Why Life is Hard

The real reason life is so hard
Isn't that we are given challenges to overcome.
No, life is hard because
When we overcome the challenges,
We are back to square one.

A Fool To Myself

Despair. Like a glass slipper, it fits me well.
I walk about, a fool to myself
And a stranger to all else.
No sadder fate than this.
If I had but one smile to give
To those who loved me,
I would gladly trade it for a tear
To give myself.
The rose, too, has a sad fate.
But at least the rose approaches it
With beauty to mask its face.

To Dream

Dream, but do so at your own risk.
A dream, like a wave, lifts you off your feet,
And as a wave carries you back to shore,
So eventually do dreams lead to reality.
Look at the sea.
The waves, one after another,
Are nothing but elements
Of a grander destiny.

On My Worth

As time wears on, and my persistence dulls,
Each action made
My patience falls.
For what is life
If not my worth
As poet, man, lover?
Make what claims you may,
I've seen my worth.
It lies in this,
And this, for her.

The Mother Tree

A passage to humanity.
This is what our souls are searching for.
Like the trees of the forest,
Souls fight for the light of humanity.
There is a mother tree.
Her presence is felt by all.
Take the fruit.
Love, and be loved.

Confronting Time

I have seen the deformities taking shape in my mind,
Building upon themselves
Like a cancer.
And yet, when I look in the mirror,
I recognize myself.
There was no moment, no blip in my existence,
Where I left myself and became something new.
When time hits me
And I am staring at a blocked passage,
I am one,
And in time I am two.

On Whether to Live in Shadow or Light

Strange how the clock can't make up its mind.
Or is that us?
We sit like stones in a desolate quarry,
Throttled by our minds.
We await direction.
Can we get it from the slant of light coming from the sun?
Or perhaps from the low hum of the abysmal moon.
If I choose to walk in shadow it is because I have a secret.
If I walk in daylight,
It is because I search for an answer.
But why these lights and shadows?
Where is the emerald of my song?
It is locked away in the vault of my promise.
Sometimes I lose the combination
And move naked from corner to corner
In search of a hint.

No Effort

A benevolent whisper--
I can hear her cries.
She says to me,
"Stop trying so hard.
All you need is conjured in your smile."
Love passes through me
And I see,
No effort is worth the loss,
No gain is worth the truth.
Feel free in yourself.

Haiku

I.
A nocturne of dreams
Perplexes the listeners
As they nod off, and sleep.

II.
Strange that the man cried out
When he slipped and fell
Into the cool meadow grass.

III.
The man with his ink brush
Gives life to the shadows
By writing on the moonlit surface.

IV.
All is dying
But the rose
Admits no defeat.

V.
Evening tide.
The summer moon
Speeds the waves.

VI.
The rose petals are falling.
It weeps
For the coming Autumn.

A Brother's Advice

                Joseph Fineman was seated at the kitchen table studying for an exam to be taken the next day on the vascular system. He was in his third year of medical school, and he now devoted all of his available time to his studies, even at the expense of his relationships. His friends no longer referred to him by name but rather as “The Hermit,” and his girlfriend Maria, who worked in Boston, was lucky to get an hour in on the phone with him every week let alone see him. Occasionally he would eat dinner with his parents, and sometimes he would cavort with his med-student roommates, but really, he was a hermit.

                Joseph’s phone began to ring. It was Maria. She sounded excited.

                “What’s up?” said Joseph.

                “Guess who has the week off next week!”

                “Oh, you do?”

                “Yep, and I have the money for a flight, too.”

                “Oh, well, you know…I don’t know. I’m real busy next week with school stuff. It’s nearing exam time and I have a lot of stuff to catch up on.”

                Maria sounded disappointed. “Oh, OK. I guess I can just hang around Boston.”

                “You sure?” asked Joseph, half-heartedly.

                “Yeah. I’ll be OK. We can get together after exams are finished.”

                “Great, thanks hon. I appreciate you being so understanding.”

                Joseph at first felt a pang of guilt when he hung up the phone, but then he told himself it was all for a purpose—he would become a great doctor and then he and Maria would have all the time in the world to be together.

                Joseph returned to his studies, and just as he was getting back into a rhythm, there was a knock on his front door.

                “Now what is it?” he said aloud, before going to answer the door.

                Joseph opened the door, and standing there was his older brother Michael, looking terribly disheveled and holding a stack of papers in his arms.

                “Joseph, I need your help,” he said sharply.

                “What is it?” said Joseph.

                “I have all of these stories, and I need to get them published, but I don’t know how. I am so unorganized. My mind just won’t settle down. It’s as if I have some sort of mental disorder.”

                “Michael, what do you expect me to do?”

                “Well can’t we sit down and organize these? I’m really desperate.”

                Joseph had had this conversation with his brother before, when Michael was writing poetry. Of course his brother had never gotten anything published. Joseph figured his brother didn’t have any talent.

                “Michael,” he said, “don’t you think it’s time you give up on all these crazy dreams? Nobody changes the world, at least not in the way you think they do. You should relax. Take a shower, and tomorrow go out and look for a regular job.”

                Michael was crestfallen. “So you won’t help me?”

                “No, Michael. Even if I had time, which I don’t, I wouldn’t help you. If you want to succeed, find a way to do it yourself.” And he slammed the door on his brother’s face.

                Joseph went back to the kitchen and sat down to study, but he had trouble focusing. He kept thinking of his brother, and how maniacal he looked with his wrinkled clothes and his long, unmanaged hair. Was this person really of the same genetic makeup as him? How presumptuous of him to think that he would help him sort out the mess he had made! For surely that’s what it all was, a mess. He couldn’t think of his brother actually crafting a fully developed story. He didn’t have the discipline, or the focus.

                A week passed, and Joseph found himself at the kitchen table again, studying. It was early in the morning. He hadn’t slept the night before. It was exam week, and Joseph was especially stressed. He was currently studying the nuances of EKG. He hadn’t showered, and was beginning to grow irritated with the sour smell that was emanating from his armpits. “No time to shower,” he thought, as he took another drink of coffee. “At least not until I master this.” And he was on the verge of mastering it when he received a call on his phone. It was his mother.

                “Hi, mom.”

                “Hello, sweetheart.”

                “What’s up?”

                “I have some bad news. You’re brother was found this morning, dead at the bottom of an overpass.”

                Joseph was stunned. He remembered what his brother had said about having a mental illness. At the time he thought it was just a form of hyperbole. His heart sank as he thought of what he had done, and he felt the stinging pain as he pictured his brother jumping, falling, and then the impact and the blood.

                “Did he leave a note?” he asked.

                “Not that we know of,” said his mother. “Your father and I were going to go to his apartment as soon as we take care of everything else. You’re welcome to come.”

                “Of course,” said Joseph.

                He hung up the phone and put his head in his hands. He looked at the open page in front of him, and closed the book in disgust.

                Joseph got the call from his mom and went to his brother’s apartment that afternoon. It was worse than he expected. His room looked as if a storm had passed through it. It was littered with papers and notebooks, all filled with poems and stories. Hundreds and hundreds of stories. He and his parents looked through them, slowly piecing together Michael’s life as they did. Joseph was looking through a notebook when he found a story that had a particular interest for him. It was about two brothers who went for runs with each other every morning and talked about their lives. In the story, the one brother asked the other about his relationship with his girlfriend. He told him that he should spend as much time as he possibly could with her, because “life is short, and love is too valuable to waste on your self.” Joseph was touched. It was like his brother could see him. He knew what he had to do.

                Joseph ignored his studies for the next week, spending all of his time collecting and organizing his brother’s stories into a book. When it was finished, he thought of a title and sent it off to publishers. It took several months to hear back about the book, months which for Joseph were very suspenseful. But the news was good. The book would be published. When it came, Joseph called his girlfriend.

                “How does it look?” Maria asked him.

                “Wonderful,” said Joseph.

                “So, tell me,” said Maria, “do you feel vindicated? I mean, do you feel like you’ve made amends to your brother?”

                Joseph looked at the copy of his brother’s book in his hand, and read the title: “A Brother’s Advice: Short Stories from a Soul Who Left Too Soon,” and looked at the cover art, which depicted two brothers running side by side, laughing. “I do,” said Joseph. “I really do.”

               

               

A Game of Chess

Charles Northwood’s father lay in the hospital bed, tubes sticking out of his nostrils and arms, dying of cancer. His son sat just beside him, trying to convince himself it wasn’t true. Hadn’t it been just a year ago that his father was telling him that he wouldn’t rest until the cancer was gone? Now, here he was, resting, and the cancer was far from gone.

                He was a shell of the man he had been. A former world class hockey player, he was now gaunt and thin. And his eyes, which had once been so full of life, were as dim as caves. Charles had seen that withered look before, on the face of his mother. She had died a long time ago, when he was too young to even remember, but the pain of her death was still in him, and he was afraid of what would happen if that wound were reopened. Seeing his father now, he refused to believe it. How could this man, who he had relied so heavily on over the course of his life, who had taught him to swim, and given him money to take girls out on dates, be dying? It didn’t seem possible.

                Charles’ father motioned for him to take his hand. Charles did, and looked into his eyes. There was some life in them, but this life was fading.

                He smiled at his son.

 “You’re going to be OK, dad,” said Charles, more to reassure himself than his father. His father nodded slowly.

                Charles’ phone rang. Who could be calling him now?

                It was Mark. Mark was an old college friend whom Charles occasionally got together to play chess with. Sure enough, that is what he wanted to do now. Charles politely told him that he was busy, and that they would play at another time.

                “Who was that?” asked Charles’ father when he got off the phone.

                “My friend Mark. He wanted to play chess.”

                Charles’ father looked ponderous. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back. Then, he smiled.

                “You should call him back. Tell him to bring the chess board here. I want to watch you play.”

                Charles was surprised by his father’s response, but he was definitely in no position to argue with him, so he called his friend back and invited him to the hospital. About twenty minutes later, Mark arrived with the chess board.

                The two friends sat at a table beside the bed so that Charles’ father could watch. It was evident from the beginning that Charles was a superior player, but this didn’t stop his father from kibitzing when it was Charles’ turn. Charles’ father had been an excellent chess player in his time, and had taught his son how to play. He had kept many lessons hidden from his son, however, and now he was determined to teach all of them to him during this one game. His son was annoyed by his father’s interference at first, but soon discovered that he was learning new techniques as a result, and came to appreciate it. Mark, who was not a very skilled player, tried to learn as much as he could from playing with his friend, and found his father’s kibitzing amusing.

                Soon, Charles had Mark surrounded, and the game was over. They shook hands, and Mark asked if Charles would like to play a game against his father.

                Charles looked at his father, and would have asked him to play had the look in his eye not already spelled defeat. He looked back at Mark. “I don’t think so,” he said.

                Mark looked over at Charles’ father. “Maybe I should go.”

                Charles nodded.

                “Take care, Mr. Northwood. I hope things work out.”

                Charles’ father nodded, and Mark left.

                “That was a good game you played,” said Mr. Northwood to his son.

                “Only because you were helping me along the whole way.”

                “That’s what I’m supposed to do,” his father said. He reached out and took his son’s hand. Charles looked into his father’s eyes. He wanted to cry, as he had cried for his mother, but feeling the grip of his father’s hand, he remembered that he was a man now, and that he needed to be strong.

                “Don’t you worry about me,” said Mr. Northwood to his son, his voice fading.

                Charles wanted to tell his father that it wasn’t him he was worried about, it was himself. What would he do without his father there to guide him? There was so much more life to live, so long to go. The thought of living it without his father seemed impossible. He wanted to tell him to hang on, that he couldn’t go on without him. His father’s eyes began to close.

                “Dad.” His hand became lifeless, and he squeezed it tighter. “Dad!”

                Charles began to weep. He kissed his father’s cold lips.

The Portal

               

                Victor Cummings was what is becoming in this world a common fixture—an atheistic scientist. He was no ordinary scientist, however. He was on the fringes of the scientific community. Actually, he was more of an inventor than a scientist, and indeed he was considered the Thomas Edison of his day. What made his work unique was that, because he was a staunch atheist, all of his inventions were aimed at proving the inexistence of God. Thus his nova machine, which was capable of making a controlled universe, and his Perpetual Heaven Hat, which put the wearer in a state of perpetual bliss.

                Victor was working on a new machine, which he hoped would open a portal into a separate dimension. To build the machine, he rented a laboratory in the tropics of Fiji, where he could be isolated from those who were fascinated by what he was doing.

                After twelve years of labor, he was ready to test his machine.

                Victor always first tested his machines on himself. His peers often told him that this was unwise, and that he should use animals instead, but Victor held the belief that an inventor’s creation was an extension of the self, and that it was only natural that the inventor be the first to comprehend its power.

                The machine was a steel pentagonal structure with a door on one side that lifted upwards at the push of a button. Connected to the chamber was a strange-looking contraption filled with what appeared to be coiled tubes. The top of the structure was attached to a huge generator that extended from the ceiling, along with a litany of other strange and complex machinery. Inside the structure were a single red padded chair and an overhead light. On the armrest of the chair was the button that initiated the sequence which, supposedly, opened the portal.

                Victor dressed himself in his finest tailored suit, poured himself a glass of scotch on the rocks, downed it, and walked into the chamber. He sat down on the chair, gritted his teeth, and pressed the button on the arm rest.

                There was a low hum that came from above. The sides of the chamber began to rattle, as if it was trying to lift itself off the ground. The light on the ceiling flashed several times, then shattered. A beam of light began to circle around the chair, slowly moving further and further inward. It soon flashed right before Victor’s face. A loud noise was heard, like a car speeding through a tunnel.

                Then, it went completely dark. Victor thought he heard the sound of heavy breathing. At first he thought it was him, but soon he realized he was breathing quite silently. He thought he heard whispering above him, and he grew very cold. Then, there was a voice.

                “Victor.”

                Victor grew afraid. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“Victor.”

He tried to stand, but found himself paralyzed.

“You have been denying me all your life,” said the voice.

“Who are you?” cried Victor.

“You know who I am. I am your creator.”

“You mean, you are God?”

“You must do penance, Victor, for your doubt. Return, and tell the world that I exist.”

Victor thought to himself that this was perhaps a dream.

“This is no dream, Victor, and even if it was, it should be proof enough.”

“Yes,” said Victor. “I’ll do as you say.”

The light came back on, and Victor stood up. He went to the door and opened it. There was a bright light and a loud din. Before him was a vast field, and in the field were tens of thousands of people, dressed in silk robes, talking. The din gradually faded as the people began to see him. A man who was holding a bright red flag spoke aloud:

“It’s him! The Great Divine One!”

He fell to the ground and began chanting a name that was at first indecipherable to Victor. Then, however, the entire group of people got on the ground and began chanting: “Zeluthra. Zeluthra.”

Victor then realized, he had made it to the next dimension. Here, he was considered God. As he walked closer to the crowd, his thoughts both frightened and amused him. “It is strange,” he thought, “this dimension is exactly the same as the one I came from.”