Dusty Writes

The Drift

A raft drifts away from shore
And the one on it plans to return once more,
But instead he waits and floats along
As waves push, and pull, and plans go wrong,
And before too long, the shore is lost.
What a terrible cost
Is paid by those who roam
Too long away from home.

The tides rush in and pull away
Sand and shells and salt – every day.
And so it is that with the sea’s every breath,
A new beach is born as the old one meets death,
And yet like family they look the same
With similar features, sharing a name.

I wrote this while thinking about the always-changing dynamics of a family and the idea of home. People are born into a family. People are grafted into that family via marriage. People die. It’s easy to take them and the sense of home that comes with them for granted until they feel like they’re gone.

How does it happen then that a group of people, who are changing individually and as a collective, continue to feel familiar? Why does the beach always look like the same beach even when it changes so much? Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe there is a point at which you do too much damage to the beach. That’s not the expectation though, nor the historical norm.

The movie Castaway plays with some of these ideas, too. Chuck Noland doesn’t make it home until he leaves the beach of his false home and allows himself to be adrift. Then when he gets home, it’s no longer there.

Humans have always been relatively mobile, but never more so than they are now. I am nagged by the suspicion that this is a terrible turn of events for our species.

The Thief and the Bear

A ghostly figure poked a bear
That had been quietly resting
The massive creature stumbled out
From the cave where it was nesting

A stealthy villain held the stick
Which drew out the bear from slumber
It roared and reared, ran and rumbled
Toward men at work on lumber

With axes tossed and curses hurled
The work is stacked but left behind
Their piles of wood lie on the ground
For the foul fiend to load and bind

As ill-gotten gain was gathered
The bear roamed back home to its cave
The would-be thief of wood gave shout
But he was dragged into his grave

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It is often the case that those who seek to profit from chaos end up undone by the storm they unleash. When an evil scheme goes wrong, it goes very wrong. When I started the poem, the first line popped into my mind and the rest followed as a story illustrating this idea.

I described the thief as ghostly in the first line because – whether he understood it or not – his fate was sealed with that action.

via crossidiomas.com

Etymology: The second sense refers to the use of bears to represent Russia, as a shortening of the idiom “poke the Russian bear” (to anger or threaten Russia and start a war with Russia).

The idiom “poke the bear” is a commonly used expression in English that refers to provoking or irritating someone who is already angry or upset. This phrase is often used in situations where it would be unwise to provoke someone, as it can lead to negative consequences.

The Origins of “Poke the Bear”

The exact origins of this idiom are unclear, but it is believed to have originated from hunting practices. When hunters encountered a sleeping bear, they would sometimes poke it with a stick to wake it up and force it out into the open for easier hunting.

Over time, this practice became associated with provoking danger or trouble unnecessarily. Today, “poke the bear” has taken on a more figurative meaning and is used to describe any situation where someone intentionally aggravates an already volatile person or situation.

An Evening Walk to Observe a Christmas Lights Display

Whose lights are these I do not know
That give to me a splendid show;
Their owner will not know I’m here
To see this festive Christmas cheer.

Alone outside I do not talk,
As I pause my evening walk
For bulbs that glow in colored ease
On roofline, windows, hedge, and trees.

A car approaches up the road
And slows to gaze at the abode,
But soon the engine hums away
And silence falls on the display.

I amble down the road to home –
With no more streets tonight to roam –
And wonder who the one might be
Who hung the lights for me to see.

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There’s definitely a comment on isolation and community somewhere in this piece. Is it normal to wander alone to stare at Christmas lights, or to not even know a neighbor’s name? Alternatively though, in a season that is filled to the brim with social obligations and expectations on one’s time, there’s something nice about the idea of being alone in this type of environment.

We seldom experience a silent night, in and around Christmas.

If you have never wandered a neighborhood on foot, alone, to stare at a Christmas lights display, I recommend it. Caroling and company and crowds have their time and place, especially around the holidays, but there is something special about the contemplative opportunities afforded by a winter ramble to look at lights.