Crisscross

Earth and iron run through our veins,
Yet program and network chase our brains.

By James Guy

The Fire

The Darkened  sweet scented forest silhouette
Stands silent on the hillside beside the lonely campfire.
Actually, the fire is not so lonely
In this campground of many fires
Smelling of wood smoke in the twilight.

And yet, a campfire summons a strangeness
No matter the century or spot
on which the fire throws its flame
upward into black night sky.

Several faces circle the fire
feeling warmth and companionship
On this brisk Autumn night,
Sitting in their chairs, drinking their wine.

The night deepens and grows long of tooth
Ceasing idle chatter,
And quiet stillness permeates
As the campground goes silent.

Someone rises and throws more wood,
then pokes the fire administering to its needs
As if born to it like a mother to her child.
The circle brightens.

Satisfied, they sit back and drink their wine.
And begin staring into the fire
At the leaping, dancing flames,
Transfixed, lost in something.

Staring, staring...thinking, thinking what?
They know not, but feeling something.
One, startled at some emotion, quickly looks up
Out into the star-pierced void, and shudders.
Eternity.

They sit in their small circle around the fire
Within the greater circle of their civilization
surrounded by other civilizations,
Teetering on the back of past civilizations
Looking forward into the terrifying abyss.

Heads begin to throb, then faintly, from a distant place
Comes a muffled pounding, drumming,
Unknown, but somehow familiar rhythmic beating,
Just beyond perception and within them.

Now expanding, growing louder, wanton in essence,
Pulse quickening, anxiously calling, exuberant, yet fearful.
Grasping...pushing them inward, and backward,
Far back, penetrating the thin skin of modernity.


There was always the collective comfort of the fire.
Dancing flaming fingers moving up to meet eternity,
And the drums, beating , warding off
The horrid unknowable, unseen
In the dark, just beyond the fire.

The ancient fire was there in the frigid, snow laced winds
of the Northern forests;
Or along the twisting rivers under the canopy
Of vast jungles;
And out in the sun drenched savannah.

The flames start to die down
And they pull their chairs closer
to the fire...
For there is something still...beyond the fire.

By James Guy

The Swing

Once upon a time in the early 1970’s in a small city called Wooster, which resides in the Midwestern State of Ohio, there lived two teenagers that were good friends and close as kin. One had grown up in that small city and the other had moved there from the Golden state of California bringing all sorts of new ideas and ways.
This was a strange time indeed. The preceding decade had been very turbulent with an unpopular war, protests and a youth counter culture that questioned everything that went before. By the early 70’s this movement had trickled down into the mainstream and its youth, even in small places like Wooster, and even smaller, mind you. But I digress, on with the story. These two boys, as was the custom since cars were invented, loved to cruise. They would leave the stuffy, small confines of Wooster, (think 1973) put in cassettes of fantastic music of the day that stirred the human psych like Maggot Brain, the Rolling Stones, Allman Brothers, Deep Purple; well, you get the picture. Of course, it was different back then as far as driving was concerned: less traffic, less cops and wide open spaces.  
One lazy summer afternoon the boys were driving through the idyllic rural countryside and tiny towns of southern Wayne and Holmes county listening to their music, and partaking in other more forbidden indulgences popular at the time. Seeing the natural beauty of the day they decided to park the car along a shady deserted back road and go for a hike. Tramping through forest and field, climbing over a low, rusty barbed wire fence, they pressed on through the leafy enchantment breathing in the earthy smell. Up ahead a strange apparition began to take shape before them at the edge of a pasture. From where they were standing it looked like an old oil derrick perhaps, or one of Don Quixote’s windmill dragons. Upon reaching the contraption they stood there looking at a strange grey, bleached wooden platform maybe twenty five feet high and consisting of three levels that that could be reached by built- in ladders. The lowest level was broad and sturdy and the second level somewhat smaller and much higher. However, the third level was no more than a single board in the blue summer sky.
How interesting they thought. What could this thing possibly be for? Perhaps a hunter’s stand? The boy that had grown up in Ohio thought not. He had seen those before and this looked nothing like that, for sure. This thing sat on the edge of a steep slope devoid of trees leading down into a cow pasture.
 Suddenly one of the boys noticed a single great oak tree planted squarely in the middle of the pasture at the bottom. It rose up like a giant. Its massive arms the size of small trees spreading out in every direction. And strangely, hanging straight down from a very high limb was a thick rope with what looked like a noose at the end.
This was weird too, they thought, and scrambled down the slope dodging cow piles as they went. Upon reaching the tree they marveled at its size and examined the thick rope with the loop tied in some sort of  permanent knot. The end of the rope hung about six feet off the ground. Even stranger was the skinny clothes line attached to the noose and  hanging all the way down to the ground and then some, secured to the noose by a metal fastener with a release.
What on earth do you suppose this was for, just hanging there? They pondered…  who did this? It did not take too long to realize the Amish had most likely done this. They were in an area of Amish farms and the field had a old time rustic look about it. Some Amish boy had climbed four or five stories up the giant tree with a thick rope and tied it to a massive limb. Only an Amish boy could do that. But why?
They stood  there silent for a couple of minutes before the realization of just what they had found dawned on them. The platform on the hill and the rope hanging from the tree was one giant wicked swing. One of the boys grabbed the clothes line and the two of them scrambled up the hill hauling the heavy rope. Upon reaching the platform the boy with the line climbed to the first level and moved to the edge. Pulling the line he drew the heavy  rope and noose up to him. Carefully grabbing the rope above noose he stuck one foot into the loop, shoved off, straightened up, and like Tarzan of the apes swung down the hill and out over the pasture. At the tail end of the swings’ momentum the boy was momentarily suspended perhaps forty feet above the ground before the rope began its backward trajectory. Letting out a rebel yell and swinging back and forth until the rope slowed, he then dropped to the ground near the giant tree.
The other boy took his turn. They then tried the next level which was even more of a “rush.” Finally, one boy climbed to the highest position on the single board. Pulling the clothes line and bringing the heavy rope loop up, he had to balance carefully with one foot while placing the other foot into the loop. Leaning precariously forward, his hands stretching down and finally grabbing the rope much nearer to the loop than at the other levels, he shoved off with his free leg. Down and out he flew through the air. Struggling at first to straighten up he managed gain stability after a few harrowing seconds. Rushing past the hill and over the pasture the swing climbed to its highest point. Almost sideways, the boy looked down with glee at the green pasture spread out beneath him. While above and parallel to him the great oak watched as the rope stretched and groaned.  Soon, the other boy also took a turn at the high board, hugging the rope and sailing out through the warm afternoon summer sun.
They stayed at it the rest of the afternoon, flying on the big swing, intermittently taking a break and sitting on the pungent grass. They kept expecting to look up and see a few Amish boys suddenly appear, but they never did so. They wondered at the age of the giant oak and the rope and launching structure. The oak could surely have been there when Native Americans lived in this land. The structure was weathered and grey but seemed sturdy and sound. As the shadows grew long, darkening the slope, they started back to the car.       They would come back to the magical place; of that there was no doubt.
It’s strange how such things go; for a secret place never remains so long. And so it was with the swing being found out. Within a few weeks the boys arrived at the swing only to find others there also. There were kids from the boys’ school and other schools as well. When asked how they found it the kids would just say a friend told them. Soon many more would arrive on the weekend and the cars would line the narrow gravel road in the forest.
The Swing became a “happening.”  The swing would creak back and forth over the pasture as boys let out a roar of pleasure and the girls would scream and hang on tightly. Each would start at the lowest level of the platform. Some, but not too many, would go to the high rail and fly from there for the biggest thrill of all.
It was a party and the swing would sway in the afternoon sun while the kids waited in line, or lay in the grass drinking wine or beer and other indulgences. Many would hike through the forest to explore or make out while others would stand by the cars back by the road drinking and smoking with the radio blasting out a tune.
With each passing week the numbers of kids at the swing would grow, But all things come to an end eventually, and so it was with the swing. Something had to happen, and it did.  The partying began to intensify and the pasture and woods would ring with rebel yells, and laughter. One day a boy took off from the swing flying out over the pasture. When he reached a high point in the arch of his flight his grip slipped and he fell. As he lay still upon the ground his friends came running down the hill to his side.
  The two young friends that began this story were not in the woods at the swing that day and did not hear of the incident until later. They only knew that someone fell and was hurt badly. It must be remembered that this was back in the days of no cell phones, and out in the sticks to boot. His friends may have carried him to the car and drove him to an emergency room, or taken him to the nearest dwelling to use the telephone to later be picked up by an emergency vehicle. But the time of the “Swing” was over and it was dismantled and NO TRESPASSING signs stuck in the ground.
And so the Swing was no more than a memory of one summer in the life of those young people, and a plate in the head of the injured youth. Youth is a exhilarating time and a dangerous time where chances are taken and experiences raw and etched in the mind more deeply lasting than whatever comes after.
_________________________
end

By James Guy

Emily Dickinson

I read the poems of Emily Dickinson, 
Her words cradling death succinctly,
encircling a stiffened corpse in the parlor,
Staring at the blackened hole of eternity.

Though often the Lord would breathe on her eyelids
In the gardens as she watched the butterfly and bee,
Although appearance is fickle next to oblivion,
as death was there she could clearly see.

Had she completely forsaken visceral delight?
Or perhaps still indulge in a soapy bath
Allowing her hands to roam in blushing appetite
Then to rise wrapped in a downy cloth.

Love's trauma tipped her scale!
To set the world aside for the cosmic all;
And yet, did the tea and cozy fire comfort her
Marking time near the silent, darkened hall.

James Guy

Silently Talking by James Guy

Are you are bored, wishing laughter...even hilarity,

Then think of the trillions of humanity

wandering this floating orb talking to themselves;

within their minds, an inner conversation...unceasing,

commenting, or asking a question, then answering 

themselves.

How peculiar to think of us all walking around

Chattering like the magpie without making a sound,

Addressing someone, something, or maybe nothing,

Forming words unspoken from the quantum unknown,

Whether they be insane, mundane, or highly honed.

From beginning to end the minds will talk,

To inwardly praise, punish or mock,

Albeit English, Chinese or Portuguese...

Convalescing in random of its own volition

Our anger, our fears, or foolish desire, the chatter

will seize..

Do you remember Ohio?

Do you remember Ohio?

Its rolling green hills of summer corn

Crowding in on one another like a joyous mob, 

The sun pouring forth over its bountiful minions

As insects buzz and click in the trees

Where furry creatures scurry, helter-skelter, 

Then pause...with quivering nose.

Cows stand in the stream staring with liquid eyes

Behooving kindness upon the world.

The trees bunch together, as thick as thieves

When suddenly a summer breeze prompts chatter

              in their ranks.

In the distance, bright sky and fertile earth

Merge in a sun-drenched misty haze.

Red and white barns salute one another

in study alliance across wide rolling fields.

Come winter, brown and grey will wed

as shadow lay beneath the hills.

Then glistening snow will cap the shed

Under the squawking circling crows

Searching for a scrap of bread.

The frosty wind comes howling

Down through the trees

Around the woodpile

And a cat begins to run.

Then suddenly, winter becomes still and silent;

Pale clouds are split by the sun,

And the land becomes a cathedral.

By James Guy

All pictures taken by James Guy Miller