Sight Lines.........seeing God in all of life

Spring Hill Politics Has Sprung a Leak

This is my feature op-ed piece in The Tenessean on Friday

 

http://www.tennessean.com/article/20110324/WILLIAMSON07/303240020/Spring-Hill-politics-has-sprung-serious-leak?odyssey=tab%7Ctopnews%7Ctext%7CWilliamson+County

--rLp--

Williamson Herald Columns

 

I recently discovered a link on the newspaper's website that has every column I've published in the Herald. Beginning with the most recent and scrolling down to my first one back in 2008.

http://www.williamsonherald.com/home?search_string=Ramon+Presson&search=go%21

--rLp--

Pressing the Spring Brake

My column in this week's newspaper

 

If you’re reading this column then you are one of the unfortunate and sulking county residents who is stuck at home while it seems all your friends, neighbors, co-workers, complete strangers, and people you don’t even like are at some exotic location for Spring Break.  And yes, if you have to work the entire week in town, then even Mobile, Alabama sounds exotic.  The line for the Stuck-Here-in-Spring-Hill support group forms at the rear.

Oh sure, tell yourself that a shopping spree at Lowe’s and a week’s work of back-breaking landscaping is more relaxing than reclining with a mindless novel by a Destin pool.  The truth is you’d settle for sitting in a metal chair by a bucket of water if it could just be anywhere in Florida.

While you’re singing the Numb in Nolensville Blues, every family on your son’s travel soccer team is traveling where there is no Gatorade served at concession stands—only those drinks with the tiny umbrellas at the tiki bar. Oh sure, tell yourself that you’re glad you’re not fighting the crowds at Myrtle or Maui, or fighting the crazies in Lauderdale.  Why stand in line for overpriced fresh grilled mahi mahi when you’ve got coupons and there’s no wait at Captain D’s?

It might be helpful to actually remind yourself that some people drive hundreds of miles to come HERE for spring break. I know; I couldn’t believe it either. But there are entire regions of our country that could be featured in those Southwest commercials that ask, “Wanna get away?”  Places where the Saturday night highlight is a trip to Walmart and a promised stop at Dairy Queen if the kids are good and don’t have a meltdown in the toy aisle…like last Saturday night.

I know, I know, you are sick of reading those Facebook posts of people you’ve never actually met that feature a photo collage of their family horseback riding in Lake Tahoe. And you deleted the comment you really wanted to leave on Melissa’s twenty-seventh post about her cruise. Something about wishing she would stay down indefinitely during her next coral reef dive.  A co-worker who sends out Twitter Tweets every hour from Laguna Nigel stands a good chance of finding all his office supplies super-glued to his desk when he returns.

The way to rid yourself of the Floundering in Franklin Funk and to release the discontentment and resentment of being held hostage in Thompson Station is to make the most of the captivity.

Pretend this is your last week in middle Tennessee before an unexpected move relocates you out of state. What is a place in our area you have been intending to visit or have been wanting to experience but have never gotten around to it?  It’s sad, but after nine years in West Palm Beach I waited until the week we were moving to sit on the beach to watch a sunrise. Speaking of sunrise, having grown up in Winston-Salem, NC my entire life it was not until shortly before we moved that I attended the magnificent sunrise service at God’s Acre in Old Salem, a historic site that hasn’t skipped an Easter sunrise since 1772.

 

What historic place have you been planning to visit? What music venue has been on your list for years? What local color restaurant has eluded you season after season, excuse after excuse? What area of natural beauty like Radnor Lake, Cheekwood, or the Natchez Trace have you skipped because…well, it’s always going to be there?  There are many ways to enjoy your spring staycation; you just won’t have a sunburn and huge MasterCard bill on Monday to show for it.

--rLp--

Gratitude vs. Growlitude

This is my column in this week's paper.

http://www.williamsonherald.com/home?id=75060

 

--rLp--

Poetic Liberty

       
               

                      It is difficult

to get the news from poems

       yet men die miserably every day

                       for lack

of what is found there.

                            --William Carlos Williams            

  

--rLp--

Ramon Presson in Concert: Unplugged

 

On Saturday I unplugged. Disconnected myself from the wall outlet and all things wireless. No internet or e-mail, no Facebook or Twitter, no texting or blogging. My laptop case zipped its mouth shut. No television or iPod. I was going Amish.  Not really.  At my pastor’s recommendation I entered a 24-hour technology fast, a 1-day abstinence from gadgetry and hyper-connection. Following are some of my notes from the day:

I’m actually writing this with a #2 pencil on lined paper. Yo dog, I’m goin’ old school. Actually I feel caveman-esque. I sense the urge to make fire and etch drawings of a wooly mammoth hunt on the dining room wall. My wife says no.

In the early stages of this tech-diet I feel a sense of freedom—freedom from checking and checking in and re-checking in; freedom from responding to the responses of my original response. I feel the liberation experienced from clipping the leash, cutting the electric umbilical cord which is really more like a bungee cord in that any distance I create from my laptop and smart phone is short-lived and in a moment I will be yanked back to the bridge. I am a great fish with a hook in its mouth and technology is just playing me.

There is also an exhilaration in the fast as if I’m doing something new and daring. I am Lewis & Clark entering uncharted territory, the wild untamed land west of Verizon and Sprint, a place uninhabited by the white man and Steve Jobs, a barren wilderness where no Apple or Blackberry can grow.

There is also a slight uneasiness, a slight anxiety which is always the case in addiction withdrawals I am told. What am I missing? What cans of e-spam are sitting unopened on my shelf? What Groupon offer for micro-derm abrasion facials am I missing? How do I know what’s happening in Egypt?  Surely there has been one more scientifically proven weight-loss breakthrough involving the use of acai berries since last night!

What about Facebook friends who depend on me for their daily feedings of witty lines and clever observations? I feel like a terrible cardinal mother who is not bringing food back to the nest. Without a single status update, blog post, or Twitter tweet in a 24-hour period will my friends and followers not think I’m seriously ill, kidnapped, dead, or worse…finally out of material?  If someone tweets in a forest and no one hears it does it really exist?

Someone should come up with a Facebook medi-alert bracelet, so that if you fall down the steps and break your spine or your iPad, with just the press of a button all 1,427 people in your social network can immediately be notified not to worry and given the address where to drop off the casseroles.

My wife has her Dell Inspiron on her lap and the rapid tapping of the keys is weakening me. Many years ago during an actual food fast a fender bender accident (not my fault) had me standing outside my car in front of a barbecue joint that was intentionally sending out adulterous aromas into my air. I think I may have drooled on the officer’s clipboard (not my fault).  Right now I’m craving a rib plate with a side-order of YouTube.

She continues to type and click her mouse. This is like drinking in front of an alcoholic or lighting up a Winston in front of a smoker on their first day of a Nicorette diet. I forgive her. I should send her an e-mail and tell her so. 

Actually I’m doing pretty well.  I only have 22 hours and 17 minutes to go…according to this archaic thing on my wrist called a watch. Not that I’m counting or anything.  16 minutes…

 

--rLp--

A Valentine's Day Public Service Announcement

 

Here is the link to my current newspaper column "A Valentine Day Public Service Announcement".

http://www.williamsonherald.com/home?id=74636

 

--rLp--

Head Injury

 

Bent forward with my focus on

a sticky stain on the kitchen counter

I raised up and caught my head

on the corner of an open cabinet door.

 

At first I thought I had been hit by

a sniper’s bullet in the cranium, but

realized that was stupid. No,

it was definitely a flint arrow

filed to a deadly point,

dipped in poison, and fired

from the bow of an Indian warrior,

a tribe enraged that the white man was trying

to take over their ancestors’ subdivision and clubhouse.

 

Perhaps I was delirious, or

maybe I was thinking clearer than ever,

clearer than before the moment in the 6^th grade when

I walked into Russ Queen taking a practice swing

in the batter’s box.

 

I vaguely remember the impact of

wood and bone colliding at the intersection

in a sound that made the third base coach throw up.

 

My mother was working the concession stand

so she missed seeing my head

pull out in front of a Louisville Slugger, but the screams

of “Frances, Frances, it’s Ramon!”

catapulted her over obstacles and onlookers.

 

The slight scar under my right eye

is from the stitches. Healed pretty well, I think,

which may be more than I’ll be able to say

for this new hole bore into my skull.

 

Perhaps I’m delirious but I’m thinking

that if the doctor has started this pioneer surgery

on my cerebral cortex without benefit of anesthesia

he might as well finish it, because I’m quite comfortable

lying here on the linoleum, though it’s hard to hold still

while our fox terrier is licking my face, and

I’m walking through a field of daisies in

hippy clothes, singing a Joni Mitchell song

to a caterpillar stretched out on my index finger.

 

I’m just a little delirious, but the dog

thinks I probably have a concussion,

but what does he know??

He probably just wants me out of the way so

he can have the chew toys all to himself.

 

--rLp--

I Must Be Going

 

I sit close enough over the fire

to feel the flame tongues lunge at me

like a dog in the lap

trying to lick my face.

 

I've been told I don't have enough

respect for fire

 

or for lightning. Maybe not

since that time I had it sizzle

all around me on a Colorado mountain;

so perhaps now I feel invincible or

maybe I just think nature is a poor shot, a

near-sighted sniper who misses his target

99.9% of the time but has managed to

keep his job and the villainous reputation;

 

or maybe I just think it would be too comic

and tragic of a way to die, walking on a golf

course cursing a 4-iron and suddenly

I'm aluminum foil in the microwave.

Get struck by lightning and even

your widow has a hard time keeping a

straight face at the funeral.

 

I don't like to think about how I'll go

or when; if I'll go sudden like lightning

or if I'll just fade out slowly

like a fire unattended.

 

 

--rLp--

Fencing Lessons

for a client

 

 

Just  off Critz Lane the posts have been in the ground

for months now, maybe twenty of them,

evenly spaced, tops level,

awaiting the horizontal planks that will

make them a fence.

 

Rebecca insists that her heart is open

to love, but I see the posts

jammed into her soil, historical

markers without words,  high reaching tombs

without names or dates, wooden

spikes driven into her own heart

but still that is not the death of her.

 

Hers will be one of suffocation when

love again approaches her property,

as she will rush to her posts and

nail into place the horizontal slats

that will fortress her heart and

fence in its breath.

 

--rLp--

Retracing Steps

 

Tonight I misplaced my glasses somewhere between

the gas station on 31, a pizza pickup down the street, 

and hitting a few aisles at the market for basics.

 

First, I took the car apart like a narcotic agent

looking for cocaine embedded in the upholstery,

then methodically retraced my steps beginning

with clerks at all 3 establishments but none had

collected a pair of clear glasses with thin silver frames

  

(although the assistant manager at Kroger did offer me

 a pair of black frame readers

 that had been in lost & found now for weeks.)

  

Like a detective looking for clues at a crime scene

instead of $70 glasses among bags of baby carrots,

I left no wheat loaf unturned, the twist being

the inspector is secretly also the prime suspect.

 

Truth is, I often retrace the steps of my journey,

sweeping the emotional equivalent of a metal detector

along the ground, looking for relics of my past

like some here in Franklin turn the soil

looking for arrowheads or civil war bullets.

 

And sometimes I revist my more recent navigations,

usually at the end of the day-- retracing decisions,

actions and conversations, often

 

wishing I could re-enlist sounder reasoning,

launch fewer regrets, and

re-draw the outcomes.

 

--rLp--

Full Moon on the Playground

 

 

When the night mind

won’t release the curtain, the

sleepless stage becomes a playground

for hyperactive children with undisciplined

imaginations and disorganized reasoning,

 

littering the platform with strewn toys and

games, discarded dolls, and puzzles with

vital pieces scattered, turned

upside down and colorless, that

plea for reconciliation

and appeasing resolution.

 

--rLp--

Leaving Well Enough Alone

 
 

The open fire is small and contained,

inviting a close chair, a pipe

and a glass of wine,

 

the flames casual and hypnotic,

an orange glow in the timber cellar,

throbbing, making the wood

crackle and hiss, a faint whistle

from inside the grain.

 

I’m grateful for this slight breeze north

that leans the smoke back; and I don’t know

how long I’ve been staring into

my tiny arson.

 

Then with an iron tool and gloved hand

I poke the embers, maneuver the kindling, and

adjust the planks though they are ripe

right where they are.

 

Why is it so hard to just

let a really good fire be?

 

--rLp--

Just a Flesh Wound

 
 

As the blood from the cut

trickles down the right side of my palm

it finds the etched lines of my handprint,

 

discovers them open like dry creek beds

and rides them like streams and

tributaries where they join forces

 

and forge a blood river down the

prominent groove that runs

like a crescent from above my thumb to

the shore line of my wrist;

 

and just past those faint carvings

the underside of my forearm is smooth

as slate and does not divert the flow

anywhere but straight down toward my elbow.

 

I want to see how long it takes the spring

to clot and close its mouth, how long it takes

a wound to say enough,

 

how long an offense will pride itself open,

how long it takes for an artery to

make amends with its cover.

 

--rLp--

 

Fickle Fan of Winter

 

i am a fickle fan of winter,

who jeers the cold and sunless

shortened days of january

 

but applauds the way that

overnight ice glazes and

morning snow frosts

the skeleton trees on the cliffs.

 

--rLp--

Guessing Game

 

 I woke just as dawn was peeling the day,

and with my eyes closed tried to guess what

t-shirt and boxers I was wearing

beneath the covers pulled to my neck.

 

I guessed the medium blue boxers with

the gold diamonds and the grey t-shirt

with the gym logo on it.

 

I was wrong—black & grey boxers with crosshatches

of thin maroon stripes, white t-shirt

from a half-marathon.

 

That’s OK, I’ve been wrong before when

my eyes were closed, thinking

something was one way

when in fact it was another.

 

--rLp--

melt

 

 

sometimes the full sun on a cold day

is not enough to melt the snow that

loiters on the shaded side of the house.

 

sometimes it takes a good rain.

 

--rLp--

Staying Warm

 

This photo is not Stacy but it could be. On Friday in Franklin, TN the temp hovered around freezing. After enjoying lunch in a local restaurant I approached the intersection in my car where the homeless lady was selling copies of the The Contributor (www.thecontributor.org) Nashville's street newspaper written by the homeless and former homeless. Through my open window I exchanged a dollar for a copy of the paper. The lady smiled with broken teeth and said "Thank you. Stay warm."  Stay warm. With no saracasm or even intended irony this gracious homeless person standing in the cold tells me, sitting comfortably in a heated automobile with a toasty home in the distance, to stay warm. I just sort of crumbled inside.

 

I proceeded to my gym for my workout but was haunted by the kind words of the homeless woman. The workout was cut short as was the time in the steamroom. Stay warm, she said. And I was. Warm gym, soothing steamroom, hot shower.  I left and returned to the intersection and parked and walked to the lady and asked her, "How do you like your coffee?" I asked.  "Cream & sugar" she said with a slight smile. "Thank you".  I went into Panera's and came back with coffee. She seemed nervous and the eye contact was brief. "I'm Ramon, what's your name?"  "Stacy" she replied. "Thank you for the coffee".  "You're welcome, Stacy." 

 

She returned to her post on Mallory Blvd and I to my car. I don't know where Stacy is on this bitterly cold night, hopefully a shelter. I'm at home. Staying warm.

 

--rLp--

Snowflakes and Your Personal Journey

My newspaper column coming out later this week.

 

“Snow crystal formation is very sensitive to local conditions. If you consider the life of a snowflake, you find that its shape is determined by its history . As the crystal blows about inside the clouds, a developing crystal experiences ever-changing temperatures and humidity levels along the way. Each change in its local environment causes a change in the way the crystal grows. After numerous twists and tumbles, the final structure can be quite complex. And since no two snowflakes follow exactly the same path, no two are exactly alike."                                                           

( from Ken Libbrecht's "Field Guide to Snowflakes", Voyageur Press )

 

Today's personal & spiritual shape is influenced by my history--experiences, people, relationships, conversations, books, decisions, even the most seemingly insignificant events. In fact, everything since my birth has collaborated and conspired to influence my current formation. 1/100th of a degree in temperature sculpts an unduplicated snow crystal as does passing through an imperceptible change in humidity. Likewise, the smallest changes and movements in our daily life are molding us, usually imperceptibly, as though the earth’s rotation were a potter’s wheel, we being altered and smoothed in each day’s turning.

To be at any peace with who I am and where I am today is to recognize the sculpting influence of my entire life up to that moment, including the things I might wish away or prefer had happened much differently. That doesn’t mean I am to be grateful for tragedy or applaud evil (mine or someone else’s). But it does mean that I am not immobilized by despair, regret, or resentment.

 And please note that the sovereign shaping of the journey does not remove my personal responsibility. I am often amazed by how passive we can be and how much we underestimate the influence we have in our directions and outcomes.  Control is always an illusion, but influence is ever-present and vital.  Too often we watch influence sit in the driveway with the engine running, waiting for a driver, while we are by the side of the road with our thumb out, ready to hitch a ride with any experience that will pick us up. That is not contentment or peaceful living—that is complacency, laziness, and irresponsibility. “Que Sera Sera” is a song by Doris Day, not a verse in Proverbs.

Last year I was struck by a segment of an interview with NFL running back Ricky Williams who by most measures squandered his incredible talent and potential. He had neither emotionally healthy parents nor a nurturing childhood. But in response to whether he blamed his later and present troubles on his parents and upbringing said, “If I place all the blame on my past for who I am then I’ve given away all my power.  If I make this all my parents’ fault then I’m trapped because I make them the only ones who can fix me. And they can’t.”  The spiritual and emotional maturity of such words could not be more gripping if they came from a prophet or priest.

In conclusion I’m inclined to see the wisdom in the simple Serenity Prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

Few people are aware of the remainder of the sage prayer penned by Reinhold Niebuhr:

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.

As you watch the snow falling, think of the shaping journey of each flake, and consider your own life. Accept and even honor the journey that has helped form you, and welcome the invitation to join in the further influence.

--rLp--

Counseling Two Weeks Before Christmas

 

She sees light flurries outside her window

and wonders if it is fresh fall or

just sentimental flakes blowing off the roof.

 

In partial sun by midmorning there’s not

even a trace in the yard.

 

--rLp--

Habitat for Inhumanity

My client told me

what her husband said to her

three years ago

very loudly

with people around

in the Nashville airport

on the way to Aruba

for their honeymoon.

 

I don’t know why she got on the plane,

handed him the room key, or undressed

in the bathroom with the anticipation

of one facing the gallows.

 

She doesn’t remember agreeing

to the move to Tennessee, to

selling her stock options, or passing

babies through her womb while

he passed through other ones.

 

She doesn’t know why she said yes

to buying the house, though Westhaven

was certainly THE neighborhood at the moment,

and the hardwoods in the spacious foyer

made her think of an oak pond and the

jeweled chandelier above an

upside down fountain

 

She can’t make sense of saying yes

to any house, even this utopic one zoned for

the best schools, with resort-like amenities

that inflame envy in all guests, who

first marvel at the decorated interior straight out

of the pages of Southern Living, and who comment

on the exterior brick façade of a perfect marriage.

 

The landscaping—they have a guy for that.  Pool

maintenance, a guy for that too. Protection when

Robert pulls a kitchen knife from its sleeve

in the mahogany block

that rests with great poise

on the granite-top island? 

She doesn’t have a guy for that.

--rLp--

The Snowed Inn

 

Let’s pretend there are 2-ft drifts up

against the door and it’s still coming down

 

with the temps in single digits and

a wind chill of only-God-knows-what

 

instead of the mere inch of powder on

the sidewalk that has closed the schools

 

and sent even the lactose intolerant sliding

off into ditches racing to the store for bread and milk.

 

--rLp--

Winter Blunderland

 
 

How about we cut out all the lights

and put a blanket & pillows

by the fireplace, the wine within reach

and open the doors, lift the windows

and let the snow flurries

blow in all around us and melt

on our bodies.

 

Huh?  OK, more blankets, yea I

guess we could do that. An electric

blanket? I don’t think so but…

 

What?  Close the doors and windows?

But what about the romantic image of

snow swirling around our bodies,

warm as embers, practically hot stove tops

that sizzle and simmer the melt?

 

OK, doors and windows closed.  Can I

pour you another glass of...say what?

Yes, I suppose a bit of the warm air does

escape up the chimney...

 

Excuse me?  A candle and a

space heater by the couch

in the TV room upstairs?  And what?

Um, sure I can make coffee.

 

--rLp--

Signs and Wonders

 
 
 

During a snowfall when the

earth becomes a blank slate

I look for secret messages in the drifts

and wonder if perhaps the black

gnarled and twisted trees are letters

making words in a language

I'll never understand.

 

 

--rLp--

The Referee’s Guide to Christmas Shopping Violations

This is next week's newspaper column

 

I think it would be a great service to holiday shoppers if the county hired football and basketball referees to blow the whistle and throw the flag on shopper and driver violations, enforcing standards of appropriate behavior, and thereby making Christmas shopping more pleasant for everyone. Here are some violations which should be penalized.

Delay of Game: Waiting until the sales clerk announces your total purchase before you begin digging through your purse for your wallet.  Tack on 5 extra yards for use of checkbook or any slow and thoughtless action that causes the train of frazzled shoppers behind you to reach for pepper spray.

Lane Violation: Continuing to turn left on Mallory Lane despite the stoplight turning red five minutes ago.

Illegal Shift: When the last person in line leaps in front of everyone else when a new register is opened.

Double Dribble: Any dividing of items while at the register so as to use two different credit cards or methods of payment for separate transactions. Also a delay of game.

Technical Foul: Called on any customer who is rude to a store employee who is paid a minimal wage and has been on his/her feet since the store opened at 8 a.m.

Illegal Procedure: Flagrant attempt to use an expired coupon, attitude often resulting in technical foul and delay of game. Three penalties for the price of one.

Personal Foul: (Over the Back) Someone reaching over your shoulder to grab the sweater or Chia Pet you were eyeing.

Intentional Grounding: Man dropping the Victoria’s Secret bag behind a display at Belk when he sees someone he knows from church.

Taunting: Man being caught with Victoria’s Secret bag before he could ditch it.

False Start: Walking to your car merely to deposit packages while another car has been trailing you in order to get your vacated parking space.

Illegal Substitution:  Trying to execute an item exchange or refund without a receipt. When this violation occurs at register instead of customer service desk tack on delay of game penalty.

Unsportsmanlike Conduct:  The tantrum or meltdown of a child in Toys-R-Us.  Parent is actually the one penalized… for wisdom failure.  (What did you think would happen if you brought a nap-needing 4 year-old into a toy store?)

Back Court Violation: In mid-transaction, the paying customer suddenly realizes he forgot an item from the sporting goods department which is in another zip code. He dashes off toward the store’s horizon and pledges to “be right back”. Tack on delay of game penalty.

Illegal Screen: When a shopper straddles the path of two checkout lines rather than committing to one line and staying in it.

Chop-Block at the Knees:What will happen to any man who buys his wife another gift with the words “As Seen on TV” on the package.

Off-sides: When drivers of large SUVS don’t seem to know what the white lines in a parking lot are there for.

Pass Interference: Mall shoppers who walk slower than a monk with a migraine and don’t stay to the left.

Holding: Walking around store carrying the last available unit of an item (Cheez Whiz Cookbook) you don’t really want and probably will not buy. Also hiding any item in the store (such as Math-Whiz Barbie behind a row of paint cans ) in order to check price at store across the street.

Excessive Celebration: Bragging that you snatched the last unit of an advertised item, of which the store only had four in stock to begin with. Penalty is doubled if item is a 6 a.m. door buster special where several shoppers are being treated for hypothermia and frostbite.

--rLp--

 

Rollercoaster

 

steep vertical

slow climb

peak reached

dizzying height

brief pause

rapid plunge

blinding speed

upside down

right-side up

hairpin left

veer right

final turn

sudden stop

let

me

out.

 

--rLp--

Word Weary

There is an Indian tribe whose members

ration their words and choose them carefully

because they believe we are appointed a

certain number of words to speak during our life

and then we die.

 

I, on the other hand, seem to treat 

letters and words

like coins and currency, filling 

some bottomless account with

deposits that are not even kept 

and cannot be spent.

 

What if I'm struck down in mid-sentence, poised

with poetry or prose, describing a mountain stream

or declaring love from my death bed that

I thought was a chair in a coffee shop?

 

 

 

--rLp--

Rain Barrel

 
 
 

why does everyone have to make

so much noise at 6 in the morning?

 

with their bare feet on the hardwoods, doors

and drawers opening and closing, clothes hangars

scraping on the rod, spoons clanking in cereal bowls,

shampoo bottles falling in the shower, hairdryer

on low, books being stacked, papers shuffled,

backpacks zippered, school bus striving up the hill,

a bird singing under the awning.

 

will everyone please get to the

places where they need to be;

I need everyone to be quiet so I

can lie here in my dark room

and listen to the rain fall.

 

it’s not enough to know it’s raining,

or even see it. I need to hear it--a steady rain,

not aggressive but firm,

not a flooder but a cleanser,  

to wash out the dust and leaf pollen

in the air, the bird droppings off the car,

 

rinse grief off the sidewalk, disappointments

and lingering hurts off the steps,

get at resentments stored

deep in the wood on the back deck.

 

let the downpour loosen lofty goals

and ambitions from the roof, collect

in the gutter then pass through

the downspout into the ground.

 

let the pooling run down the street against

the curbs toward the storm drains,

taking with it regrets and humiliations,

defensive pride that rises up

when I feel foolish or underestimated.

 

and by all means let the streams converge and

boil in their meeting, and let them swirl all around

the pitch of earth they would trap in the center, but

be assured they will find Hope there to be a

most stubborn and sturdy island.

 

--rLp--

Florida Room

 

I wish I was writing this today from my Florida room,

not the airy solar-warmed addition on the back of

the house, walled by glass, fused with natural light,

ceiling fan moving slow enough to count the blades,

 

hanging baskets of ferns taking the soft

sun of morning, one African violet that thinks

it has found paradise next to a

bowl of pears on an end table,

 

strong coffee in a china cup sweetened

with brown sugar cubes from

a tiny bowl with matching lid, a yellow

pencil reclining on a white bed of paper,

a finished poem resting by my arm

like a satisfied lover.

 

No, I mean an actual Florida room—a room in

Florida, preferably south Florida,

specifically Palm Beach,

to catch the morning sun and

then Naples in the late afternoon

when the sun lies down on the ocean

and dims the day.

 

Actually, almost any room in Florida will do,

just a warm room with a window, or

 

maybe one overlooking a stand of palms

and a tree of Honeybells where I plucked                                                                                                                                                         a perfect orange for breakfast.

 

--rLp--

In Treatment: Young & Fisher

This is my newspaper column for next week:

 

Being a marriage therapist and a Titans fan I offered to donate my services for couples counseling to Jeff Fisher and Vince Young. Though a clear violation of client confidentiality I’m publishing here a partial transcript of our first session on Wednesday.

Counselor: Thank you both for being here today. Do either of you have questions as we begin?

Vince: Is it OK if I Twitter during the session?

C: No.

Jeff: What time does this end; I have another Saint Thomas commercial to shoot.

C: I can see reconciliation is high on your agendas.

J: I’m not high. Why would you say that?

C: No, I meant…never mind.  Jeff, I understand that you didn’t invite Vince over to spend Thanksgiving with your family.  Why is that?

J: You’re kidding, right?

C:  Vince, if Jeff had invited you, would you have gone?

V: I don’t know. Did they have fried turkey or just oven roasted? Actually, he’s never invited me over for Thanksgiving.  I bet Kerry Collins has been there.

C:  That sounds like a resentment with some history to it. I think we’re getting somewhere.

V:  I bet Coach & his wife and Collins & his wife are all just real cozy friends.

C:  Jeff is divorced, Vince. 

V:  Oh, well… Coach has never really wanted me. I know he really wanted Matt Leinart or Jay Cutler in the draft.

J:  Maybe. OK, so Vince wasn’t my first choice. But Mr. Please-Bud-Out Adams wanted a new toy. And one from Texas.

C:  Hmmm, another clear vein of resentment. We’re making progress. Please continue…

J:  Aw c’mon, the owner is 137 years old and is in bed before 6:00 SportsCenter. He doesn’t know what goes on in the real world of football.

C:  Jeff, would you prefer to work for an owner who is more knowledgeable, but stalks the sidelines, and gets involved in everything like Jerry Jones?

J:  Is the Cowboys job open?

C:  Wow, your face really lit up there, Jeff. But I think you probably have a better shot with the Bears.    But that’s not important right now. Back to the rift between the two of you.  Jeff, I understand that Vince sent you an apology on Monday after the game. An olive branch of sorts.

J:  Yes, but it fell short just like most of his passes.

C:  That’s really cold.  How does that make you feel, Vince?

V:  I think Coach is glad I’m out for the season, that my thumb is messed up.

J:  Yea, now you can just sit at home and suck your thumb like a b…

C:  I think that was uncalled for…

J:  He makes Randy Moss seem like a mature Scout leader by comparison.

C: I think this spiraling down…

J:  You mean, like a tight spiral, on target to a receiver?  That might be a first.

C:  Alright, I think we’ve done enough damage here today.  Vince, anything you’d like to say before we go?

V:  Hold on, I’m getting a text. It’s from Mr. Adams. He says, “Vincent, what are you doing for Christmas? Love, Bud.”

J:  Oh he’s your love bud, alright.  Christmas with the Addams Family.  I’d hate to miss that comic farce.

C: We’re definitely done here.

V: Yo shrink, this session was really short and not helpful at all. You get paid for doing this?

C: Well, when you’re on a tight deadline and have a 600-word limit, you can’t expect miracles.

 

--rLp--

Dehydration

for Robert

 

Why aren't tears more like October leaves

on the maple, finite in number

that fall but once and pool,

dehydrate and blow away

 

Why are they the fluid of some

artesian spring cored in the earth,

infinite and eternal in flow, no

discernable beginning or end as

though a golden ring

 

or the water in a magician's vase

that tips and empties out,

only to be replenished by the supply

hidden in the hollow walls

 

--rLp--

 

 

No Parking Between the Hours of January and December

 

To protect my heart

I encased it in a ticket booth and

built a parking garage over it, four floors

positioned snuggly between an office high rise

and a condo tower, with a bank and

Italian restaurant at the corners

like bookends.

 

I changed the street to one-way

traffic, though the road is often closed

for repairs and is completely shut down

on weekend nights and is heavily

patrolled on weekdays.

 

I erected a detour sign before

the on-ramp and placed orange cones

in the turn lanes.

 

I restrung the river to encircle the city

like a moat and hired captains in costume

to steer gondolas through the round to

give it a friendly feel.

 

--rLp--

The Man Who Can’t Be Moved

 

 

At the pick-up window the girl with the headset

said they were brewing a fresh pot and asked me to

pull over into this space and someone would

bring my coffee to me.

 

That was few years ago now.

 

My son graduated from high school last May

and in August my wife served me with papers.

I heard that I got called for jury duty back in ’09.

 

The battery died when I was listening to

the Titans-Packers game in ’08 and I’d still like to know

how that turned out. Got word that we

elected a new president.  From bumper stickers

I take it that we are still in Iraq.

 

I could use some new reading material and

I bet I’ve missed some good movies. The holidays

have been pretty forgettable; I didn’t

even put up a tree this year.

 

I’m wishing now I had backed into this space

so instead of facing  the side wall

of the dry cleaners I’d be looking out of

my windshield through the rain at

gray things that have some semblance of

life and movement to them, like clouds

and bare trees, people slumped in

overcoats, tires moving on pavement.

 

I take my coffee with cream and sugar.

 

--rLp--

The Advantages of Being a Gourd

 

 

driving into town

in a fog that no sun can burn off

 

i passed a light-bearded hiker

walking along I-65 with a camping backpack.

 

no one will ask him to produce goods and services today,

articulate his feelings, or defend a position.

 

there is something about his passions and ambitions

being hollowed out that I envy and I don't know why.

 

--rLp--

 

American as Apple Pie and Garage Sales

One of last week's newspaper columns

 Saturday Morning in Suburbia

by Ramon Presson

 

Cardboard and poster board

yard sale signs at every intersection

and subdivision entrance

from here to the Maury County line,

 

these are the driveways where

we the middle class

set up our flea markets

and let total strangers

rummage through our belongings--

 

the discarded clothes, toys,

strained furniture,

books, music, and outdated lamps,

the artwork, dishes, and kitchen appliances,

clock radios, brass decorative items,

electronics, plaid throw pillows

VHS movies, and exercise equipment

we couldn't live without and

MasterCard said we didn't have to.

 

Now other suburbanites, like homeless people,

are going through our trash and asking

does this work, and how much

will you take for this cutlery set

when the homemade sticker with the price

is right there on the damn thing

 

cause everybody wants to talk you down,

as if you should give a further discount for

something that is already on 

your entire life's clearance rack

 

and you want to say, heck just take it, cause

you know she don't want it that bad, but

she's addicted to mediocrity like everyone else,

 

like the lady there in the aqua warm-up suit,

the one with board games in her arms

who said "I Do"

in the church to a guy she didn't really

have any use for, but he was a bargain and

she had a place for him

next to the curio cabinet.

 

I’d have to investigate it but I suspect that yard sales and garage sales are a uniquely American experience. I’m not sure how they started but I suspect that perhaps in the 1820’s somewhere out West a woman said to her husband, “This old butter churn is busted. I’m going to throw it away.”  And her husband said, “No, wait!  We’re in town this Saturday because the kids don’t have travel soccer. Price it at 2 bucks and we’ll put it in a garage sale. I guarantee you some nut will buy it.”  “That’s a great idea!” said the prairie wife. “What’s a garage?”

 

My experience with garage sales is that the oddest things are the first to go. When I was a teenager I correctly predicted that a non-working lamp whose base and shade were made entirely of popsicle sticks would be one of the first items to sell. I was a confirmed prophet of profits.

Several years ago in South Carolina we did one of those combined family sales in our driveway. I told Ron that I was certain that the actual camel saddle from India (not kidding) that he placed on my card table would be a very early 1st-round pick in the Presson-Geyer junk draft.  When it was bought by the first person who showed up (45 minutes early while we were still setting up) I

heard the voice of God telling me to go on a mission trip to Las Vegas. 

 

I remember the yard sale on Rushland Drive when I was a kid. People were getting past us and pulling stuff out of our garage and saying, “How much you want for this?”  Mom had to say, “Please put our washer and dryer back. And no, the kid is not for sale.”  Someone made an offer on our car. I was waiting for someone to say, “I’ll give you 25 cents a piece for these 8-track tapes, and how much will you take for the house?” 

 

I think realtors perhaps should forgo hosting Sunday Open Houses and do yard sales instead.  “Jim, look at these cute dresses. Huh? Well, that style might come back. And I could fit into several of these if I ate nothing but sea kelp for the next four years. Oh my gosh, don’t you just love the color of vinyl siding they used on this house? Go see if there’s a price tag on the front door.”   I’m thinking a sharp real estate agent could close the deal on the spot, especially if he threw in an authentic Indian camel saddle.

 --rLp--

Bullying: It’s Not Just For Kids

My column in this week's newspaper

Bullying has garnered a frequent spotlight in the news during the past year, with recent instances of children being murdered by bullies or of teen suicides following episodes of bullying. The bullying is not limited to boys being intimidated and roughed up by other boys in the middle school hallway.  Girls are bullied by other girls. If art indeed imitates life then consider the comedy film Mean Girls and Stephen King’s not-so-funny Carrie.

In 2007, nearly one in three students between the ages of 12-18 reported having been bullied, up from one in seven in 2001. But it doesn’t stop in high school as recent university tragedies testify. Neither is it limited to face-to-face intimidation.  A recent federal study determined that more than half of 15-16 year olds say they have experienced a form of cyberbullying  ( threatening e-mails, public ridicule and humiliation, posting of private information, photos and even videos).

But bullying is hardly limited to youths harassing their peers.  Parents bully children while older siblings bully younger ones. Many of us have witnessed or even experienced being bullied by a teacher, a coach, or by some other adult with power and authority. And here I’m not even flicking the tip of the iceberg of physical or sexual abuse.

But adults are well- accustomed to bullyhood as well.  Because bullying is not just physical intimidation, both husbands and wives may act as terrorists in more subtle ways.  Yelling, cursing, threatening, name-calling, accusing, blaming, guilting and shaming, mocking and ridiculing, are all forms of marital bullying. I often see couples pointing the past in each other’s faces like invisible guns and knives. Controlling one’s spouse is also a form of marital bullying.

And who among us hasn’t felt bullied by a boss or a company that dangled job security over our head like a spider over a flame?  Who hasn’t wondered if their employer or supervisor wasn’t reading and employing principles from Attila the Hun’s Guide to Leadership ?

But neither is it confined to bullying by an individual.  Corporations bully others into forced mergers and buyouts. Nations bully other nations. People groups, nationalities, and religions bully those they don’t like.

Bullying is possible when one can intimidate and create a fear of one or more of the following….

* being physically harmed

* emotionally abused

* neglected or abandoned

* verbally attacked

* publicly humiliated

* professionally/vocationally hindered

* financially damaged

 

By and large we are seldom successful at bullying our friends because unlike family or co-workers we instinctively know that friends won’t tolerate our behavior and can/will just walk away (temporarily or permanently). But co-workers or employees may feel trapped by job security and financial pressure. Family can feel trapped by commitment, obligation, and nowhere to turn. There are multiple ways to black-mail people we work or live with and there be no mention of a suitcase full of cash.

 

In sports a player or a coach cannot just say anything to an umpire or referee without risk of technical foul or ejection. But in homes and offices across America there is bullying in measures of frequency and severity that could make getting chewed out by a drill sergeant seem like a pep talk in comparison.

We certainly need to provide programs and guidance in schools to educate kids how to respond effectively to bullies whether on the playground or in cyberspace. We need measures of protection for the innocent and measures of accountability for the perpetrators.  But we must also recognize and confess that as adults, both in small private moments and on grand global stages, we have regularly and shamelessly modeled bullying to a generation looking to us for cues in how to succeed in this life.

--rLp--

Shooter

 

After my father died I asked his widow

if I could have the 8-ball from his billiards table,

not the mahogany table itself with its green felt bed,

not the pine setter, not his favorite ash cue stick,

and not the entire set of stripes and solids,

 

just the 8-ball, the sinister black solid

that disqualifies on a scratch, that

anoints a winner by outlasting its comrades,

surviving as the sole soldier on the battlefield.

 

I considered placing the 8-ball in my father’s coffin,

polished oak with brass accents and white satin bed,

the ball not clutched in his hand, but

tucked in the far left corner pocket

where he would have called it.

 

Instead I kept the ball, possessive with it

as a portion of my inheritance along with

his car, a journal of his rhymings, the

bent of introspection, and the

ability to laugh and breed laughter even

with infertile subjects.

 

--rLp--

Why Marriage is Not a Cactus

One of my current newspaper columns

 

Three Little Words

by Ramon Presson

 

While there was a delay

up ahead at the counter

I offered the lady in front of me a spare

copy of a 30% Off coupon. 

 

She looked at the coupon and then back

at me while her face imitated a sunrise.

“Oooh, I love you,” she said.

 

I wish years ago I had known it was this easy.

 

Decades now lost, invested in offering

attention and affection, the currency of

quality time spent along with kind deeds,

thoughtful questions, interest in the answers,

romantic poems handwritten in calligraphy,

candles and arranging moonlight to

hit the window just so,

miles upon miles of garden walks,

handfuls of fresh cut flowers,

picnics with expensive cabernet,

four seasons of conversation

 

and now, only now, do I learn

that a bookstore coupon offering

a third off the highest priced item was

all that was needed.

 

 

Of course, my poem above is tongue-in-cheek, an exagerrated (and untrue) pronouncement that love requires very little expression in order to be convincing.  Authentic love doesn’t look for loopholes and discounts. It doesn’t seek and settle for minimum effort in the vein of “What’s the lowest grade I can make on this exam and still pass the course?”  To the man who furrowed his brow in rows deep enough to plant seeds and said, “Why do I have to tell her I love her?” I wanted to reply, “Why does she have to refrain from poisoning your food?” Instead I made my stunned silence appear as a pregnant pause that could give birth to him answering his own question. He didn’t.

 

As a counselor I am often amazed by spouses who treat marriage as though it were a government job in Cuba, where according to Cuban officials just showing up is enough to keep your job. I’m not suggesting that we constantly have to perform, jumping through flaming hoops like circus dogs or juggling swords while riding a unicycle on the high wire. But authentic love seeks opportunities to care; it welcomes chances to delight. Marriage is not a cactus.

 

A few years ago a cheap cactus became mine after an impulse buy at Publix. I don’t have a green thumb. I’ve managed to kill silk plants. I set the cactus atop a cluttered book shelf near a window in my study.  About a month later I suddenly remembered I had the cactus and actually checked on it, expecting to see it drooping like a willow.  On the contrary, it looked green and as succulent as the day I brought it home. However, it was less forgiving of subsequent months of neglect and was ultimately deemed beyond reviving. Neither marriage nor parenting is a cactus designed to thrive despite minimal attention and care. Close relationships are more like a flower bed that requires a thoughtful gardener.

 

I know of a husband who has for years not given gifts to his wife for Valentine’s Day, her birthday, or their anniversary. His reasoning: I’m just not a gift-giver. I couldn’t pull the legs off that excuse and it be any more lame. I know of another husband who tells his wife he loves her and compliments her appearance but undermines that admirable effort by regularly burying her under an avalanche of raging profanity. And he wonders why she doesn’t feel loved. Here’s something to keep in mind lest your words contradict themselves or your actions impeach your words: Regardless of how sweet the iced tea, battery acid always gives it a bitter taste.

 ---rLp--

 

Jack-o-Lantern

 

 

I took that tiny seriated knife

from the pumpkin carving kit

to fix the way my frown forms a rainbow arc,

both ends depositing gloom into my chin.

 

So I sliced upward, a northeast curve

through the Orbi Oris which is no ordinary

sphincter muscle, not when

the strata of fibers weave a web high up

into the face and down into the lips.

 

Unfortunately I sawed into the Buccinator set which

every at-home surgeon knows NOT to do,

so I said what the hell

and plowed on through the Modiolus

and the Maxilla like a pizza cutter. 

 

I wish I hadn’t severed the Orbi Oculi because

it snapped like a tense rubber band, knocking out

the support system for that side of my face.

My cheek sent an avalanche of puffy flesh

slipping down the mountain,

a sight which caused my right eye to panic

and almost jump out of the window.  

I really thought my nose might go at any moment.

 

The mirror is telling me I made a big mistake.

I should have practiced on my left side first.

 

--rLp--

Poetry Review for Literary Journal

I was honored to be invited by poet Stellasue Lee and the editor of Rattle literary journal, Timothy Greene, to write a review of Stellasue Lee's book Firecracker Red, her second Pulitzer nominated collection of poetry.Stellasue is my writing coach and mentor so I was certainly surprised by the request but thrilled (and nervous) to do it. I'm delighted and relieved that both she and Tim really like the review. It will appear November 10th. (Posting poems inside prose paragraphs in Typepad is truly maddening with floating margins and line breaks that have a mind of their own. I apologize for the difficulty in reading the poems selections below.)

 

Reviewed by Ramon Presson

 FIRECRACKER RED

by Stellasue Lee

Cardinal House Publishing

5001 Fremantle Court

Spring Hill, TN 37174

ISBN 978-0-9826472-0-2
2010, 117pp., $19.95

If Stellasue Lee were a storeowner and her poetry the products, hers would be a most inviting shoppe, the kind that quickens the pulse with anticipation upon entering while simultaneously quieting the heart. Lee’s poetry is generous in its hospitality. It invites browsing and sitting with the piece for a while.

Honestly, I’ve grown weary of rambling or disjointed verse that hopefully has some special or at least discernable meaning for the poet but is a labyrinth in the dark for the reader.  I am not willing to go on a scavenger hunt inside a poem with senseless clues. A friend of mine said to me after reading a long poem in The New Yorker, “It must be good; I didn’t understand it.” Former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who invented monotone speech, once remarked, “If you’re famous and you bore people, they think it’s their fault.” Many poetry aficionados applaud elitist poetry for the same reason that we clap during an opera—we don’t understand a thing that was said, but these singers have amazing voices and apparently a good command of Italian.

Lee’s craftsmanship, however, invites you to pick up the piece, hold it, turn it over, examine the colors, feel the texture.  In a recent interview with her local newspaper Lee said, “If there is any phrase in firecracker RED that’s not understandable I’ll fall on my sword. I wrote it so people could know me and be with me.”  Lee knows how to serve her readers. Consider “Bits of Flying Glass”, where Lee writes,

                               At last we realize that there’s

                               no one but ourselves to sweeten

                               the torrent of days, stacked

                              one against the other,

                              with no proper bookends

                              to keep them together…

 

There is a both a gentleness and an edge in this new collection of poems, most written following her move from Los Angeles to middle Tennessee.  Lee proves to be a keen observer of the landscape and moments around her (the way the wind blows off the Pachaug River, Christmas lights taken down in February, a man blind in one eye welding without goggles) as well as the movements within, and she displays a remarkable ability to connect the outer and inner worlds. The poet holds light-heartedness and sadness in her two hands, a reflection of both her positive and hopeful spirit as well as her grief (for her parents and especially Jillian, her daughter tragically killed as a young adult in an auto accident).

Love and loss—the actual experience, or the inescapable risk of it—are present in many of Lee’s poems. And the risk of loss is also about the encroaching realization in later years of inching closer to one’s own finale.  But that acute awareness does not gloom Lee’s poetry.  Consider the delightful “For This, For Everything I’m Almost Out of Time”:

I-65 North going into Franklin, I pass by a family of buffalo.

The bull positions his hugeness between the freeway,

 

the cow and the calf. That offspring almost as large as his sire.

Just to the right and beyond the buffalo, a white cross stands

 

in a ditch, stabs upward toward infinity. The name, John Lunn,

clearly visible written in black on the shoulder of the cross.

 

I always wave, Hi John, as the car speeds by at 75 mph.

This has been going on for eleven months now, ever since

 

we arrived in middle Tennessee. I have caught a speeding

train. It races toward a birthday that is considered by most

 

rational beings to distinguish middle age from old age.

So plain is it to me that I am moving through these last years

 

at an accelerated speed. It’s time I start making some contacts

you understand, who have already passed over to the other side.

 -----

While she is certainly attentive and responsive to the natural world around her as evidenced by affectionate nods to a gaggle of geese, a feasting squirrel, a beloved cat, or a female cardinal that flew into her glass window, Stellasue Lee is most insightful about the human heart and its longing for relationship. (While many know that her PhD is in literary studies, few are aware that Lee’s Master’s degree is in counseling.) Her honoring of the rhythms of life, the delicacies of the human spirit, and our core yearning for love make regular appearances throughout firecracker RED.

Reading this collection of poems reminds me of the angst I feel when enjoying the first tastes of an exquisite dessert. At first I’m so thrilled I’m inclined to devour the heaven in one sitting and suck the spoon clean. But then I’m conflicted because I know that the last bite brings its own grief. To indulge and devour or to sip and savor is always the dilemma when engaging great writing.

The final poem on page 117 is a master poet’s bow to an appreciative audience before slipping off stage. I was disappointed that she did not return for encores on subsequent pages. But I trust that Stellasue Lee will interpret the lingering applause as a plea for more in another book, another performance this grand.

--RP--

 

 

In Praise of Dependable Counseling Furniture

 

You think I’m just an ordinary couch,

don’t you? Just another sofa

in this (or any other)

wrinkled second hand store

with one dim-lit employee

who doesn’t know squat

about fabrics or wood grains.

 

OK, so you sat one family for a lifetime

of T.V. shows and rented movies,

faces aimed straight ahead on parallel lines

that rarely intersected, voices muted

by a universal remote, hearts unplugged,

knees that didn’t touch.

 

Me? I listened to a thousand stories

from a single file parade of the soul starved

who waited their turn, held their place

in line with their teeth,  gripping their

pull-off number

in this deli queue for the disordered

like it was a winning lottery ticket.

 

I’ve kept the secrets of villains and

victims, filed between my cushions

the case notes of betrayals and addictions,

longings and lostings,

body sins and head wounds,

and the heart explosions which I muffled

and absorbed with no telling stains.

 

--rLp--

 

The Babysitter’s Guide to Outdoor Concerts

My current newspaper column

 

A patch of sparse grass on level ground about the width and length of a driveway is the perfect runway playground for preschool children. Especially at a city park. Especially when their parents are listening to a concert and don’t wish to concern themselves with supervising restless children up past their bedtime, their tiny adrenal glands buzzing with Dr. Pepper.

However, when that noisy game of chase and tag is taking place with a dozen children right in front of the ground-level stage during and throughout an entire concert by a serious group of musicians, I must ask a question: Parents, what are you thinking?!

It is Saturday evening at Thompson Station Park, site of the October 9^th festival. Kelsey Muse, a local and extremely talented young singer-songwriter (think Avril Lavigne meets Taylor Swift) is playing a set of her poignant tunes with her band in the park’s small amphitheatre.  Note that I said small amphitheatre, not mosh pit.  Granted, nobody reasonably expects small children energized by vibrant music to act drugged as if watching an episode of Teletubbies.  But seriously!  Kelsey Muse and her band did not sign up to play background music at Chuck E Cheese.

I found myself applauding not only Kelsey’s mature songwriting and solid performance skills which are far beyond her tender teen years, but her patience and graciousness, her focus and professionalism while Romper Room was literally taking place at her feet.  As a minor Kelsey is too young to play in bars and honky tonks, but Saturday night was good practice and preview of playing among rude and noisy patrons.

But it is not with the children that I find fault. I expect fun-seeking and fun-loving children to be themselves.  But I also expect parents to be adults and adults to be parents when children need to understand what is appropriate and acceptable behavior. A dozen parents were fumbling their responsibilities on the field as if they were an entire team of UT Vols fielding kickoffs.

No, we weren’t dressed in formal attire to pensively listen to the Nashville Symphony playing Beethoven at the Schermerhorn.  The setting was casual and the mood relaxed, befitting a festival.  But that provides no blank check to write in continuous discourtesy to musicians.  Parents, would you mind if I came to your daughter’s ballet recital and sang along loudly with my iPod from my seat in the front row?  Would you object if I attended your son’s school play and started the wave during his 3-sentence monologue? While you’re playing a round of 18 at Legends is it okay if I follow your foursome with a jet engine leaf blower? Can you imagine the explosive reactions of these same parents if other parents’ children had been ricocheting back & forth in front of a stage during their daughter’s tiny troop performing something resembling Irish dance combined with hip-hop and clogging?

The parents of the dizzy dozen were not only insensitive to Kelsey and her band but inconsiderate of the audience members who actually came to enjoy the show versus a kid-led rodeo without ropes and animals.   Parents, let me highly recommend a book entitled “Boundaries with Children” by Drs. Cloud and Townsend.  Just as adults need help with the same boundaries so do children need guidance in recognizing and adjusting to reasonable boundaries regarding attitude, language, behaviors, choices, property, physical contact, handling emotions, to name a few. I am anything but a kill-joy law-giver who wants to bury your child (or mine) under an avalanche of rigid rules and unrealistic expectations.  But as a community that needs no reminders what happens when rising waters ignore their banks and boundaries, so too must adults understand their own need for healthy boundaries which allow them to grow and their relationships to thrive. And adults (as parents, teachers, and coaches, etc.) must assist children at all stages of development to recognize good boundaries and adjust to them, whether they be teens facing a moral dilemma or preschoolers facing a concert stage.

 

--rLp --

If Only I Had Known

Another “misdirection” poem 

 

Sipping my convenience store coffee,

pumping gas into a 11-year old white sedan,

I see the low-lying fog burning off in the

recesses of the cemetery across the street,

an endless lawn of granite markers

and weathered plastic bouquets.

 

With my debut into the fifties still quite fresh

and the march less than bold, I’m suddenly struck by

the collective voice of the deceased who’ve

become sages through decades of removed

and elevated perspective, and

 

in this moment the whispers of these ancestors

mingle with the mist and they say to me,

“Gas is 3 cents a gallon cheaper down the street.”

 

 

--rLp--

 

You’re Gonna Miss Me Someday

A foundational principle that makes comedy work, whether written or stand-up, is “misdirection”.  The (straight) set-up has you leaning one way and then the punch line abruptly yanks you in another direction and to an unexpected ending. I wanted to experiment with misdirection in this poem. Although telling you beforehand partially spoils the surprise.

 

With the aroma of coffee beans freshly ground

pledging a soothing brew,

I’ve lined the couch like a nest

with sections of the Sunday New York Times. 

 

Several paragraphs into an article

about early onset Alzheimers

the next thing I know… I’m on a dairy farm across town

trying to milk a tractor, with no idea how I got there

or how to get home.

 

--rLp --

Past Reason's Bedtime

 
This far past midnight

there in no backing in

to the day's space;

there is only the unclaimed day ahead,

though it's sunlit pledge

is still hours away. 

 

 

--rLp --

 

Vacancy

 

The hummingbirds have left for the season

without so much as a goodbye or thank you,

 

so now three yellow butterflies have a

vine's tiny red blossoms all to themselves. 

 

 

--rLp--

                                                                                                                            

Empathy

 

 

A fly is caught in the slim world

between window glass and screen;

and I understand well 

his pacing and ricochets.

 

 

-- rLp --

The Farmer

for Marie

 

I plowed the earth,

turned over the soil as

was suggested to me,

 

yet it proved to bury nothing,

 

but in fact allowed certain

truths trapped in layers

to escape and rise like bubbles,

like balloons tethered to roots so deep

 

as to defy a successful sever.

 

-- rLp --

When Love Doesn't Notice

 

I can't tell if it is the lower level of clouds

moving west or the upper level moving east

or both, but they pass each other

on slow escalators going in

opposite directions, with no eye

contact, looking down at their feet

which are evaporating.

                                                   -- rLp --

Endorsements #3

 

I’m so thankful  Ramon Presson has written this book. I can only imagine the authentic hope and real help each person will receive through reading this book. It’s the kind of book we all need to read over and over! What a gift.

Pete Wilson
Author of Plan B

 

When Will My Life Not Suck is, in Ramon’s own words, “an exercise in perspective”. Walking with Paul, he ushers us into the presence of the Living God and confronts us with the truth: The birthplace of Authentic Hope is pain.  Spiritual transformation is discovered in a journey of suffering, brokenness, and perseverance. When Life sucks…God is at work. Ramon opens the door.  I beg you to walk through it with him.  

Dewey Greene
Author of Painful Gifts

 

Sorry Mom!  I know “suck” is an ugly word! But I just had to endorse this book.  The insights in this book have personally helped me.  I laughed out loud on some pages.  And if I could have hugged a paragraph or two, I would have because I felt like Ramon understood me. Lots of writers can tell you what to do, Ramon shows you through his life what he does to live a vital life that doesn’t…um…well, you know! If you’ve ever had that uneasy feeling that you’re stuck in a life that’s just plain hard, you need this book.  It will lift your spirits and challenge your perspective.

Jennifer Rothschild

Author of Self Talk, Soul Talk and Lessons I Learned in the Dark

Publisher Womensministry.net

 

--rLp --