revrannulf

being myself the best way I can

My Mother

My mother is not an angel.

My mother is a saint – but so are most folks who put their trust in a higher power and she has shown me her faith time and again.

My mother is not a beauty queen.

My mother is one of the prettiest, even among the most beautiful people alive – and I’ll fight anyone who wants to argue with me on that count.

My mother is not perfect.

My mother is the woman who gave birth to me, fussed over me, talked to me, helped to free me from my immaturity with dogged determination, laughed at and with me, sat with a flyswatter in hand while I refused to take a nap, and walked into and out of the Grand Canyon with my brother and sister and me.

My mother is not all-knowing.

My mother put up with my questions, factual, hypothetical, and personal beyond all reason and into the realm of the noble – since I am still alive to ask questions.

My mother is not a mechanical genius.

My mother knows the proper application of foot-to-butt in order to achieve better than average motivation and preferred results.

My mother is not a poet.

My mother has wrought lyrical emotions from pies and cakes, those she “iced” into things of beauty, those she baked when she was too tired to see straight, those she gave away, and those she served to hungry visitors and strangers, and the one she dropped on Dad’s birthday when all of us cried because she wept.

My mother is not a musician.

My mother allowed me to play any piano I could get close to, paid for lessons, made me practice when the sun was shining outside and my friends were riding their bikes, listened to me with patience when I discovered something that felt new and wonderful on our old piano, and supported me beyond the pale when I couldn’t help myself for love of music.

My mother is not a scholar.

My mother doesn’t have advanced degrees or certificates of this or that although she has read as much or more than most people I know, is curious and yearns to learn, refuses to settle for simple answers, and admits that there is more to discover than she’ll ever have time to manage.

My mother is not a novelist.

My mother has figuratively written at least four books that I can recall; they are the books of the lives of her children as well as a great portion of the life of her beloved husband who wouldn’t have had it any other way.

My mother is not a scientist.

My mother taught me chemistry at her kitchen counter as we measured, sifted, blended, kneaded, mixed, baked, cooked, canned, and experimented our way into fun-food-creativity.

My mother is not a sports star.

My mother comforted me in little league when I couldn’t see the damn baseball because I was blind as a bat, took me to swimming lessons until we discovered that I’m actually part fish, and allowed me to do so many different outdoor activities that should be included in the roster of Olympic events that I can’t even keep track of them all.

My mother is not a historian.

My mother is a story-teller whose knowledge of things that used-to-be is exceeded only by her willingness to answer our questions of her life that is, whenever I’ve the urge to ask.

My mother is not the best mother in this world.

I don’t know that there has to be a “best”.

My mother is.., my mother. Higher praise I cannot deliver. Greater love I’ll likely never know. More thanks I could not offer. My mother is.., and I’m glad.

Poundin’ Down Our Hall

Poundin’ Down Our Hall    by Randy Creath 3/14/2013

 

I heard the thunder rollin’

black helos in the sky

felt like bells a tollin’

and no one tells me why…

just my paranoia

comin’ by to call

jack-booted dreams are on ya’

poundin’ down your hall

 

Can we find an answer

In the daily dark

Can we kick the door down

To unveil the spark

Are the clowns and satyrs

Poised to kill us all

(will) Billion dollar fakers

Bury us at the mall

 

Listen to the earth groan

Under hated feet

Stompin’ through the graveyards

Of thoughtful dead elite

Rising from the ashes

Of the smoking tomes

Burned by fascist pyros

They’re leveling your homes

 

Waited for their passing

Hoped they’d go away

Still can hear them laughing

They’ve come here to stay

Oh the bastard fancies

We let live in our heads

Even though it’s rent free

And my hope is dead…

 

It’s just my paranoia

comin’ by to call

jack-booted dreams are on ya’

poundin’ down our hall

More Whole Soul Gone

More Whole Soul Gone   by Randy Creath 1/17/13

 

I want mad singing and wild love

Sensitive fingers wrapped in velvet gloves

I need crazy guitars and keyboards, child

With drums and bass right along beside

More…

 

Tear the curtain from the halls of rock

Tattooed ballad in a silken stocking

Heart pounding like a wild horse runnin’

In the midnight of a moon that’s turnin’

Whole…

 

Ain’t a mystery though the question is

What’s a martyr learn by wanting to live?

In the rhythm and blues of flight

Cloaked in wispy bands of smokey light

Soul…

 

Trouble learnin’ to let it go

Hold on fast and lose it slow

Turn the corner and hit the gas

The edge is comin’, comin’ fast…

Gone…

Just write it…

There are times when

you simply,

screamingly

need to write it…

The emotions,

the images,

the guesswork,

they just won’t speak on their own…

There are times

when putting words

on a page, whether…

electronic,

paper,

tree,

sidewalk

etch-a-sketch

or train car

is better

than wallowing

in the lack of definition…

A word written

can be assessed

and remembered

more clearly

than a word

unspoken…

An Ultimate Togetherness

Spending the last few days in thought…

about dying.

Thinking about the death

of those who showed me the way…

Considering the rare gift of

being in the right place

at the right time,

has led me to deep sadness,

thankful joy,

the silent mystic crossroads,

and the clarity of perception

that only comes with

facing the certainty

that all of us

everyone

will have someday

caused someone else

to find themselves in the past perfect act of

having spent their last few days in thought.

Re-Learning Civility

For those of you who know me,

it shouldn’t come as a surprise;

I am a Liberal.

There.  I said it!!

I’m not shy about it;

though I am just a little proud.

To earn that pride and remain just a bit shy…

I pledge the following;

I will be as respectful of your viewpoint as I’m allowed.

I will remember that I have a right to speak

and a duty to listen.

I may not always be successful in my rights or duties.

I might even fail.

But I’d love it if you’d join me…

on the journey toward re-learning civility.

No matter your politics,

religion or lack thereof,

gender identity,

dog vs. cat preference,

skin color,

language group,

immigration status,

and irrespective of your choice about briefs,  boxers, bikinis and beyond…

Can we re-learn civility together…

Please?

4/20

It may be 4/20

but I haven’t

and I won’t…

That’s not judgment

for those who do.

It’s just the simple truth…

I don’t.

Just Wondering

Some days slip on by…

The thoughts you might have thought

have quietly gone past; why?

Did you sleep away the day

in a bed so soft you couldn’t

get up and go out

and fight the urge to ‘wouldn’t’?

Did the dither and the bother

of the mother or the father

keep your mind from settling into

the things you’d hoped you’d go through

only to discover

there were no more ways to cover

the laziness and sloth

that birthed the dreams all soft

then fuzzy nightmares frightening

as you’ve slipped beyond enlightening

to review the coming morning

with new hopes and plans a’borning?!

Just wondering…

If Dr Seuss owned too many guitars…

If I can only play one guitar at a time…

 why do I have more than one – and does it rhyme?

 Sometimes a Strat cluck is the sound that’ll do.

 Sometimes a Taylor or Martin rings true.

 There are seasons when Hamer’s the axe for which I yearn.

 And, sometimes an ol’ Tele is so hot it burns.

 Some days a PRS is the all-round best 6-string.

 On some days a Collings will make my heart sing.

 Perhaps it’s a mando or dulcimer type of day,

 or mayhap a lap-steel or resonator is the best way – to say…

 Playing guitar is a good thing for me –

 And, still I don’t yet own 33…

Canned Peaches

I can smell fresh peaches, the cooker’s heatin’ up

Steam shrouds the kitchen as my mother fills a cup

Sugar hits the boilin’ water, syrup turns light gold

Tools are all scalded, the crew’s ready to go

 

It might be green beans, other times it’s corn

Ready up the pickles, ‘maters red on the farm

Nibblin’ carrots ‘n’ berries on hot and sultry days

Didn’t much like turnips but zucchini seemed OK

 

Dad liked somethin’ new, we were never sure

If he ate it ‘n’ didn’t die, we’d usually try the cure

We learned we could take the tiger by the tail

From pickled peppers, brussel sprouts, cabbages and kale

 

One day my parents said, we’re gonna can some beef

We were goggle-eyed, confused, lost in unbelief

Fall days of campin’, Mother’d cook us up a mess…

Canned beef ‘n’ egg noodles, might’ve been the best.

 

Cannin’ up the garden in the old ball-mason jars

Look ahead to winter and the north wind’s wars

The cold’ll try to beat us and the snow’ll hide the stars

We’ll be eatin’ canned peaches, tellin’ lies and swappin’ yarns

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