People and their gods
And goddesses
Have interesting relationships;
People like to say that gods
And goddesses
Created people
But, clearly, people create gods
Then blame the creation of people
On the gods and goddesses
And then justify
As serving those creations
Human behavior
Ranging from highly spiritual
To  inexplicably cruel
And self-serving.

I’ve wondered what kinds of gods
And goddesses I might create,
Certainly not masochistic ones
Or insecure ones requiring
Constant reassurance
Of their importance;
I would like
Goddesses and gods
Who were entertaining,
Wise,
Fun to deal with,
Easy to love,
Somewhat mysterious;
And I see no reason why
They all need look like people.
I think I would like one of them to be …….

A jester.

On the Suicide of a Friend’s Son

Yesterday he was alive,
Facing life
And sharing
In his humanity
The struggle
We all have
In facing our humanity.

Today my tears obliterate
All else in my own struggle
Of facing my own life
And my loss
Of him
In his loss of
The will to continue facing
The struggle
Of being alive
In the world
Of being human
And frail
And alone
Even in the midst of
People whose love of him
Was not enough to sustain him
And led him along a path
That I can only imagine
And look for
Through tears of loss
Of a son
That I would gladly have died
To have live
And love himself
As much as I loved him
And as much as I will always treasure
Having had him as a son.

Forrest Jewell

My Raging Storm

So tired, I am, and sad
Overwhelmed with the futility
Of living in blind alleys.
Somewhere inside me rages a storm
That lets me rest but moments at a time
Driving me now here
now there
But never anywhere.
The storm raging inside me
Drives my life,
Destroying it piecemeal,
Causing it to dwindle into shambles
Around my feet
as I live my life –
A dance to the tune of a raging storm.

No minuet, my life,
No dainty mincing to polite music,
No steps for those not driven
By the furies of a raging storm,
No pauses in this dance of rage,
No plie to rest the legs,
Just forever dancing a search of blind alleys
In an effort to escape
The raging storm.

Forrest

My Earth Air, Fire, and Water
(Hilton Head NICABM 12/2005)

They’re hard to find,
my earth
and air
and water
and fire,
But here,
Cooled by a gentle breeze,
Looking across a stretch of grass
And a sandy beach
And past the surf
Gently caressing
The edge of that beach,
Across the ocean
To the horizon
I see the effects of myself
In the contours of the horizon
Created by
My degenerating macula.

The gentle splash and spread
Of the surf
Pushed out
Of a seemingly quiet ocean
Is mirrored in the pulse
Spreading fluid to the
Outer reaches of my body
And then back to be rejuvenated
And recycled.

Birds floating on the air
From nowhere
To nowhere else –
or rather –
From they know where
To they know where else
Reflect the flit through my consciousness
Of
ideas
intuitions
feelings
memories
Arising from I know not where
And going to I know not where else
But they flit through today
In peace.

The grass,
Growing gently on this slow, peaceful day
Is like the growth within me
Of whatever the earth
Of the universe
Grows into my awareness
And supports for its time
Before being replaced
By new growth.

The frosted drink,
Made without rum
By a friendly bartender,
As the result of a fire somewhere
Generating electricity
To operate a freezer
Seems to fit this day
For my inner fires
Are peaceful and cool,
Content to accept
The ocean of energy
- a reflection of the ocean of water -
In which I am immersed
And see no cause to resist.

Forrest

Morning One

Aware of her presence, I turned under her appendages,
Slipped my arms around her
And a leg between hers,
She nestled into my shoulder and sighed.;
I kissed her hair and gently rubbed her skin,
Trying not to allow the tension of my arousal
To color the closeness and the tenderness
Of my holding and caressing her.
I felt the beating of her heart
And allowed the beating of mine to match hers
As I matched the rise and fall of her abdomen
With my own breaths.

I sensed her awareness before she murmured,
“I’m a strong woman;”
“Yes,” I said, exhaling into her hair;
“But sometimes I’m a frightened, puzzled little girl;”
I held her a bit tighter,
“And I want to climb into someone’s lap
“Or someone’s bed and be comforted.”
“We all do,” I said;
“If you’re finding comfort just lie in it
“And let yourself be at peace.”
“I’ve never been able to get all the way down to the peaceful place;
“The fear and sense of loss go too deeply;
“But that trick of matching your heart and breaths
“To mine is doing something –
“Oh!  It’s erasing the barriers between us
“And making us one being.”

I waited as she entered the experience.
‘This is amazing,” she said and kissed my neck,
“I’m having the feelings of an orgasm
‘Without the orgasm.”

“Perhaps it’s the return of feeling
“To a little girl who lost it long ago.”

Forrest Jewell

Memorial   Day

Memorial Day
And Sousa is here in force
In harmony with the blather
Of heroism and sacrifice
And speeches that seem to uplift others
But depress me.

The nonsense of the high values
Displayed by my country
In forcing to go to die
Young people who have
No understanding at all
Of the reasons for their deaths
Disgusts me.
And the speeches soliciting appreciation
For what the military has done
And is doing –
All mixed up with
Mourning the deaths of the people
Sacrificed to the whims of politicians
Disgusts me.

I mourn the deaths,
injuries,
indignities
Visited upon anyone by any group
by any politician
Where the purpose of the deaths, injuries, and indignities
Is clouded in rhetoric
That turns murder into national policy
Or into an expression of religious belief.

I remember and salute those who have died
Under the guise of spreading freedom
And implementing democracies
But more —
I mourn their sacrifice to things, to forces
That they don’t understand;
And when they have been given the choice
Of being imprisoned or killed
For failing to go to die
Or going forth to die
On some battlefield,
I mourn slavery being called freedom
And fascism being called democracy;
And, though I appreciate the sacrifices
Of those who have been caught up in that confusion,
I don’t always appreciate that they
Have been coerced and fooled
Into making the sacrifice.

Forrest

Lost in the Hologram

Some contend
That the universe is a hologram
And, in the hologram, I’m told,
Is everything –
Everything that was, is,
Could have been,
And could be –
And, like a drunk
In a randomly changing maze
I stagger about in the hologram,
Being first one thing,
Then another and another and another,
Never seeming to arrive
At any destination
And always finding
Another branch in the path
That will take me to another branch
Leading me somewhere
I will never reach;
And while others search for enlightenment
Or salvation
I remain lost in the hologram
Searching for myself.

I learned that Columbus
Was a daring seaman
With a new plan:
He would sail  the Atlantic,
Arrive in Asia
And create a shortcut
For trade; but, instead,
Happened upon the Americas
Initiating exploration and settlement
Of a largely unpopulated land mass
Which was to become the white knight
Among nations of the earth,
A bastion of democracy and freedom
And a force of righteousness
Capable of
And ever working toward
Healing earthly problems.:

Thus, I developed a concept of myself
As a descendant of heroes
And an inheritor of a role
In a noble enterprise.

Slowly and painfully
I came to understand
That what I had learned and incorporated into
My conception of myself
Was all lies –
Or, perhaps, myths.
Columbus had maps
Made by the Vikings and the Scots,
Even a globe, belying the supposed notion
That the earth was flat.
He had reports of the natives
From Canada to Mexico.
Columbus stepped ashore
And set forth on an invasion
Characterized by murder — genocide –
And rape and pillage and slavery and,
Instead of my being an inheritor
Of a role in a noble enterprise,
My heritage was the model
Hitler used in his dealings
With the peoples of the lands
He coveted.
And I found myself in a different part
Of the hologram,
A part that made me uncomfortable with myself
And ashamed of being a part of so heinous
An enterprise,
Confused over what is
And what is not
And what I am..

My conceptions of other aspects of myself proved,
Oover the years
To be just as mythical:
I spent two years
Of the period 1954-1956
In the military
Becoming in 1956 a so-called veteran;
In August 1959
I graduated from college
And entered graduate school,
Setting out to become
A latter day
Leonardo da Vinci.

I applied for NIH and NSF fellowships
And my research proposals
Were always approved
But the United States –
In the throes of a paranoid delusion –
Sent me an amazing document:
A long list of publications
Leonardo would be forbidden to read
And a statement to sign:
“I am not now and never have been
“A member of any organization
“That advocates the violent overthrow
“Of the United States government.”

I signed the amazing document
But added:
“I have no plans to overthrow
“Your government
“Right now
“But if I change my mind
“I’ll let you know
“And you can have your money back.”
I didn’t get any fellowships
But
From 1961
Through 1970
My federal income tax returns
Were audited every year,
Some years twice
And, at least one year,
Three times.
Every, single audit
Resulted in money being REFUNDED;
And, by 1970
When the loyalty oath
Was declared unconstitutional,
I was 35,
Had suffered 15 or so tax audits,
And hated the United States government.

I’ve learned not to hate
But I’ve become more aware:
There’s been the ridiculous treatment
Of Cuba,
The decades long travesty in
Southeast Asia.,
Operation of a school in Georgia
To teach
Torture
And death squad operation
And, then, recently
To justify the destruction
Of Afghanistan and Iraq
And a continuation of the destruction
Of freedom
In the great bastion of freedom
There has been concocted
Another paranoid delusion:
A monolithic organization of terrorists
Requiring the repeal of
The requirements of
Search warrants
Pressing charges
Speedy trials
Honesty in government
Prohibition of torture …
So, in the hologram,
Rather than being
In an evolution of societies
Toward something more worthwhile
I’m stuck in a place
Of inquisitions
Or New England witch burnings
Or Third Reichs
Where I fear
I am no more able
To negotiate the hologram
Than have been
The Jews
And Poles
And healers
And other victims
Of paranoid delusions;
And I fall asleep at night
Wondering
If this might be the night
When, rather than tax audits,
I am invaded by whatever gendarmerie
Might take me to that part of the hologram
Containing
Dungeons
And torture chambers.

Peace and Light and Love,

Forrest or Adrian

From the Porch

From the porch
I  look across the valley
And settle into the version of awe
Appropriate to gazing at
A distant, rundown,
Pennsylvania mountain.

I ponder momentarily the notion of
Versions of awe
For gazing at a soaring, snow–capped, Rocky Mountain
Creates a different awe
Than I experience from gazing across
The tamed Pennsylvania countryside
At the distant mountain
Rising gently from its valley.
Still, it\s awe
And,  tamed version or no,
Brings with it the change of the mind’s focus
From the imaginary world of work and responsibility
To the awareness of the unity in diversity of the real world,
The world that is usually shoved aside
In an endless, mindless posturing
In response to the endless, mindless posturing
Of others.

My being merges with
and expands into
Awe
And, I guess,
Becomes part of the Source,
Part of All That is
And immense wisdom,
great insight,
total understanding,
Replace the doubts and uncertainty
Of my daily charade.

As part of the Source ( part of God?)
I become part of and creator of
Nature
And many mysteries are shattered
Into non-mysteries
As understanding of everything
Reduces everything to gently undulating
Waves of energy
And the mysteries of my being
Are shed.

What pervades the experience
I can think of as Love
For all of what I experience –
The trees and grasses, the birds, the earthworms –
All of experience
Fills my being with the same responses
That arise from sexual arousal
And I am in love with creation
Just as I have been in love with a woman
And the gentle undulations of love –
more or less intense –
Are the same energy I experience
In the dances and posturing of mating.

People ask me.
“Are you in love with…
“Were you in love with…,”
And I have no response that I believe will answer
The question
For the question seems to imply some kind of obsession
With another individual,
Some kind of feeling that existence is impossible
Without that other person.
The notion of love in my experience
Permeates my existence and cannot be confined
To one individual.
But that does not imply that
Another individual cannot be incorporated into
Into my sense of self
So that
There is a part of me that thinks often
Of another part that is elsewhere
So that reuniting is a celebration of differences
Or touching or joining or otherwise experiencing
The presence of that other part is heartfelt and …
…And confined to that other person.

Others can’t seem to understand my experience as love
But it is love
And is perhaps more meaningful as love

Since it is purposeful
And, though natural, not magical,
Yet it is always experienced as part of the entirety of connections
Which join all organisms
And contribute to the continuity of existence
Though in other life forms
There may not be the consciousness
Of two individuals sharing an experience
And celebrating the existence of and sharing of
Each other.

Forrest Jewell

I went to the town of
Woodstock, Vermont
And learned that someone
Still makes
Covered, wooden bridges;
And I tried to talk to a tree
That had no patience with people
And wouldn’t talk at all.

I asked myself,
“Why am I here with all these strangers
“Talking to trees
“And drawing pictures of chakras
“When I can’t tell what I’m seeing
“From what I’m imagining?”

Soul wrapped up in its smug energy
And said,
“Because you’ve listened
“To me
“And this is where you need to be.”

“Fool,” I said,
“I’ve been in love with Christine
“For five or six years
“And I’m fascinated
“With all that stuff
“I don’t understand
“And I’ll have fun
“Making fun
“Of what I’m struggling to learn.”

Most of six months has passed
And today
Soul sipped its drink and smiled,
“Yes,” soul said,
“But you didn’t know
“It would be the last time
“She would have the course.
“I did.
“And you didn’t think
“Of meeting fifty new people to love.
“I did.
“And you didn’t think
“In terms of people at all,
“Did you?
“You never do.
“You hear everything I say
“And do most
“Of what I tell you to do
“But only after you’ve done it
“And argued about it
“Do you realize
“What went on.”

So soul sipped more of its drink
And I reflected that souls
Might be good for something.

Forrest Jewell

For Pam

Fantasy is alluring,
I’ve noticed,
And not always separable
From reality:
Drowsiness sweeps over me as,
Eyes closed
And deeply relaxed
I become aware of her –
Imaginary figment?
Or not? –
Beside me,
Warm,
Fragrant with femininity,
Responding to gentle touches,
caresses,
kisses
With restless movements
Mirroring in her
The growth of my arousal.

The gentle curves of her being
Attract my hands and lips
In exploration of their wonder,
leading to tasting of her –
lips, tongue,
neck, ears,
eyelids, cheeks,
mouth
nipples, navel,
labial folds,
clitoris,
juices of arousal,
As her part in  the timeless dance
Is filled in her exploration of me
So that the mutual appreciation
Is expressed
In movements
Increasingly driven by chemicals
Into gentle but increasingly compulsive
Undulations and thrustings
Resulting in my hardness
Entering her mysterious, slippery opening
Pushing the driven, mutually stimulating  motions
Beyond control
To a point at least approaching
Ecstasy
As we explode into climaxes
Accompanied by our — no longer mine and hers –
Desperate clinging together
As the furor of the compulsions
Breaks into gentling spasms
Of appreciation
And we collapse together
Into an aftermath
Of verbal and physical caresses
Of our appreciation of each other
And the differences between us.

Sleep well.

Peace and Light and Love,

Adrian

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