Steve Eulberg's Poetry and Writing Blog

Well-Worn Shoe

2011-11-04T11:19:00.001-06:00

How ever
could I have slipped
into the well-worn shoe
of comfortability?

How ever
could I have lost
the tingle in my taste
for your you-nique-ness?

How ever
could my heart
lie sleeping safely
in accustomed rhythms of routine
Lulled to
slumber
by conscious efforts
to control and quiet
the steaming inferno
that so nearly ago
was stoked with only
a hint of
your ardor-igniting image?

So yesterday
was it?
that we tumbled
at every chance
into the embrace of
promised trust, acceptance
titillated by refrains of coming
kisses
climaxes
and love thoughts
love talks

How ever
could I have exchanged
the dynamo of our love
for the siren song of respectability,
false modesty
adorning deepened desire to control,
in fear of being lost,
adrift in the flood of passion and
lusty dream-fulfillment
choke-chain
gripping adolescent fantasia
about pusling neck
restraining
retraining
refraining
from pleasure's caress
Focusing instead on projects
Agenda
flimsy newsprinted stories
of fleeting trivia

How ever
could I have bargained
with eternity to gain
tiny bits of temporality
in a self-swindling
swapmeet?

8.6.87
©Steven B. Eulberg

QUESTION

2011-11-04T11:12:00.004-06:00

Do a Faux Pas Prince
make faux pas prints?
If so, and the pinter has fo' paws
with which to print
(I pause
to ponder)
then fo' paw prints
the Faux Pas Prince
do make.

©4.28.88 SBEulberg

Callouses

2010-04-08T13:26:00.002-06:00

Callouses
it seems, grow
not on fingers
but feelings
to protect
not the fullness
of blisters
but emptiness
of longing.

7/11/86
©Steve Eulberg

Sittin by the Ocean

2010-04-08T13:10:00.002-06:00

Sittin' here by the ocean
Wish' by the sea
Waitin' for the waves
to wash all over me

Sittin' here by the ocean
Waitin' by the sea
Wishin' for the waves
to carry me away.

7/28/01
©SBEulberg

The Way My Father Lost Me

2010-04-08T13:05:00.002-06:00

Hear I anguish here
Here I hear my fear
O Zachary
I do not want
to lose you
the way
my Father
lost me.

11/0/03
©Steve Eulberg

Holocaust Museum June 2003

2009-03-17T09:08:00.003-06:00

(Our family visited the Holocaust Museum on two different days while in Washington, DC, just after "Mission Accomplished" showed that saying it is so doesn't make it so.)

7-1/2 tones of hair
from "liberated" scalps

The mobile killing squads
the systematic brutality

when we are scared
we readily surrender
our freedom
even our hope
for the illusion of safety.

This time,
the most touching part of the story
is to find there wer emany who resisted,
who fought,
who secreted,
who transported
Jews to safety--
The Danish flotilla,
the clergy,
the small towns....

Will my beloved little town
protect our own?
Will my neighbors band together
for the safety of the targeted?
Or will we feed our fear
by eating each other for a
breakfast of anxiety?

Breakfast of exterminators
tempted to ban
banish
dismiss the undesirable
or
make another place at the table?

Listen! Organize carefully
so we never have to face
what Maja's parents
recall in Germany.

Ask the bigger question
let your curiosity hear the buzzing alarm
and arise
the burning of books
which is unable to stifle the ideas they contain
does close the minds
of those who kindle and feed the flames.

The apathy and petty disregard...
Are we standing aside ignoring
another holocaust?
Are we beginning and conducting
another move for Lebensraum?

A glimmer of hope as the lockstep is picked:
Arizona says, "We will go Orange
only when the threat is close to us
at our own door and not before."
Other states are bound to agree.

A bird in a bush
A bush-free bird

Gone Bush

Goin' bush
walkabout in a bushy state
shrubness

King George's I & II
The rain is coming down
The reign is coming down
when conditions are right
the reign will always fall
will always fall.

King or Queen
Duke or Earl
Lord or Lady
Empress Impressive
Emperor Oppressive
Presidential precedent
the reign will always fall fail
will always fail

7.03
©Steven B. Eulberg

Fog Rolls In

2008-06-06T12:50:00.003-06:00

Fog rolls in with authority
mysteriously steps back
affording us a mystical view
of the silvery water
that has no horizon

above the fog
a footlit display
of puffy clouds
and the blue sky

8.02.01
©Steven B. Eulberg

Radical Change

2008-06-06T12:44:00.001-06:00

"There are two basic ways to experience a radical change: to undergo a nervous breakdown, and to fall in love. And love is preferable. love, if we can move beyond projecting onto another person and see them as they really are, also makes us more aware of who we are."

Kathleen Norris, "The Cloister Walk" (Riverhead, 1996)

Strange Footprint

2008-06-06T12:40:00.003-06:00

"We have found a strange footprint on the shores of the unknown. We have devised prodound theories, one after another, to account for its origin. At last we have succeeded in reconstructing the creature that made the footprint. And lo! It is our own."

From Arthur Eddington, English Astronomer, cited in Dennis Overbye's thoughful and well-written book, "Einstein in Love: A Scientific Romance" (Viking, 2000).

Butterfly, Flutterby

2008-06-06T12:39:00.001-06:00

Butterfly, flutterby
delicate, fragile
weightless beauty

so unlike me

your mechanics for flight
mine for swimming

neither at home on land.

Lake Michigan, 8.3.01

©Steven B. Eulberg

Randomness is rampant

2008-06-06T12:21:00.003-06:00

Randomness is rampant
we assume
Yet light chooses how to appear
depending on how
the observers expects it to act

Photons "choose"
through which slit to slide

Seems incredible
until I consider us on the road
driving like blood corpuscles on
the capillaries and arteries of US highways

We have purpose--
a final destination, many days hence
but along the way we stop
for gas
for restroom relief
for food
for ice
for drink
for exercise

But to an outside observer
all of the other travellers with us
follow a flow and pattern,
perhaps predictable,
always purposeful

8.08.01
©Steven B. Eulberg

Hearkening

2008-06-06T11:42:00.002-06:00

He is now treading tenderly
traversing nightly
the pathway of my dreams

At odd moments
my name rings out
in his young, yet-unfeebled voice:
"Steven"

Not angry
nor hurried nor proud
just
"Steven"
a matter-of-fact attention-gatherer.

And I stop, mid-thought,
turning to look over my shoulder
around the next corner
in the midst of my waking reverie
or my busy slumber

And I hearken to the voice
that calls from a self-imposed distance
a gap seldom spanned
a chasm created by
a long train of estranging shovels-full of resentment,
of misunderstanding, of fear, defensiveness and regret.

I hearken and linger
Longingly fingering the memories of his guidance:

-The antiseptic whiff of isopropyl that chased him home
from his daily doses of patient visits
and lingered on the new one
of thick, double-book, storybooks that he
had mail-ordered for me to read
(The Wizard of Oz!)

-The aroma of freshly cut lumber,
the eye-blinking grit of sawdust
spit from a whining, woodshop wheel.

-The ache of sun-burned skin
(chilled by his prescription of
icy dill pickle juice)
from a stooping day of picking rocks found
by his riding roto-tiller.

-The sting of sweat
on the raw pink skin
beneath a newly-torn blister
and that same voice,
in then-seeming harsh reassurance,
" 's good--it'll give you a callous."

I hearken with wistful sorrow
and run my fingers over the stumbling surface
of one of his impressionistic carvings
fashioned in the community room of the
Community Nursing Home
(his favorite stroke-limited, physical activity
at his last physical address)
in what my sisters and I refer to as his
"Picasso Period."

I hearken and I pause
trying to fathom
whether I can or should
begin to smoothe surfaces
he began to shave
Before sealing his sculpture
from the elements and the ravages of time
that no longer age his body.

Am I, the surviving son,
capable of completing his work?
Am I, the estranged son
able to carry forth his vision
in even such a private way?
Am I, the eldest offspring
willing to step into his
place in the harness,
yielding him,
these many months,
finally to his cremated rest?

My name, in his voice,
is what I now hear
and what I couldn't hear
because he couldn't then speak
in the final post-stroke telephone "conversations"
we held--
me speaking to him
(wondering what words could hold us together
over long miles and rapidly shortening time)
as the nurse said he gripped the phone
with unusual remaining strength

I hearken now to the silence
I heard then, searching for
what he was longing to say

and I begin to anticipate
his return as tonight
I slip beneath my covers

This time, when I hear
my name in his voice
I'll hear his name in mine
as I often hear my own
in the voice of my son

"Hey Dad...want to play a game?"

11/08/03
©Steven B. Eulberg

Feathery Fingers of Fog

2007-12-01T11:42:00.001-07:00

Feathery fingers of fog

flow furtively
featureless
fall back

pierced by the prodding sun
whose gaze washes
yet fails to penetrate
until

a fading fence fully embraces

a literal
and figurative shroud

©Steve Eulberg

Simeon

2007-09-26T22:46:00.001-06:00

As his bald head bends,
white-crowned,
to smile with
grandfatherly eyes
upon the gurgling antics
of his grandson,
what thoughts amble or scamper
behind his experience-honed eyes,
years-worn with care
for the well-being of his ones,
dearly loved,
as he surveys,
with bittersweet anticipation,
the coming years
for this, the youngest of his progeny
knowing full well
that his life will end
before this wee one's
has scarcely
begun?

©2.21.82 Steve Eulberg

A Summer Haiku

2007-09-26T22:44:00.000-06:00

Robin's egg sky with
Eyebrows, snowy-white, looks on
summer bright greenness.

CU©1979 Steve Eulberg

Reaped, Have I...

2007-09-26T22:41:00.000-06:00

Reaped,
have I, far
more fruitful
harvest from en-routes
than ever
I gleaned from getting-theres.

CU ©1979 Steve Eulberg

Just a Routine

2007-08-18T23:37:00.000-06:00

Just a routine
the dogs love to keep,
dragging me down to the
park in the dark,
a team of Belgians
on harness, not leash
At least until
the fleeting fancy strikes:
Perhaps these dogs are
part of my spiritual discipline
(which heaven knows is a bit flabby)
for they beg and whine
wiggle and wag,
yipping excited, hinting demands
until the comfort
of my easy chair,
and the warmth of home
are traded for winter wraps
and the brisk bite
of clear January night.

And lost in meditation,
punctuated by obedience training at crosswalks,
I am startled by the two,
slow-moving silhouettes,
bent in conversation.
At first,
fear for myself,
then,
as the dogs are released,
fear for them
(for the watch in the dog
ticks hearty warning)
Calling and whistling I move away
but not before catching a snippet:
"love..."
"charity..."
spill forth as the two lumber
slowly, one limping, the other matching stride,
up the hill
a pilgrim pair
finally out of reach of streetlamp's fingers
returning to shadow
leaving only the hum of
interstate traffic
scudding through the
sparkling star light
as punctuation
to my meditation.

Though I walk singly
in meditation
I am never alone.

1/12/89
©1989 Steve Eulberg

A Single, Lonely Toothbrush

2007-08-18T23:33:00.000-06:00

A single, lonely toothbrush
hanging up above the faucet
the well-worn single tube
of paste alongside

One set of towels and washcloth
suspended over the bathtub

An empty shelf
upon the wall

I'm really not a fan of 'em
will hardly ever use one
"for ecology to be preserved," I say

But now that you are not here today
I must conclude that I

would rather hear the whir of you
Blowing your hair dry.

10/29/86

©1986 Steve Eulberg

Salvaging Death

2007-08-18T23:20:00.000-06:00

Saturday's excursion
to the salvage yard—

walking back over muddy trails,
amid stacks and piles
of old, worn-out,
mostly-wrecked auto hulks,
shells of once-finely-tuned machines
through and between which has grown
the green of weeds
and the incessant shrill cry of crickets
who are background to the periodic
dip and sway of the doppler-like
fly buzzings,
together weave a shroud
with the muggy, musty mud-smell
of August

—with Tommie,
a red & yellow-eyed,
tool-toting attendant

We toss short comments between
strides and breath, seeking
conversation and contact

With the week's experience of
funeral and funeral home
I am immediately brought to
view it all as a graveyard

When I say so, Tommie muses,
in fashion that quickly reminds me
of the Greek way of expressing indirect question:
"Makes me wonder did some
die in 'em."
"Shore does,"
comes my reply.

And our search continues
for a VW door handle.

8/19/86

©1986 Steve Eulberg

i miss america

2007-08-09T11:07:00.000-06:00

There once was a land where a lady would stand
With her lamp raised at the golden door
Saying, “bring me your huddled masses, tired and poor”
Now that welcome don’t seem so welcome any more
O—I miss America.

There once was a place where the whole human race
Could yearn to breathe free—haven of liberty—
Land of the brave, home of the free
Today the fearful forfeit freedom for a lock and key
O—I miss America.

O say, can you see me, I’m your neighbor
Like you I struggle and labor
I pull my own weight and do my share
And believe, yes I dare
That though we may differ
Together we are stronger than apart
E pluribus unum
O—we are America.

There once was a time where speaking your mind
Was a sign that you stood up like a grown man
And the strong one protected the weak one
Now the self-righteous belittle the meek one
O—I miss America.

Oh what do you do when the red, white and blue
Become a cloak to hide dirty laundry
And a muffle to choke those who disagree
And the emblem no longer serves to set us free?
O—I miss America.

Have you ever heard of a high-flying bird
Who can soar the sky with one wing missing?

Today I stand in my native land
Turn off the TV and I step out my door
To neighbor and stranger I offer my hand
Saying, “this land it is your land…This land it is my land”
E pluribus unum
O—we are America.
O—we are America.

(These are lyrics which you can hear recorded here: i miss america)
© 2006 Steve Eulberg, Administered by Owl Mountain Music, Inc.

do i sing to be heard

2007-08-09T11:04:00.000-06:00

do i sing to be heard
or to begin to hear;
do i write to be read
or perhaps understand;
do i rise to be seen
or to learn to see?

it seems,
somehow,
if not,
i should.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

From My Tower

2007-08-09T11:01:00.001-06:00

Staring, intently,
From my tower
I command your
Lone figure to
Appear before me;
Yet crickets and
Other of this evening's
Musicians realize
And understand
What, at first I
Do not. They,
Therefore,
Parry my pleas
And do not
Sing the song
Of your entrance
For your appearance,
Then, would be
Mere apparition
Lacking in heart
Lacking in will
Hardly you at
All
So
From my tower,
Again,
I wait.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

Rippling Wave

2007-08-08T09:56:00.000-06:00

In a rippling wave
of newly-awakened fur,
a grey-brown
squirrel spritely springs
across the open
green, gnawing
at the empty nut
husks, hesitant;
darting eyes
furtively figure
if he is safe.
Finished, yet famished,
he wheels
—blinding blur—
to turn tail
and head for
greener grasses.

CU 1979
©1979 Steve Eulberg

...Out Like a Lion...

2007-08-08T09:53:00.000-06:00

Yester saw
the bud
of tender greenness
pregnant,
perched on
limb's delivery stool.
Today's eye,
unpeeled,
views
the craggy
fingernails of
November
seeking to
wrench the
life,
stillborn,
from its
issuing womb.

3/30/88
©1988 Steve Eulberg

Quickening

2007-08-04T22:32:00.000-06:00

So quickly, I am surprised
So gently, I awake
She takes my slumbering hand
And to her stomach it is pressed
To find
The quickening of feet
and boxing hands
of Baby "Yogi"
The fruit of our love
Joy of our sharing
Creativity of our differences
Meshing together
Our hope for the future
God's word:
"The world should go on."

3/10/89
©1989 Steve Eulberg

All the Good Ones...

2007-08-03T23:41:00.000-06:00

Overheard from a radio conversation:
"All the goods ones are married..."

Did you ever think that
they are "good ones"
as a result of marriage?

Not just that
it is somehow easier
to want the unhave-able
but that the process of marriage
hones and polishes like a gem tumbler
so that even the roughest of raw ore
in the daily grind and rub of relationship
begins to be worn
smooth and shiny
like the
tawny topaz?

3/13/93
©1993 Steve Eulberg

Well-Worn Shoe

2007-08-03T23:37:00.001-06:00

How ever
could I have slipped
into the well-worn shoe
of comfortability?

How ever could I have lost
the tingle in my taste
for your you-nique-ness?

How ever
could my heart
lie sleeping safely
in accustomed rhythms of routine
Lulled to
slumber
by conscious efforts
to control and quiet
the steaming inferno
that so nearly ago
was stoked with only
a hint of
your ardor-igniting image?

So yesterday
was it?
that we tumbled
at every chance
into the embrace of
promised trust, acceptance
titillated by refrains of coming
kisses
climaxes
and love thoughts
love talks

How ever
could I have exchanged
the dynamo of our love
for the siren song of respectability,
false modesty
adorning deepened desire to control,
in fear of being lost,
adrift in the flood of passion and
lusty dream-fulfillment
choke-chain
gripping adolescent fantasia
about pulsing neck
restraining
retraining
refraining
from pleasure's caress
Focusing instead on projects
Agenda
flimsy newsprinted stories
of fleeting trivia?

How ever
could I have bargained
with eternity to gain
tiny bits of temporality
in a self-swindling
swapmeet?

8/6/87
©1987 Steve Eulberg

At the Thought

2007-08-03T23:33:00.000-06:00

At the thought
of writing
my fingers flee
to the plastic-coating
of playing cards
a deck-full of
distraction.
To sit & pour
uncork, let flow
my feeling of loss
at your absence
causes me fear.
Without you here
nothing is what I do.
Ideas flock to my attention
But inactions safely herds them away
Apathy holds sway
my hollowness
rings as inner tears
drip
echoing
along the frame
of my desire
for you.

12/8/85
©1985 Steve Eulberg

His home is on the road

2007-08-02T22:47:00.000-06:00

His hand is on the handle
his hat is on his head
his traveling shoes upon his feet

He pauses to ponder
wrestling with the words

It's not that he has to go
or that he needs to be free
it's just that sometimes he finds
his home is on the road.

03/09/07
©2007 Steve Eulberg

Music and I

2005-12-24T23:50:00.000-07:00

I write music because my vocation
is to write music

I play music because my calling
is to play music

I teach music because I love
to see the "aha's" people experience
as the light comes on and their souls ignite

I publish music because
seeing it in black and white made it real—
the ephemeral now tangible

I record music because
that was originally a way to have people
take interest in what I'd made "real"

And then the process of recording
became more real than the black and the white

So now I offer myself
for rent, always for rent,
in hopes to get enough $ in the trade
that I can keep
composing music
learning music
playing music
loving music
to carry forward the music
of the generations.

©2005 Steve Eulberg

Still Alive

2005-12-24T23:33:00.000-07:00

I'm turning fear
into fertilizer

Today's trash feeding
tomorrow's treasure

Grinding this grimace
into the pumice
that scrapes away the scabs

So that new skin can grow
to cover old wounds

knitting the scars that will show
I'm still alive

still alive.

©2005 Steve Eulberg

We Live in the Inner City...

2005-12-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

We live in the inner city, you do not.
This we must beg of you:
Don't look at us and see only our pain
Don't look at us with pity in your heart
Don't look at us and count your blessings
Because you will see only that which you fear,
that which you project
the inside of you
You will miss the gift of us

You live in relative comfort, we do not
This you must beg of us;
We must not look at you and see only your wealth
We must not look at you with pity in our hearts
We must not look at you and count your blessings
Because we will only see that which we envy
that which we assume you have
which reveals the inside of us, and
we will miss the gift of you.

(originally written for the newsletter while pastor of a small inner city church, November 1994)
©2004 Steve Eulberg

On Not Leaving Winfield 2004

2005-11-06T11:53:00.000-07:00

I

I’m supposed to be home
or almost home
now

Entering the door
reaching a hand to the yipping,
wriggling pup

reaching arms to embrace
daughter and son,
lover-wife

to bathe in their welcome
made warm by my nearly week-long absence

made warmer by their pride in my
newly-won awards

even though they do not represent
the pinnacle of my desire

I’m supposed to have deserted
the place where now I am stranded,
nearly as if in a desert

A southeast kansas wind—
so shy this week
greedily clutching its breezes,
refusing to cool the brutal heat of
sun’s mid-september blaze—
now rustles the pecan leaves
my hair (such as is left)
is wisping in the wake of the frolic

as inquiring wanderers wonder
at this sight:

an old, balding, ponytailed-dude,
sitting beneath a light pole as he types on his computer

they imagine a mid-pecan grove internet hub
a web-surfing connection

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this!”

“You’re awesome, man”

Left behind by friends
partners,
camping mates who have
returned to their hearths
and home rhythms

sadly abandoned by those
who did what they could
but didn’t know what else to do

a good deed done
but not every detail covered

missing ignition keys
have stranded my prairie schooner

the blowing wind that would
billow my sails
is not able to move my vessel
from its moorings.

comfort and solace
offered by the neighboring friends
provisions re-stocked by departing travellers

the telephoned resources
unable to deliver on their
vaunted promises
in such a “remote” location
on a sabbath day

my back-at-home-local mechanics move from
their comfortable day-off houses
to give the needed numbers

but cannot produce an activator code
for the ignition

until

anytime tomorrow

“we’re available 24 hours a day”

“call us at 4 in the morning and we’ll work
to have a locksmith at your location by 5 am”

“call one hour before you want them to be there”

“I’m sorry for your plight.”

My lover-wife
(her tendencies already anticipated)
after comforting talk and listening to
venting

says, “I’m sorry that your friends have left you there.”

I step back and remind
that those are her issues
(blame, responsibility, confession, repentance)

yet it looks to me as if
I am punished for doing
the best I could do for a friend

still I am defensive when
she wants me to face the abandonment I feel

having no mother, nor father
nor sisters upon which to rely

having few friends upon whom to depend

and I feel left behind...

not convinced that all did everything in their power
to locate the missing piece

and that some
believe the problem to be mine
and mine alone
while sympathizing for my plight

the apologies came from whom?
my wife,
the neigbors

but not the friend
whom I sought to help.

the dance feels old
and tired
more accurately, tiring

I fear the blame,
but willingly share it when
it looks as if my friends will be
called to account.

II

eschewing the already packed camp cot
for my sleeping bag on the hard ground
of the tent floor I settle down to sleep
so I can rise early and get the promised help

my telephone rings and a sad, apologetic
voice announces that the lost has been found
in the one unchecked bag, now five and a half hours north

apologies offered and accepted,
the keys will be shipped home tomorrow

III

throughout the night I awaken,
checking the timepiece in my
cellular telephone

finally deciding to give the call for help
that is promised within an hour

in de-tenting and re-packing, the return call is missed
but this message is relayed:

“We can’t get you the help you need
no one from Oklahoma is willing to take the call;
no one from Kansas will answer their telephone.
Try again later.”

I pull my new dulcimer from its case
again set up a camp chair
to sit and begin to play
an old Hank Williams song:
“I’m so lonesome I could cry.”

The sun rises, the birds sing
around me the scattered and scarce campers
begin to stir
and bid their farewell to the grove

as I wait for the allotted time to pass
before re-beseeching
the ring from my telephone jingles the morning air

Help comes!
not from those whose job it is to help
but who could not do so
but in the form of my hometown car dealer
who presecribes the steps
for a new dance:
A Pedal Dance which,
when coordinated with the
uncomputerized key cut in Ark City
will ignite my internal combustion machine.

IV

The key (with the dance) does start the car,
but I’ve been warned that it only has
a limited nurmber of starts.

Keeping the car running,
I finally need a gas stop.

After refueling,
the key won’t successfully
ignite the igntion.
“Houston, we have a problem”

I re-trace the Pedal Dance steps
on the brake
to get me going again,
making a mental notch in my
“the key has 4 or 5 lives” belt.

Onward I drive,
pulling once into a rest stop
to stretch my cramping legs
but not leaving the car
because the engine continues to run

Finally I must stop
and stop the engine
in order to unstop my bladder.

I stretch its capacity as I stretch the miles
reaching Goodland before using another
precious “start.”

The sirrocco of the south
is blowing so strongly
that my car is wont to tip,
its heat seres my lips
as it sucks any moisture in its wake

I return from the urinal
and
the key refuses to start.

I Pedal Dance to no avail,
trying to calm my wildly anxious heart

Breathing deeply,
I slowly re-trace the pattern
and
am rewarded by the resurrected life in my engine.
Onward I go
finally entering my state,
the brilliant sun overhead
in the stunning azure
renewing my flagging spirit.

Normally I can pull aside when
weary for a few zzz’s on my cot
but over this trip hangs
Damocles’ sword, ready to sever
my engine from its starter
at the next stop.

Spinning wheels eat the miles
as the engine gulps my gasoline
and the orange needle begins
to reach horizontal in the gauge

I seek to gauge the amount remaining
calculating against the distance outstanding
as the mountains hove into view
and the wind shifts to blow fresh clouds
over their summits.

Now on E-470, not needing to stop for tolls
I breeze by in the eXpress toll lanes,
thankful that no more ounces of the precious petrol
are used than are necessary.

To no avail
—the engine begins to strain, coughing on fumes
when liquid is needed
just as I reach the tollroad’s end.

V

Why is it that the most helpful people
often have the fewest teeth?

Despite calls to the earlier-besought road-side assistance
I am sitting on my tripod folding seat
on the shoulder-side of my car
once again strumming my
newly-won dulcimer.

My phone rings several times
as the thickening clouds
blow wildly but resolutely from behind the
mountains, chasing the setting sun’s rays...

Several times it is a dispatch woman
trying to find my location,
(this after trying to explain it to someone in India)

It appears that they’ve sent the truck out
and it couldn’t find me!

The home-town car dealer also calls to see if he
should stay at work in order to cut and re-program
a new key.

I dismiss him with thanks
and settle back to more windy dulcimer
as the afternoon fades.

Once more the dispatcher seeks to plot
my coordinates before handing the telephone
to a driver.

Only moments later a cheerful man with 2 remaining teeth
pulls his tow truck behind my car.

I help while he struggles with how to operate the emergency gas
container
we finish paperwork
he counsels me to purchase gas
at the nearest exit
which I hie myself to do.

VI

Then,

finally,

home.

Entering the door
reaching a hand to the yipping,
wriggling pup

reaching arms to embrace
daughter and son,
lover-wife

to bathe in their welcome
made warm by my nearly week-long absence

made warmer by their pride in my
newly-won awards

even though they do not represent
the pinnacle of my desire

now-keenly refocused:

home.

©2004 Steve Eulberg

Angels Found in City of Angels

2005-11-04T20:20:00.000-07:00

At the Far-West Regional of the Folk Alliance in L.A. last weekend I was thankfully surprised to meet so many angels!

First my luggage (including my hammered dulcimer flight case) did not arrive with me. After I waited up until 11:30 pm, it was finally delivered after midnight to the bellhops of the Woodland Hills Marriott. When I retrieved them the next morning, I discovered that one of the wheels on my flight case had taken flight and was completely gone!

I asked the Bellhop for a recommendation and he sent me to a nearby luggage repair shop, whose owner sent me to a hardware store, whose staff sent me to the internet to find the manufacturer.

Back at the hotel, in the business-user's office I made contact with Colson, the maker of the wheel, which is in Arkansas. They gave me the telephone number for a distributor 15 miles East of Los Angeles in South El Monte. After my workshop at the conference, the Hertz staffer in the hotel guided me away from the freeways ("they'll be crazy today!") to take Topanga Canyon road to the Pacific Coast Highway--a beautiful canyon, and a beautiful ocean, too!

The trip took a long time, but I got to hear the whole press conference and punditry about the Libbe indictment along the way.

At Linco, in South El Monte, they found the wheels in no time--and wouldn't let me pay for them! They didn't have the correct bolt however, and directed me to Nomad Fasteners where amid the thousands of bolts in stock, they didn't have the right one, either. However, the owner found one that was close match and "made" it fit by cutting and filing off the extra. Then, she wouldn't let me pay her, either!

Back at the hotel, I asked the front desk if one of the Maintenance Engineers had the correct tools to tighten the two bolts--in no time there was a knock at the door and a quick twist of the screwdriver and wrench and the flight case was again "wheelable."

My roommate helped me load my rental car in the wee Sunday Morning hours so I could return it before my 7:40 am flight home. When I arrived at the car rental location it was locked up tight, despite the assurances I received before renting that staff would be present at 6:30 am so I could make my flight on time.

Frantic telephone calls to their 1-800 number, interrupted by much number-punching to find the correct options led me to the Emergency Roadside Assistance option where the operator informed me that the office would open at 7 am. There was no lock-box for the keys or check-in, but Steve, who pulled up behind me and was waiting to drop off his car also, volunteered to drive me to the airport. So I unpacked my car, packed his and off we went. I made it to the tarmac and the movable stairs at Bob Hope airport in time to catch my flight, thanks to all the angels in Los Angeles!

©2005 Steve Eulberg

Passage

2005-10-15T21:52:00.000-06:00

My soul's passage
on a winding, twisting path
is a way with many bends
harboring surprises

I both fear and welcome them
these intrusions in my rhythm
that open both my heart
and my ears to the possible new song

A melody that is born
from a melancholy shadow
haunting and taunting this sun-drenched traveller

A memory that is borne
across misunderstood generations
as a salt sea journey carries stowaways

A mercy that gives form
to an untested hope
emerging from a chrysalis of discouragement

Breathe the air
draw in deep
hold it while your lungs burn
and yearn to set it free

Release your hold
Give up your grip
Let your ship sail
and ride the breeze

leaving this passage in its wake

©2005 Steve Eulberg

Finding My Pen

2005-10-13T21:41:00.000-06:00

So many unwritten lines
words
letters
over such an expanse
of time.

The thoughts have flooded,
roiling and pounding like
boiling waves

The images bright and vivid,
pale and diffused
clearly confusion

The transition to a keyboard
for journalling my thoughts, poetry and dreams
never successfully negotiated.

The ink flowing from the scratching pen point
even if aided by the rolling ball tip
is a lubricant to my awareness

Thoughts tumble as
socks and towels, t-shirts and jeans
in the heated air of the crucible
until ideas form,
and/or
are tossed away with the clinging lint.

And/or are collected,
sweet-smelling in the basket
for careful, crease-less folding,
sorting, stacking
re-stocking the closet shelves

To be retrieved and worn again
and tossed into the hamper

©2005 Steve Eulberg

Forgotten So Well

2005-08-23T11:36:00.000-06:00

Words we couldn't say
to each other
The eyes we have to
turn away from
lest we see too much
and be seen too deeply

Feelings swallowed whole
never chewed or savored
silent echoes
ringing in my center
ringing in my soul

The pathway,
bent around its curve,
no longer gives me glimpses
of what's behind
or what's waiting ahead

I'm lonely,
looking solely
for a place to lay my head
where they both remember
and forget
who I've been
and receive who I am
preparing to remember
and forget
who I will be.

Søren said
the most precious
is that which is
forgotten

So after all
maybe I was
so precious to you
and maybe you to me

since we seem
to have lost each other
and
forgotten so well.

(after viewing the movie "Avalon")
©2005 Steve Eulberg

Wer Nicht Fragt, Bleibt Dum

2004-08-21T23:01:00.000-06:00

I don't know where I first heard this German adage, although the folks in my home town of Pemberville, Ohio were well-acquainted with several of them. But this one has stayed with me through all my travels and adventures.

"Whoever doesn't ask remains stupid" is a translation of the phrase.

In addition to regular teaching of music to private students, I often teach groups of adults in festivals or large classes. To begin the classes I commonly quote this phrase to encourage the participants to enter into the dance of learning with me, the instructor.

In many of these groups are people like me, who long to learn, but are fearful of appearing publicly, well, stupid.

And often the question that these participants most need answered is the one they fear asking, and the one that when answered, seems to be an answer that so many others also sought.

So I encourage people to ask the questions, no matter how "dumb" they may seem. I usually tell them there are no "dumb" questions, but I might be able to come up with some stupid answers.

However, there are questions that are traps. I know people who are skilled at controlling conversations by trolling with questions that keep the flow moving toward the safe and away from subjects that the pilot is steering clear of.

When someone asks a question that is carefully laid out like a noose covered by leaves (such as on Gilligan's Island!) in hopes that the one who is asking can corner or pull the legs out from under the questioned, that question is a trap. These are often portrayed by cold-hearted journalists in television dramas, but can also be seen on many of the "talking heads" programs that populate cable networks--and during the political election cycle are more numerous than leg-hold traps in muskrat season!

As a public figure, Jesus faced these questions from rivals who sought to undermine his support among his followers since he was one who "taught with authority," not like their popular teachers.

Job faced similar questions from those who, in the guise of comforting the sorrowing, tried to blame him for all the difficulties that had befallen him. They sought to hold their precious principles more dear than their friend who had lost his family, his livelihood, his wealth, his future and even his own health.

There is another kind of question that is even more important, however. That is the question which challenges us to move from the sterility of well-polished but unused principles and morals, to the application of those values in the context of real-life relationships. And here the adage is also proved true: Wer Nicht Fragt, Bleibt Dum. Whoever doesn't ask will remain stupid.

I was once invited to the dorm room of a college friend--in fact, a fraternity brother--for what boded to be a "serious" conversation. I saw myself as a very moral person, a person of faith and spirit and one who sought wisdom and righteousness. I saw this friend as a deep thinker who could be very caustic in his humor and yet wickedly funny in his wit and beneath a hardened shell a person with heart.

My friend sought me out as a friend, to listen to his anguishing as he shared his fears that his girlfriend was pregnant and began pondering all the options that they would have to face.

At first, like the companions of Job, I found myself wanting to be distant from his pain and worry, feeling that to come near to him might cause my treasured moral principles to be tainted or undermined.

I found myself judging him (and her) in what suddenly I realized was a very self-righteous manner. (Oh wow--they've had sex, and apparently enjoyed it...and they aren't married...and I'm sure glad that I haven't done that with my girlfriend....except, well, we haven't done THAT exactly...) and I began to realize that any questions I had for him were actually questioning me!

I couldn't even stand up to my own standard of self-righteousness, and his request for a listening friend turned out to be the question which put me at an important crossroads.

But as he talked of his love for his girlfriend (who became his first and only wife!), the importance of commitment and honor...I began to realize that I faced a choice: uphold righteous rules or treasure relationship.

The second option rests heavily on the value of forgiveness, of letting go of what hinders the relationship, or trusting that we ourselves do not hold the world together by our Atlas-like effort.

The first option, while very attractive, often finds little room for forgiveness, because it doesn't perceive its own need for it.

This isn't to say the the morals and rules have no value, it is rather to recognize that their value is not ultimate. They are a means, rather than and end. About that distinction many of us get confused!

Jesus once told a story like this:

Two men entered a synagogue to pray.

One went to the front and threw his arms wide and spoke his prayer aloud:
"I thank you, God, that I am not like that unrighteous man over there!"

The other cowered at the back and prayed,
"Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinful man."

Both left the synagogue full of what they asked for.

Wer nicht fragt, Bleibt Dum.

©1990 Steve Eulberg