Poems, Prose, and Other Lies: From the Wilderness

By Peter Whittlesey

Peter Whittleseys first inspiration for writing and storytelling arose from reading when he was a boy, particularly Mark Twain and Will James. A few years later, when he was studying history at Westminster College, Whittlesey encountered the literary spirits of Jack Kerouac and J. D. Salinger in the stacks of McGill Library. Since then, he has been hauntingly guided by Kerouac and often wonders what treasures reside in J. D.s bunker files.

Even so, it wasnt until many years later that Whittlesey really found his own way in writing upon his discovery of Dr. Gabriele Ricos Writing the Natural Way. Her techniques for engaging the whole mind in the creative process proved to be invaluable.

With that knowledge, he has created Poems, Prose, and Other Lies. These verses and narratives explore the challenges of letting go, of becoming Somebody Someday, and other subjects that arise from the ups and downs of everyday life. Whittlesey also spins personal tales in his prose from the story of The Little Black Cat to the tale of The Wood Boy: The Legend of Mount Misery, that draw us into their worlds.

In this debut collection, Whittlesey presents a whole that is as much the journey of a writer learning his craft as it is a refl ection of life in the wilderness that is our world today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491704219

Peter Whittlesey

Peter Whittlesey is a certified teacher in English and social studies. He lives with his family in West Hartford, Connecticut. This is his first published book.

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POEMS, PROSE, & OTHER LIES

FROM THE WILDERNESS

Copyright © 2013 by Peter Whittlesey.

Author Credits: Peter W. Waite.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0420-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0422-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0421-9 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915756

iUniverse rev. date: 09/10/2013

Contents

Poem, Prose & Other Lies, Too

Dem Birds

Behold, the Universal Web

Portrait 39

(with apologies to e. e. cummings)

There’s Still a Lot of Green in This World

(Let’s Keep It That Way)

The True Yankee Blues

I Remember Him Still

Letting Go

Somebody Someday

Jugglers All (for Steve Adams)

This Is Blue

Visions of the New Millennium 1

Visions of the New Millennium 2

Forty-Year Ramble

Is There a Secret Handshake?

My Son’s Room

A View from the Fort

It’s Not the Dying

Impending Snow

Everything Changes but Change

Conquering Mount Mansfield

All Hail to Thee, Moe Howard

Poem, Prose & Other Lies, Too

Artist Date at Fisher Meadows:

The Quest for Sunyata Tathata

The Spot by the River

Fisher Meadows Meditation

Steve’s Place

Soakers & Sockers

Afraid of Nothing

Summer Is Here

The Little Black Cat Story

A Grief Postponed

(and I Went Swimming)

Webs

College Blues Night Crawl

Falling then Flying

Mount Mansfield

Love and Ashes

Chipmunk vs. Black Racer

End of August

The Stuff of my Sleep

In Some of My Worst Nightmares

In Some of My Best Dreams

Colors

Under These Round Skies

I Am a Mule

When Annie Bananie Wilson Kicked Derek Bolinski’s Butt (with apologies to Norman Rockwell and William Sleator)

The Great Wave

Mop Brown Hair

The Wood Boy:

The Legend of Mount Misery

I

II

III

IV

Fiction is a Lie.

The good fiction is the truth inside the lie.

Stephen King

I’d like to dedicate this book most of all to Al & Sal (my parents), Courtney S. Waite (my daughter & illustrator), Donna & Dylan (my wife & son respectively), Dr. George Bleasby, Jack Kerouac, & Dr. Gabriele Lusser Rico (my most important teachers) iUniverse Publishing, Moe Howard (my favorite Stooge), Dr. B (my shrink), E, & Susan Coons (because I promised I would a long time ago)

dembirds.jpg

Dem Birds

A flock of dem birds was flocking together

winging as one past a barn

Dey were dodging and soaring over and under

the wires strung on poles in the ground

Dey went flocking like that ’til one of dem birds

gets a notion he’d like to set down

after alighting together in the orchard tree branches

dem birds began singing a song

It was the same old tune dem birds all knew

about the crests on their breast and the worms in the dew

Den dem birds chirped and hopped about

dining on fruit, nuts, and flies

complaining of all the cats and cars in this world

lamenting the ever-narrowing skies

Off they took one and all

like only dem birds will

continuing on their southern swing

and they won’t be back until…

In spring I expect to see dem birds again

winging north past the orchards and barns

dodging over and under the telephone wires

on the lookout for cats and cars

They’ll sing their old song

the tune they all knew

about the crests on their breasts

and the worms in the dew

So whenever I see dem birds

I hope they see me too

Behold, the Universal Web

Breathe in

Breathe out

Behold the big sky mind

the universal web

across the expanse

above the swinging door

Here is the string which binds us together

silky milk-steel cables

jack-hammer tough

shards whispering in the forever breezes

The big-sky mind holds every one

It’s all there in the universal web

God is a golden spider

inviting us to his kingdom one by one

to die

to live again

forever

and in all ways

The web of life

all creatures breathe in

and out

The web of love

all creatures struggle with the ecstasy

The web of victory

breathing in

out

The web of defeat

this idea breathes no more

The web of hate

spawns corruption that eats itself alive

The web of lies

putrid carcasses gaping open, oozing vile juices

The web of power

yes, a blade, cutting each way

The web of knowledge

books, question marks, a computer mouse

dancing in the moonlight

A web of light

shining under the hood on a rainy roadside night

There are angels dancing naked

criminals walking free

money to be made

debts to be paid

atoms to be split

as far as one can see

Behold the big sky mind

the universal web

To find it

One must sit

To climb it

One must let go

Breathe in

Breathe out

the swinging door

Portrait 39

(with apologies to e. e. cummings)

today is the day of portrait 39

slippingonthatslide

headlong

down down down

not even september in new england cansavemenow

frustrated happy poor but charmingly so

nothing left to do but ask

whateverhappened to the cleveland browns?

There’s Still a Lot of Green in This World

(Let’s Keep It That Way)

There’s still a lot of green in this world

Let’s keep it that way

Make an effort

to keep that color green… green

Don’t you just love those greenback dollars?

silk paper with pictures and numbers

revealing Masonic secrets of the ages

Useful for purchasing such items as

pencils with erasers

picture books with illustrations

clothing and shoes, all styles

coffee cups to use as planters

cassette tapes to store in the attic

insurance manuals by the score

office supplies and equipment

computer parts—software mostly

furniture of all kinds

lumber by the yard

real estate at the Cape

with an occasional slice of heaven

on the side

Don’t you just love the green-grassed lawn

when there’s clover

and little yellow flowers blooming?

Love it in the morning

before dewy drops evaporate

in the middle of the day

after it rains and the clouds blow away

How about at dusk in summer

under the children’s bare feet?

Can’t see the green on winter nights

when the snow is deep and white

unless you have a flashlight and a shovel

but then it won’t look as green as it might

Don’t you just love those Green Mountains?

every bit as much as the White?

The Adirondacks? The Appalachians?

green is green wherever you find it

So here’s to the mountains I’ve climbed

to the ones I’ve yet to try

Here’s to mountains I’ll never see

after they close the book on me

So, green the hills

so green when you’re in them

so green the tops of trees from above

so green their reflections in the water

so many different greens

but not all in a row

It’s enough to spin your head

Don’t you love the Boston Celtics?

as green as any team

can be

Red Auerbach

Bob Cousy

the Bill Russell years

Halvicek stole the ball!

Go Larry Bird!

Don’t you love green?

to know you’re still

living

Green makes me like the car light go

on some ride through the forest

leaves and branches and trails

up through the scrubs

up above the tree line

stand up to the wind

look at the world

It’ll be big

spread out for miles around

sweet dream green

The True Yankee Blues

Sorrow in the gray late afternoon

twelve before four

it’s raining

wet and cold

steady downpour

The yellow purple flowers

are wilting to their knees

the Pilgrim dirt is about to assume them

This is the Yankee blues

so ancient and so new

so inevitable

so take heart

find joy

at least we know the truth

Small flocks of birds

fly by my dreamscape window

between drippy drips

heading for southern trees

where the worms still wriggle

and the insects sing their names

Back up here comes the New England frost

the people work

the people work even when they play

for there is not a moment lost here

not a moment to let slip away

The spirits of the esteemed and the estranged

who reside in these green hills

are undiminished at the end of another working day

these ghosts retreat to shiny, colored boxes

to big toys with big screens

to joy sticks and push buttons

to bourbon on the rocks

to cooking dinner without the fat

We singers of the Yankee blues

Tired eyes

weary minds

stronger than the stones beneath our feet

plain and hard

distant, surly shyness

no way to shift the weight

to carry another thing

but somehow, we will

Until we wilt like October flowers

in the rain beside heaven’s gate

to be assumed by the Pilgrim dirt

to join with our mothers and our fathers

whether we love them or not

so ancient

such joyful lamenting

so gone gone gone

rememberhimstill.jpg

I Remember Him Still

This is a poem to my friend Oil Can

Everybody loved his name

He was a real blues cat

such a happy handsome boy

So sad to see him go

I remember him still

Charmed fellow

velvety black

emerald eyes

how he loved a whisper in his ear

Oil Can

Good boy

My, he must have had the loudest purr in town!

I remember him still

Peeking

in the backdoor window

balanced

on the narrow iron railing

his way of telling us how he wanted to leap in

So open the door, and get out of the way

Where was he going on that midnight prowl?

His regular route

in his velvety style?

Or did he go off to Hollywood

to star in the late movie we saw on TV last night?

No? Well I guess he must have gone to Boston

to play with the Sox

I remember him still

In the places he liked to be

emerging from the bushes

padding across the lawn

tail in the air

to greet us when we came home

Asleep on a stack of newspapers

the sentry on the table by the front window

Playing clear the runway with the office supplies on my desk

Fetching little paper balls, until the kids came along

Smiling by the heat register on cold mornings

Enduring the summer vapors

as baby hands rub ice cubes on his hot back

I remember him, still

dead on the table

his beautiful heart drowned

every last life used up

We could do nothing to save him

so we brought him home

and we honor his name

whispering

Oil Can

This is a poem to my friend Oil Can

Everybody loved his name

He was a real blues cat

such a happy handsome boy

So sad to see him go

I miss him still

Letting Go

When it comes to letting go

and falling

it’s not the ride that kills you

it’s the sudden stop at the end

So when you’re poised in that old airplane door

at twenty thousand feet

with the wind rushing over the all of you

pulling you

pushing you

swirling you so loud you can’t hear yourself think

and the time has come to jump

release your iron grip on that hatchway door

and pray you packed the parachute right

Because it’s too late

you’re already swept away

The feeling is flying, floating, diving

wind tears fill your eyes.

It’s like the first time you swam in the lake

when your toes couldn’t touch the bottom

a little scary

but, hey, the water wasn’t that bad

You kicked your legs

you pulled your arms

you wriggled like a fish

Under the water, your cheeks puffed out

your eyes bugged wide

your silky hair streamed everywhere about

and when you came to the surface

not able to hold your breath a single instant more

you took a gasp of sunshine

catching your father’s eye

Hey Dad, did you see that?

Indeed he did

Your father was watching over you

Somebody Someday

How can I still think

that I might be somebody someday?

How can that possibly be?

Do I think all this ranting and raving

on the edge of my mind

because the machine keeps spitting me out

will save me?

When I die

I won’t go to hell

and if I die

and don’t go anywhere

I hope I don’t know it

and if I get lucky

and make it to heaven

I’ll put in a good word for you

Jugglers All (for Steve Adams)

I

We’re jugglers all, you see

We’re jugglers both, you and me

There are so many jugglers in this world, it’s past counting

They juggle all the time

more matters than hands

in souped-up cars

at traffic lights

spinning blue rubber smoke

when it turns green

tires squealing leaving eight-foot skid marks

Those boys are betting they will get away

Jugglers climb up telephone poles

with sharp cleats on their shoes

Tools dangle from the belt around the belly

handling live wires with only gloves on their hands

Jugglers inhabit the tall office buildings by day

hiding behind walls and desks

where the carpet is nice

the lights are recessed

balancing books

on the tips of the laws

tossing black and red figures into the air

Jugglers dove into the cold Adirondack lake

searching for the missing girl who

was tortured and murdered and

discarded in the mud

tangled in the reeds

until she was found

the prime suspect walking free

II

That juggler wears a three-piece suit

with creases sharp as razor blades

That juggler wears his underwear

bunched over the top of low-riding pants

That juggler there

wears a cracked, Harley Davidson

black leather jacket and black jeans

He doesn’t even know his daddy did too

way back in 1965

Now that juggler, she’s

not wearing any clothes

but there’s no doubt she juggles like wow!

III

Jugglers juggle multicolored balls of silk

balls round and odd, even bowling balls and pins,

flaming butcher knives, chairs and tables, slippery swords

fireballs, elephants, and sky scrapers

Jugglers juggle kittens and puppies

in midair without crashing

rattle snack shacks when testing the brakes

or making love with a passion

Jugglers juggle calories

cholesterol, drinking, and drugs

wisdom and folly

Kukla, Fran, and Ollie

throwing notions in the air

Jugglers juggle lovers and haters

litigation negotiators

401Ks, lies, lives, and livers

with stock options in mutual funds.

Jugglers juggle figures, numbers, letters

history and science

local weather conditions

nutrition, the environment

life in the food chain

electricity in wires

what those in power don’t want

to have known

Jugglers juggle the most

inside their onion-layered heads

bringing bread home to Mama

watching the kid play that game

Express yourself

somehow

take a walk in the dew

pray to the Lord above.

That’s all jugglers do.

They just keep ’em in the air.

thisisblue.jpg

This Is Blue

Blue is the color I want to talk about

Not just any shade of blue

I want to talk about the colors of being blue

not juggling cobalt blue with baby-blue eyes

in the big sky blue

The feeling of blue is also the sound of blue

Just as there are different shades of blue within the hue of blue

so the feeling blue

and the music blue

fade into and out of the shadows

withhold the light

so that it’s like yesterday’s newspaper

blowing down Trumbull street on a rainy blue night

What are the blues?

Why the embodiment of the first Buddhist precept

of course: Life is suffering

We suffer, we work, we die

This is blue

When that chill races up the spine

so you know

something just happened somewhere in this world

that drove one more poor soul

over the edge into the forever night

from begging on the knees

’til gone

It’s that moment in life

when you realize

you don’t want justice

you want mercy

Into the blue music mood

Miles Davis blue

but I’m thinking of the blue blues too

I’m thinking Mississippi Delta blue

Robert Johnson cut a deal at the Crossroads

now he’s sinking down

I’m thinking Chicago blues

Don’t make Wolf follow Muddy again

he might bite someone

or burn the place to the ground

Texas blues lost in the flood

Kansas City, swinging blues

why I even know the true Yankee blues

It’s a chugga chugga bass-line riff

a drive on the percussion

and a good old hollow-body wooden guitar

steel strings and a whiskey-bottle neck for a slide

It’s the elegant Les Paul Custom

a banged and scarred Strat electric

too loud and

somehow loud enough

extended in a high-pitched solo jam

edgy, rusty blue

not only for the roundness of the sound

but also for the feathery blue silent curls

eminently not played

It’s calloused and stained fingertips

the bloodshot eyes

the faint smell of reefer

bourbon shots

beer chasers

quick sex in the alley

It’s the blues rumble and moan

hellhounds on the trail

speak out

shriek

girl back-up singers

with