Meet Mr. C, an unexceptional, run-0f-the-mill common man whose life is mostly behind him. His usually tedious life has been one of working hard only when he had to for the shortest time possible and daydreaming what could be if he only had the guts to act. Mr. C has been fortunate to have a wife who keeps him well fed and appears to listen to his routine complaints about the world.  Now retired, Mr. C has reached a point in his life when he realizes it is now or never to break out of his ordinary, ho-hum existence while he still can and experience life from a different perspective. He has taken two years of pondering the pros and cons of exploring a new life from a new place, before finally filling up his mobility van with a few belongings and a full tank of gas. And on a particularly unspectacular day, Mr. C heads out with his loyal, but skeptical, wife in their rusty mobility van through the canyons of Colorado to the warmer deserts of southern Arizona.  What Mr. C does not know and cannot begin to understand is that in his new surroundings something has changed: he enters a world where few cars and trucks move along the streets; a world where jets and the vapor trails behind them no longer stream across the almost too blue sky above him; where the seldom seen pedestrians wear garments that must have come from a 1950 Sci-Fi film. The birds and the eerie breeze break the silence with their own private conversations.  As Mr. C arrives upon his new landscape, he still believes his new life will be his long-awaited well-deserved and comfortable holiday he has always hoped for.  What Mr. C will soon realize, even if it is beyond his capacity to apprehend, is that the days that await him are not taking him to a relaxing vacation but are towing him into the Skylight Zone.

During the pandemic sometime in April 2020

                        

                                            Arthur

                        He sneaks under the covers at night

                                    While I sleep;

                        Climbs mutely into shoulders

                                    In the deep of dark;

                        Slips onto fingers and digs

                                    Upon joints and knuckles

                        In the cold starkness of a dreamless night.

                       

                        His grip tightens as he chuckles, I suppose.

                                    He knows what fun comes

                        To impose hurt on my helpless limbs

                                    To please his painful whims.

                        He nuzzles in my muscles, burrows into my space;

                                    And claims them as his own.

                        He is part boa and part beartrap

                                    He wraps around shoulders

                                    And clamps on my arms.

                        All done without a sound, no whisper, no alarm.

                        Pain greets the light of dawn:

                                    It aches to lie still.

                        To sit up brings pain.

                                    To raise an arm hurts.

                        A turn of the neck sends jolts down my back.

                        The only escape is to move

                                    And slowly break his grip.

                        Arthur writes us a tale of torment:

                                    Anguish of a body under siege.

                        In the angry clutches of his chains.

                                    Another day begins.

                                   

                                                                                    April 2018

SIGHTSEEING IN HARD TIMES

                   We chomp on cheeseburgers near the vegetarians,

                   whose curious offspring have never known the taste of meat.

                   Nearby, the dynamite plant spews smoke,

                   as rubble swells from the noise.

                   No time for poise; we'll see it on the evening news.

                   Rangers from the selenium mill

                   take snapshots at protozoans passing by

                   on a laboratory slide.

                   By the pagoda we eat granola

                   made in an ebullient formula

                   behind a bungalow hid in the honeydew.

                   The trill of omens intensifies the moment.

                   Folksongs spring from the garden

                   in the foliage of cosmic petunias.

                   There is a scent of rest among us,

                   but we soon stir toward our next misfortune.

                   Ever since we left the hourglass and turned to clocks,

                   midday has meant television news broadcasts

                   invading our lunch.

                   Every backyard displays a compost pile

                   for the rite of spring;

                   'smells like old times,' the hog farmers smile.

                   Cowpokes on horseback wander through suburbs

                   in search of a rodeo. They lasso out tales

                   about the end of the range.

                   The mystic, arcade lights dazzle our stares,

                   and we hear the excitement of loose change

                   splashing by the wishing well.

                   A lost norseman scratches his neck and says to himself:

                   Put another notch in your antlers, and head for the taiga

                   Just in time for climate change. 

         

                    In the park we pause by parchment

that narrates odes to ancestors,

                    who lived before the time of shopping malls.

         

                    Before moving on, we lean on the barrels

                   below the plaque that says:  Keep your city clean.

                   The vegetarian children continue to watch us

                   as if we are out of place.

                   We wave to them with jolly grins, walk to our car,

                   and talk over who's turn it is to sit in the back.

                                                          -- C.S. Cholas

                                                              USA, 1989

TROPICAL DOLDRUMS

                                                (A plea to a passing tourist)

            The plans to line the bay with fans

            To start a breeze began with simplicity,

            But in the heat that made us mad,

            We forgot about the lack of electricity.

            Nothing moves this air around.

            Prayer has not budged the stillness.

            Yet we pound the ground in earnest fret

            That we may get a fresh day soon.

            After all, it's the end of June

            When rains should fall

            And bring wonder to us all.

            I wonder if you might not help out,

            As you appear to be on your return trip

            To the States.  Could you ask around for a tip?

            And cheaper rates for winds and relief?

            It's my belief that anything can happen there.

            Could you ship down cool air?

           

            In exchange I'll ask God if He can pay you back.

            My letters may reach Him yet.

            Answers are things that we seldom get.

            I don't know who takes up most of His time--

            The Catholics, Moslems or Protestants.

            Maybe the Hindus or the Jews--they have nothing to lose

            In asking.  Besides, everyone has yens; Buddhists, too.

           

            I often doubt if Bahá'ís can get through;

            Their numbers are so few, and they always ask for

            Abstract whims, such as more than an end to war.

           

            We just want some wind and breeze before this heat

            Can squeeze more drops of sweat from us, and, well,

            If you North Americans can help out,

            We’d be happy to end this drought.

            God gives you everything you want-- money, cars and shoes,

            While we sit with sticks looking for dogs to abuse.

           

            Postscript: 

            Just as our withered bodies shriveled up in pain,

            A storm struck up and blew in a hurricane.

            Now I'm sure that God does not give us what we pray for;

            Out of His endless bounty He gives us ten times more.

           

                        -- C.S. Cholas,   June, 1988, Corozal Town, Belize

cold morning at two moons lagoon

           

            Most of us huddled near the lagoon

had sweepstakes numbers pending;

            In daybreak's chill, we prayed in hallowed commune,

            our frosted breath ascending,

            for the luck of the fishermen to turn

            as our hunger rose with the sun.

            The campfire blew lonely smoke

            that smelled of burning reeds

            and not fried fish.  We awoke

            aware that breakfast hung on deeds,

            Teeth and words chattered

            but only food mattered.

            The cook emerged from her tent

            bidding everyone to repent

            and end God's curse on the fishermen.

            She tired of standing o'er the empty pan,

            and blew a grey mass of breath in a sigh;

            "I feel heavy on my feet," was her plump reply.

Thank God for the crackers

            that the Carter kids had stuck in their packs.

            We divvied up for breakfast

            what those whiny tots had hid for snacks.

                                    -- Wyoming, 1975