Thoughts on September 1st....2013

A Message for Humanity....



Last month I walked most every night with my walking partner, and observed drug activity all around my neighborhood. When I got home one evening, I wrote the following poem.

August 7, 2013

I’ve been passed on, passed by, passed over, passed out

I guess it’s part of living too long,

I’m feeling beat, while I’m beating the heat,

Walking and conjuring up this song.

There’s a drug deal here, barbed wire there,

Everywhere is crawling and alive,

But my own legs feel like cement logs

As I amble past the Southeast China dive.

If a bus pulled up, they could surely fill it up,

With the greezy and the sleezy laying low,

If the jails weren’t full, or Corrections bull,

There surely would be a place to go.

If there ain’t no healin, even the food is unappealin,

And the drugs just pass through other hands,

What is the point whether a public or private joint

It’s human trafficking as it currently stands.

So I take it all in, desperation and the sin

While I wait for a breeze to hit my face

Sultry city sights, in an Oregon August night

Cross the parking lot and head out for my place.

The events of the day bubble up and I survey

To see if the peacock trap is near

I won’t be aiding that, better yet to catch a cat,

Or hope that this manager disappears.

Oh my key’s in the lock, and I pass through the door

The pillows are quietly standing guard.

While the tattered arugula, beans and bokchoy

Testify to the visitor in my yard.

I can only wish him well, and that the management go to hell,

Tired legs must finally find their rest

Maybe on the morrow there’ll be less stress and sorrow,

But in any case, I can only do my best.

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Instead of running background checks on 'guests' of residents, or keeping up on the bicycle and walking brigade with backpacks that deliver ingredients or the finished product, the Manager chose to build a peacock cage, and caught and removed one of the few bits of light and happiness in this 55 and older court.



While they mate, the male peacock is raucous and loud, sometimes calling at 4 or 5 AM, and making evening calls at 9 or 10. Then, as they start to molt and hang their heads in shame, as new tail feathers grow and push the long old ones out, it's as if someone took a remote and turned the voice box off.


Mr. Peacock was a joy to me and most everyone here. He'd sample my bokchoy, the lettuce, green beans and squash flowers. He loved my blueberries till I protected the harvest with hardware cloth. I didn't mind sharing my garden, and used wire fencing to protect what was important.

Mr. Peacock did a mating dance by the rhubarb and shook and left a fuzzy tail feather for me, perhaps grateful for the kind words and organic chicken scratch instead of the toxic bread everyone is eating themselves, and sharing. He will be missed. One of the neighbors was bed-bound, near Hospice stage, and I'm sure she enjoyed the views from my yard. I hope you get a pinch of joy also, from the photos.



I'd shake some scratch in a plastic bag, and the male peacock would cock his head and look serious. I'd sit on the ground, and put the scratch on a leveled off mole hill of dirt, and he'd finally trust me to get close, and begin eating. His patterns and colors are intriguing. It was a fascinating animal.
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