SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

(Read as a lead in to spoken word for Maxbeth in light of the tragedy that befell Orlando, FLA, and the world as a whole)

I want to be singing from the mountaintops, from the rooftops, from the hilltops; to pull out all the stops, let the beat drop, and from these stair tops proclaim in the name of all that is good and endures that this land is your land, though, out east in Orlando someone took many more than a few shots as a harbinger of hate; which is what it wants, for us to get caught up as it flaunts fears misguided, and taunts, intended to be divisive. 

       It wants us to give up and be caught off guard, to be sawed off the right arm from the body perceived right. Like a thief in the night, it comes to take the hopes, dreams, and love we have in our hearts for both our friends and our counterparts, for ones with good intents, and who need a helping start.            

      For, in the end we amount to hearts that live and breathe, and strive to dream. So I stand atop these stairs like the side of a Babylonian stream.

       This land is OUR land, and hate can’t take it away. We’re on the same team. With you, I choose to play. I know you could be not far off, at the Reno Arch dark, or at a vigil on Wells tonight, this very day. You may have the sudden urge to help but not know how quite, or in what way.

        Fifty known dead. Fifty three more injured. That’s five times the size of this cast to a head, a void in the destroyed universe that’s disturbed.

          We stand as a band, trying to understand how we can forever make and equate love being stronger than fear, and hope being stronger than hate.

           So before we dim the lights and display this play to show the unending metaphysical cycle of violence; I’d solemnly ask, on this gray Sunday, that we bow our heads in a moment of silence.

Thank you to all near,

who’ve come here to the Lear,

to see, feel, and hear, in this cuadrecentenial year,

of the death of one Mr. William Shakespeare.

We have a tale to tell,

with the vision of the director as well.

Have no fear, or else have it, and still be of good cheer.

We are going to peer into the mind of madness,

and the heart of war that’s in gear.
Macbeth is a tragedy written by William Shakespeare in 1605, 

and it was first performed by Shakespeare’s company in 1606.

That’s over four hundred years since the playwright was alive,

and the same since the first opening night tix.
In the beginning was the word,

and in the end it shall be too,

I’ve come from the future to be heard,

so heed my warning to you, for tis true.
The play dramatizes, with no surprises for the wisest among us, the damaging physical and psych effects, as the action directs our attention upon those who seek power for its own sake. In the wake of give and take, political ambition, lust for power turning to bloodlust, and questioning whether or not one can even trust his own mind. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If this isn’t true, you’ve my permission to drag this aging stoop kid out back and shoot me.
Beginning in death and shame,

travelling from the cold to a moment

of destiny on this very field today.

War breeds death, produces it like

a machine. You may nay agree with what I say,

but you know what I mean.

The times have changed, but our problems the same.
The story focuses, like intensely driven locusts, on a brave soldier named Macbeth, or for the purpose of our show we are using Maxbeth to wage war.
We open, still hoping, with the wonder of thunder and lightening,

to see these three witches appear to Maxbeth and prophesy from on high that one day he will be king. That idea begins to make his ears ring and soul sing. 

Consumed by ambition, zero contrition,and spurred to action by his wife Lady Maxbeth, a powerful woman in her own right, Maxbeth murders King Duncan and takes the throne for himself one night. Duncan’s sons Malcolm and Donalbain flee from the castle fearing for their lives, and Maxbeth begins the ride of following both witches and wife with sharpened steel, and a desire to thrive.
We still put heads on spikes atop castle walls,

and wave banners in the sky to stake our claim.

As I said, the times have changed, but our problems the same.

So pay attention through your eyes each a lens,

we say without apprehension, not a one pretends.

I shall prepare a verbal table for you to sit at as a guest,

If it is done, and it is done, then let it be done quickly,

The players are soothe sayers who will make you clutch your breast,

as a man at war with himself, soon becomes sickly.
With the two sons’s gone Maxbeth assumes the throne. He isn’t alone, as he has the voices to keep him company. Maxbeth growing suspicious and desperate to hold onto his power, begins to devour the world around. As if by divine right, he’ll bleed the ground, destroy any obstacle found, and go toe to toe– pound for pound. 
So pick me, play me, predict me, or slay me.

This whole earth is cursed, and what’s worse,

we have the keys to the lock that’s decaying.

Memories, the water of the brain may be few,

They crawl in through the eyes and ears,

we smell their scents on the air as intense and as new,

as our deepest and darkest fears across years.

My eyes have made a fool of all the other senses,

They’ve seen the ghost already of what’s to come,

we stab at each other with intentions as intense as,

the hopes and dreams that also die in slums.
He soon becomes a tyrant, a ruler, but not of inches. As he is forced to commit more and more murders to protect himself, through lynches, tightening of cinches, much to the dismay of provincial statisticians.

He hires assassins to crash in and kill his dear friend Banquo. Using the forces of darkness, and the vanquished’s bank roll.

Wracked with guilt, and the ongoing actions he’s built, Maxbeth sees the ghost of Banquo haunting him at his banquet. This chills him to his core, beyond the stirring behind two holes cut in a blanket. 
Fighting for pride, inciting a rioting in stride,

a lust for power, and a greed for shame,

Shake off your sleep, come look upon death itself inside,

regardless of your passed on name.

A noble man dead, a wicked man built,

we still light candles through the night,

we haven’t lost that in this nonsense on stilts,

with guilts worse than chaotic kilts 

across battle in rocky fields to death’s delight.
Maxbeth raves and panics, acting simultaneously depressive and manic, and his insanity becomes apparent to all the guests of the house. Feeling less and less blessed by the nether realms, and the counsel of his own spouse.
These things without remedy nag at us,

they eat at our spirit, when we’re fighting for life, day and night,

these musical reflections of our souls back at us,

make us wonder if we’re fighting for strife, with sway and might.

How full of scorpions is my mind?

How poisoned is the water that is its well?

How left behind are the blind and the kind?

Can we ride this wave if we hit its swell?
The bloodbath of wrath and consequent relentless civil war swiftly take Maxbeth and Lady Maxbeth into the realms of madness, and death.

And still you’ll sit there still with unabated breath.
I’ve a story to tell you of thirst for power unchecked,

with a need to bleed through a crown,

It foreshadows direct a life that is wrecked,

and an upshot that is truly down.

They may say that when the brain dies, the man dies as well.

I stand before you to tell you they may still rise and speak as another 

fell, floating through life in a personal hell.
Maxbeth returns to the witches demanding to know if he will remain king. But here’s the thing, they bring him to show visions of the future. But at this point, his self inflicted wounds are beyond suture. 

Until the woods move he will be safe. They tell him that no man of woman born shall harm Maxbeth, and he’s tuned in enough to listen to what each says.
For such as these death may be a relief. Life may be the torture we dare not say.

For the moment we draw our first breath,

we begin that day to decay.

Those that know all our consequence,

may watch us go up in flames and laugh,

we look to those long gone and since,

for the true explanation of wrath.

This king wears thorns, that king wears blood,

this king arrives but never warns,

that king has had enough.

We are called to bed and walk in a fog to get there,

we stumble over rotting logs like wild dogs,

as though we’ve lost the sacred and come to forget care.

Applaud yourselves to the echo that would return to you.

Stand and clap, stand and rap, sit and chat, 

in simple, do what you do.

One can scorch oneself on the flames of fires set ablaze,

and create all sound and fury in so doing,

the fulcrum can change in the blink of an eye, in the wink of the sun’s rays,

and learn that all new things are old,

and all old things are new things.
And finally they reveal to him that Banquo’s son Fleance, having escaped the assassins will reign as king and his sons will reign for many generations. 

This vexes Maxbeth, and the text that he says will bring this very crowd meditations.
A blessing and a curse, the lesser thing which is worse,

spilled out in verse from the mouths of babes to the 

knaves collecting first.
Lady Maxbeth falls into madness and confesses her sins in her sleepwalking state. As if lead by a spirit that will keep talking late, walking the night living out, giving out, her sin over and over again.
Embers on the ground, running towards the light,

our future selves chasing us until dawn,

We’ll have our just rewards tonight we tell ourselves,

but before we know it times gone.
Maxbeth continues his blood thirst by attacking Macduff’s castle and killing his wife and children. He’s unaware of the ramifications for having killed them. Macduff having fled to Malcolm recruits him and his army, attempting to avoid harm flees, and they attack Maxbeth’s castle in order to get Malcolm the rightful heir back on the throne. He might well stare at the visions in the flames flare, with the echoing voices to keep him unalone.
Life is gritty in our future city, and the wasteland lays to waste men’s souls. The emotions are raw, the sights I already saw, lend themselves to time’s toll.
Battle born–war torn–a whole nation of folks born,

amidst death and decay in a high desert setting,

betting their lives every day.

“Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland in 

search of our better selves?”

still rings in my ears, like the grinding gears,

and metal spears of Max and his bids.

I will tell you what is to happen,

and yet you will still be shocked,

you will want to sit there clapping,

and feel as if your spirit is stalked.

So enough talk, time to play the play, and walk the walk.

Maxbeth presented by Merry War,

Destiny is at the door, and we answer its knock.

You have twenty nine seconds,
To beckon my attention and make me weep.

To tell me a secret you wish me to keep,

To make me want to go to sleep,

And dream.

It may seem like far too short a duration,

But if done right it can resonate for all time.
You have twenty nine seconds, 

And for this reckoning, you may have to cut 

A check that swings in the neighborhood

Of seven digits. You’d have to sell ALOT of widgets, 

Thingymabobbers, whatchamacallits, and life changing

Must haves.

You have the power to make hearts bleed,

Overwhelm minds, and convince us that wants

Are needs.

You have the power to make some stand and clap,

Remember your jingle which perseveres through crap,

Buy whatever you’re selling, and wrap it up

under the ‘holidays’ tree, lest we offend 

Anybody.

A thought bomb dropped which will rend many bodies

Motionless for a while to come.

With style, and some perfect timing,

Perhaps a bit of poignant rhyming,

And memorable images that represent hope climbing

To a higher place than it was before.

What’s more, perhaps an adorable animal or infant

That speaks in short pithy aphorisms

To the huddled masses of hers and hisms.

In that moment. In that perfect moment, 

You can strike a chord in the heart, manipulate the mind, 

Make us question everything we thought we knew,

And obey our most sinister attributes.

You can herald the coming of all that we hold most dear,

Make us fear, make us weep with joy,

Or shudder in disgust. You can make us trust our guts,

And forget any facts we know.

Show us how we grow, how we gain,

And use a single image that represents no pain. Ever.

You can promise us success, happiness, and sexual

Attractiveness.

You can hold our attention captive,

While there’s something crazy that’s happening

In the kitchen we truly don’t hear or see.

And that’s just in the next room.

If it’s done well.

When it’s done well.

The doom and gloom isn’t heard or seen.

That doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.

That we couldn’t stare at it or care, if we were there,

With our eyes and ears turned, but where?

It almost isn’t fair, the power you have,

With images, music, famous personalities, 

And even a catchy abstract slogan,

To leave us speechless, breathless,

Waiting for it to show again.
Now, just imagine. Try to muster up the strength and courage

In that beautiful tool called a brain you’ve been given.

If the proverbial they have that magnificent power 

Bundled in a commercial which lasts twenty nine seconds, TWENTY NINE SECONDS.

A time which is NOT VAST.

You couldn’t have gotten past

This poems’ first half.

Just marinate on the power held in a full feature film,

An Internet podcast, or an entire news broadcast.
So please, decipher this cipher as you will.

Crumple this paper up in your brain and through it away

For the thrill.

But still be still, and use that mind

To find the truth and authentic meaning

Behind and between the lines,

To love and be kind,

And remind yourself

That they are all, in the end trying,

To separate your money from your pocket book’s bind,

Leave you deaf and blind,

And take you to anywhere and anyplace

that isn’t here and now.

It’s late at night, will you leave me alone with being insightful? If I write will you leave me alone long enough to sleep like I’m on NyQuil? Or is what is in me desperate to make sure that my my hands are never idle. This ain’t a rehearsal, it’s a recital. And the fight’ll determine what the enemy might kill. The method may appear a slight bit trite still, I write so that I can realize the quota of my gripe fill. Somewhere in the distance Michael Stipe skillfully sings Everybody Hurts, and beggars steal from the divine white till. I feel like I’m always waiting for my bill, and the focus of life drills our brains, reels in what remains, leaves us to fill our own pains with things that don’t quite fill.

It is the morning after having been here exactly one full revolution of the earth around our sun.

I

walkAs the shimmering Saturday sun straddles its

Own silhouetted form across leaves

That will soon turn on themselves

And meet their demise for a season.

At the corner, a man pushes a tiny stroller.

His supposed daughter makes cooing noises, 

As she points to the sky. Unintelligible noise other than 

To a loving father, and assuringly, God.

The dad, who pushes the small rolling vessel

Of adventure and spongy intrigue using only the index and pinky finger of his left hand, simply responds “How do you know?” 

Love, I suppose. Love is memory, expression, sacrifice, compromise, foundational security, trust, communication, and the timepiece of the universe. When we are ready, it will respond.

Living Legacy
We gather together to tell these stories of our losses, our gains, our bosses, our pains, our betrayals, and what remains of our hope. We tell stories of love, creativity, Cannery Row and Lighthouse, Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur, Reno, Bob Morgan, Festival Express, Janis, The Haight, more about Reno, and hoards of animals fleeing down canyons towards the ocean fleeing fires. We tell stories of costumes and sets for nine hour productions involving two meals and a break, Bradbury attending ‘Something Wicked…’, and decorating Macy’s windows. 

We collectively dream of the Berganz Festival and the World Body Painting Festival in Vienna. We collectively laugh about working at distribution centers. We tell stories of epic scene changes and portraits of scarecrows, framed in barn wood, hidden in attics, found in dumpsters.

We gather together to tell these stories of survival, and cottages, and road trips, and roles shifting in today’s society. We speak of individual celebrities, and what it is to be a good King.

We gather together to tell these stories, and eat, and find cats cooling their bellies in bathtubs. We find ourselves going through closets of costumes from Sam Shepard plays. “Basically, we talked all night…” Lady said at one point of a different interaction at a different time, and I knew in an instant that it fit here.

We gather together to tell these stories in truth. In community. In family. In togetherness. To be heard.

We gather together to pass on this brilliant and vibrant living legacy of lives touched, shared, examined, and exposed to growth and teaching. Thank you for sharing your living legacy with me. I love you both dearly. It is an honor to share time and space with you. My pictures only dare to scratch the surface of the collective that is your original work. My pictures only peek inside the world of collectibles from family, friends, and travels with loved ones. I am better off for knowing you.

It doesn’t feel real, it was a dream, start to finish,
Part of me wishes to go to sleep,

While part of me never wants the dream to diminish.

I could sleep and start tomorrow with a fresh beginning,

Or I could keep going, keep the promise to myself showing the furthest reaches of true winning.

I hearken back to college. Ages ago, when barenaked ladies were lying in bed just like Brian Wilson did. There is a feeling in the air now that was similar to then. A similar palpable scent somehow perhaps. That magical feeling that is subdued, depressed, but simultaneously capable of striking sparks anywhere like Hunter in Vegas on the 4th of July. Why must we endure these strides? Why is the world so far and wide, yet so narrow and closed? How does one face down the demons on their own? Through music, through poems, through unknowns? We lay bare our chests and strike beats to the moon. We swoon and chant and dance in an elegant manner for the sake of taking a chance on the lives that we could have had. I want to soak in love and mercy though the hour is late, and I don’t know in fact if I can wait on this wooden slate park bench for the show to begin. All the while an inebriated homeless man sleeps behind me with his head wedged behind the trash can and his left arm and his right hand contorted in a grotesquely distorted manner. What madness drives me? What madness drives them? What madness drives him? Is it the same? What is his name? I would ask, but I don’t wish to wake him. I dream of time machines, and county fair treats, and saying what we mean, and laughing in the streets, and unforeseen lights turning green, and finding what completes. Us. 

—

I want to go along on the entire ride, the entire tour until the end, but first I want to make time bend and go back to start fresh. I want a clean slate but also what I’ve learned from the pain. Would anything remain? Is there a known end? Do we merely fade off as our perception of time lengthens, as our brain slowly runs out of oxygen; and we defy known physics with our massive onslaught of life in a frantic menagerie of imagery and thought?

I’m caught, but by what or who am I caught?

—

I strum the strings and hum the tune to an unknown song. The words will have grown and be known before long.

—

The voices long to be heard 

The memories want to be revealed

The choices yearn to cured

The burn believes itself to be healed

—

The spotlight quickly bleeds through the smoky darkness,

Primary colors form prisms hanging over the top of the sky,

My heart slowly chases the rusty spark that’s,

Like a cow bell clanging on the edge of why.

—

You rescued me without even knowing it,

You saved me without saying a word,

You fought for me without throwing a fit,

And helped me fly without wings or wind stirred.

There are benefits that reach beneath pockets,

There are stars that shine in your eyes,

I bite my fingernails before taking off in my rockets, 

That take me beyond where I can wear a disguise.

I now walk across the white painted lines, 

Empty stalls waiting for cars, later today, but still called tomorrow,

I have risen to the rooftop beyond the suffocating vines,

And I am up above my own sorrow.

I can see it, I can feel it, but I rest upon it like the ground,

Now I free it, so the night can steal it, 

And it can no longer make a sound.

I am compact. I have come to my end, but the harmony has brought me back to my only friend. 

There is a grainier sand box up here like his,

That does not hold piano legs,

Sirens blur nearly five blocks from this,

And someone for mercy begs.

A ladder climbs further, but the bottom four rungs are blocked,

And I wonder if my life has worth or, if my ship will always be docked.

There is a feather resting where several later will drive, and the voices seem to have narrowed to one, and for a time, and in a way, I’m thankful I’m alive, and somehow a new life is begun.

So now I start the downward descent,

In the shiny steel box near the burgundy Willys ride,

Somehow the slumber will have to relent,

Somehow the answer lies inside.

I can still faintly smell the bottoms of my feet beneath the nails of the index and middle fingers of my left hand,

And I wish to daintily tell you a lot when I get home and breathe my tails that linger, as somehow you’ll understand.

But you won’t be there when I arrive,

Or tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, or ever again.

And I fear I’ve come too near to the end of a friendship with you my more than just a friend.

You’ve tormented me, and encouraged me, and sung to me, and made me hide.

You’ve surely cemented me, given a third lung to me, and crossed the great divide.

The breeze now has a bit of a chill to it, and I cross the street before the light,

And I know I’ll never have a real true fit,

And I know I need the night.

There is a man with a headlamp, a flash light, three bags, a fanny pack, and a bike, saying “arugula and bacon bits” and it’s somehow right.

The river guides me home as it were, walking against the direction that it flows,

Love and mercy can both stir and be a blur,

While the awe inside me grows.

A chain link fence surrounds the Bard’s western dancing stage,

And I cry for the lack of being able to sing you my song,

To show you how a heart can break the bars on its cage,

To show you how my lovely life isn’t wrong,

Somehow, in some way, before I come to the end, my only friend, of my lonely seventh age,

For back at the beginning is where I belong.

Waking at 3:30am to a deep kind of chest pains, takotsubo or heartburn? Don’t know. But the remains of the day have me getting up, seeking urinary release, a brief cease to the sleep to walk upright, and a cool glass of water. Now that my new neighbor’s thumping Latin music has finally ended, I can hear my own chest thumping and burning. Part of me just wants to return to sleep. Part of me wants to walk to the Valero Station and purchase some Tums. Part of me wants to have more water and turn on sports center in the witching hour just to see what girls college softball game is being repeated. Part of me hopes that it is worse than my gut tells me, that it is indeed the end, and that it is in fact my last night on earth. How sufficient does my budget seem, if it only has to last another day? More than enough. I have not endured anything as drastic as genital mutilation at the hands of militant tribal factions in Uganda, or the ills that befall transgendered males in our society of pigeon holing and then marginalizing individuals. I know I have my own issues though. Still waters run deep, as they say. Every where I go, they need money. I go to church, and they ask every one to pray and see if God is putting it on their hearts to give more. I go to the community theatres and they are wondering if everyone can find it in their hearts to donate and keep the live alive. I walk in front of the casinos, and panhandlers appeal to my sense of heart in asking for spare change, or real change as it were. I go on Facebook and it seems everyone has a kickstarter or a gofundme account on their own behalf or some poor child’s behalf, or some animal in need. So much need. So much pain. Heart ache is all I gain. And the burn in my chest will remain. I don’t care how cute your new profile picture is. I’m not going to give even more money, and even more time so that you can travel the world when I barely get by, and that’s what I want to do. It isn’t about me. I know. But my heart can’t take much more, and this condition persists. I give an abundant amount of my time to the theatre, I’ve stopped going to church, and I wonder what I would really lose by deactivating my Facebook. Dear world, I give what I can. Please stop asking for more. More more. More. More. More. Will it ever end? Maybe. Hopefully. Tonight.

I will wake up every morning. I will go into work early, and leave late if necessary. I will take my allotted breaks without milking the clock. I will vote. I will pay my taxes. I will support the warriors but not the wars. I will keep promises. I will speak kindly and honestly to others. I will get my oil changed every three to five thousand miles. I will call my mom on Mother’s Day, and I will make it a point to get heartfelt gifts with hand written cards for friends on their birthdays. I will try to buy ethically sourced products, live simply, and recycle. 

       I will leave wildflowers, without picking them, for others to enjoy. I will encourage young children when they are frustrated in learning something new. I will not shatter glass bottles in parking lots. I will not wager more cash than I can easily afford to lose. I will use my turn signals, hold the door open for others, take the appropriate number of items to the express lane, and remain open to others empassioned views about religion and politics. I will not treat others harshly  if and when those views differ with mine. I will finish the food on my plate, drink plenty of water, and try to maintain a reasonable bed time. I will not cut in line, slam doors in others’ faces, or be reckless with other hearts. I will drive in your neighborhood like my own children live there. I will bring my own bags to the store, bring my own mug to the mart, and count my blessings. I will not try to control you, manipulate you, or condemn you. I will try to tell beautiful honest stories. I will  try to speak when necessary, remain silent when necessary, pay attention, follow directions, and earn my keep. I will try not to interrupt. I will try to leave no trace. I will do my best to prevent forest fires. I will remain loyal to my teams, especially when they are losing.

       My single chosen act of rebellion will be this: I will never wholly, completely, entirely give my heart to another single human being as long as I live. For I know the immense strength and tremendous beauty therein, and I intend to deprive the world of it in its completeness. The juice is not worth the squeeze. This place is so far from what was intended. I cannot handle more personal wounded mess than I have already endured. Fuck this world. Let it burn.

Here’s how it usually starts, I’m up late when I should be going to bed. I should be falling asleep, but I’m reading for inspiration instead.

I come across a single line that strikes a chord, and bounces around in my head. And I have a moment that I tap into everything stored, a moment I completely love but dread.

I’m heading to work to do some dumb thing,

And I feel that spark inside,

Knowing the writing is coming, 

And I’m going to have to find a quiet place to hide.

You see the spark comes when you least expect it, a simple line in a comment of text, an innocent challenge to write a song, I know I can only help guide it but never completely direct it, I know the craft is next, 

And I know the spark may not last for long.

Not a song but a poem,

As I’m not a song writer but I

Know ’em,

And I hope the inspiration never ends,

I will write every single line by my lonesome, although I don’t own a single one, I know I’m already borrowing the title from one of my friends.

1. Finding, or better yet making, the perfect gift at the perfect moment for someone, knowing they will weep with joy for the knowing that at least one person in the universe gets them and understands.

2. Receiving such a gift, and writing a heartfelt thank you note by the guide of your own mind and hands.

3. Watching a puppy try to drink from a sprinkler, and then be a lil’ tinkler as he or she dances in the makeshift rain.

4. Watching that same doggie slowly grow old, still being there to love them and ease their pain.

5. Hugging friends, family, and loved ones at a Fourth of July barbecue or, better yet, a wedding.

6. Barely remembering the conflicts and quarrels with them, and when you do, letting go and forgetting.

7.Praying to an unseen power, but witnessing and feeling that power through love.

8.Feeling down in the dumps slumped over, and then that power with the warming sun, guides your gaze above.

9. The hand on your shoulder and the perfect hug which let you know it’s all going to be okay.

10. Being there to be that hand, and be that hug, to brighten someone else’s day.

11. Closing the thick blanket of a curtain on Saturday eve after a lovely late night, crawling into your bedgasm, and whispering a delighted, smiling, closed eye shout.

12. Drawing back the same curtain on Sunday morning to reveal a gorgeous day, rife with the possibility from great rest, that beckons you out.

13. Or, your favorite player, on your favorite team, scoring the game winner and everyone in the bar erupting at the exact same moment in time.

14. Or, that comfortable silence right after a soulful song while along on a road trip with your partner in crime.

15. Your very first sip of your favorite hot beverage, on a crisp fall night sitting fireside in the mountains by the lake.

16. Sharing that moment with your dearest tribe, with the perfect vibe, because all the difference in the world they make.

17. Saying goodbye to an aging loved one knowing in your heart that there was nothing left undone, and there was nothing left unsaid.

18. Showing with that same heart and that same mind to others what they meant to you in their stead.

19. Signing or clocking out at five pm on a Friday knowing the draining week is finally through.

20. Or, better yet clocking in on a Monday morning if you truly love what it is that you do.

21. Opening the care package from the right person at the perfect time when you are miles and miles away from home.

22. Getting to the point in life when you are so at peace with who you are inside you know that your home is wherever you roam.

23. Climbing up to a crook in a favorite tree where no one else can see or know. And, watching like a bird simply free, as the world passes by below.

24. Also, sitting perched in that spot in your tree for long enough that, in your own bones, you can feel it grow.

25. Laying down your burden of a bag, after a long hike through the crag, in the high desert where not a drip of water drips.

26. Anticipating that first sip of ice cold water you’ve carried, finally crossing your lips.

27. Going to the bathroom when you’ve held it for far too long,

And you’re finally catching a break from work.

28. Getting your grade back on line, seeing you didn’t get those questions wrong, Then watching a YouTube video of a grandma twerk.

29. Getting that daggone splinter out of your hand, that had been bugging you for a day or more.

30. Talking with your bestie who will always seem to understand, even if they can’t relate to what the rant is for.

31. Seeing something which started the size of a single grain of sand, that you plant, grow into a tree with fruit in store.

There are so many flavors of sweet release to savor at the buffet of life,

And these are merely but a few,

I hope we, each and all, taste these, and many more to combat the strife,

Before we draw our last breath and are finished with what we’ve come to do.

So there you have it,

The flavorful forms of sweet release,

Totaling thirty one,

Like an ice cream cake,

On your thirty first birthday,

From Baskin Robbins: Done.