunks is easier than tackling a book-length manuscript.  The haiku quintet is only one form of snippet.  Any simple, structured device can serve as the ring around your sandbox—a safe place to play.  The toys in my sandbox are 85 syllables molded in the shape of a haiku quintet.  Create your own toys—or play with mine.

 

As your snippets accumulate, assemble them into a timeline of your life, perhaps with illustrations from dusty photo albums or your iPhone’s camera roll.  Unless you’re getting younger, today may be a good time to start.

Tell Your Story

 

tell your life story

your forest of oak and pine

one sprout at a time

 

some buds may please you

others turn out to be weeds

pick and choose the best

 

listen to your muse

her wisdom’s not of this world

she knows more than you

 

as your woodland grows

you are queen of your jungle

there’s no higher rank

 

edit your new growth

keep pruning, shaping, cropping

until it feels right

 

 

Thousand-year-old bonsai tree (Crespi Bonsai Museum)

 

 

 

A Father’s Day Regret

 

what did my Dad think

about New Deal politics?

I will never know

 

did he fear the draft

and fighting in the next war?

I will never know

 

what pioneer tales

did my grandparents tell him?

I will never know

 

what was home-life like

in their crude prairie cabin?

I will never know

 

did he think about

writing his own life story?

apparently not

 

 

J. W. Dana (1874-1955), photo circa 1900

 

About me: 

 

For family and friends, who are the intended and likely primary audience of this memoir, I need no introduction.  For others:  I am a retired mediator, psychologist, and educator living with wife Susan Moore Dana in Sarasota, Florida. Born in 1945 on a family farm in Missouri, I served, reluctantly, in the U.S. Army in Vietnam (non-combat) and Panama Canal Zone (1966-1968). Holding the PhD in psychology from University of Missouri (1977), I taught conflict management and mediation from 1978 until retirement.  I founded Mediation Training Institute in 1985, acquired by Eckerd College in 2012.  I have authored three books on mediation, one on secular humanism, and several volumes of haiku quintets.  Five Palms Press, named for my perch overlooking Sarasota Bay, was created to share my poetic handiwork in retirement. I am the father of one and grandfather of two, to whom this memoir is dedicated.  Drawing on nearly eight decades of life's experiences and misadventures, these haiku quintets may be viewed collectively as an autobiography, of sorts.

 

 

 

Other books—view at dandana.us/fivepalms

Available at Amazon.com and other booksellers

 

Post-retirement:

·    Haiku Quintets

·    Songs of the Pandemic: World Haiku

·    Science and Secularism: Haiku Quintets and Other Musings

·    Common Ground: Haiku, Mediation, and Police Reform

·    Resisting Trumpism: Haiku Quintets

·    The Reason Revolution: Atheism, Secular Humanism, and the Collapse of Religion

 

Pre-retirement

·    Managing Differences: How to Build Better Relationships at Work and Home (MTI Publications), in seven languages

·    Conflict Resolution: Mediation Tools for Everyday Worklife (McGraw-Hill), in multiple languages

·    Talk It Out: 4 Steps to Managing People Problems in Your Organization (Kogan Page)

 

The following pages display the front covers of several English and foreign language editions of my books.  Those involving conflict management and mediation were written during my career.  The volumes of haiku quintets and The Reason Revolution were written in retirement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgements: 

 

Even one’s memoir cannot be written alone. 

 

Several friends among Lakewood Ranch Scribes and Humanists of Sarasota Bay have helped—you know who you are.

 

Several friends and family have shared their time and expertise—you know who you are. 

 

And, of course, Susan—my muse in the flesh.

 

Special mention is due to certain friends who contributed particular expertise to this project:  Mary Coleman, MD (genetics/DNA), James Burns, MD (physiology), David Tudor, PhD (statistics/probability), Dr Darrel Ray (general science), Claire Matturro (poetry), Meigs Glidewell (editing)

 

Cover concept: Sean Connor

Cover design: Chetan