TENT CITIES BY JEAN JONES

I try to imagine living in a tent city, and I can’t.
I keep picturing the cold at night and in the morning but I can’t picture it.
I keep imagining what the sky would look like as it turned to dusk and darkness
how beautiful the sky would turn, from peach to orange to red but I can’t see it.
I keep thinking how it would be like with no toilets, no money, and trying to imagine
where to get food and where to go begging but I can’t conceive it
Every time a man says to me on the street, “Could you give money to a disabled vet,”
or a guy parks next to an intersection with a cardboard sign that says “Will work for food,”
I try to imagine where those guys go when it gets dark. I can’t.
I’ve been to the library when the janitor has had to clean up where a man has defecated on himself
at the library bathroom. I’ve looked for sleeping homeless men that I was told were sleeping drunk by the church and were defecating on the church lawn. I was told to call the police if they didn’t leave when I asked them to. I’ve tried to picture the lives of these men. I can’t.
This is taking place in our cities and counties every night, not in some third world country.
It is unbelievable and yet we accept it like finding dog shit on our shoes: we hate it, we wipe
it off our shoes by scraping our shoes on the sidewalk, and we move on.

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Up a mountain deep,
in Indonesia

in the island of Sumatra,
deep in Indonesia

where no one speaks English,

where the only tourists
are blonde-haired Dutch
men & women

& up the mountain
that goes up in
curves

driving in weaves
up a single road
up a mountain
where you find yourself
at the top
of a crater,

the crater a huge
lake
& down the crater
the lake stretches
out for miles

& from the top
of the mountain

it seems
that life when
viewed from a
distance
high above

it stretches for miles
its dimensions
unfathomable
its length & width
unrecognizable

its beauty
insurmountable

& before one
descends
back down

into the thick of things
into the crowds of people
into the cars that
weave around this life

it seems
that for an instant,
for a second
life like this lake
is so beautiful

an eye clear & pristine

one could almost live in it

swim in it
w/joy
on a hot
blue June day

deep in the hills
of Indonesia
where no one
speaks
English

where the
only tourists
are blonde haired
Dutch men & women

for an instant
you could
touch it

you could
live it
you could
believe in it
& for an instant

I was
glad
to be alive
to be there
to be here

on top of
the lake
whose
dimensions
are
unrecognizable

&
before
I descend
I see
this

& I am
smiling
for I am
alive
I'm ere
& I don't want
to be

anywhere
else
anywhere
else
anywhere
else

& I
wish you
were here

in the
sunlight
w/me

right here
right now

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Disney has had a rollercoaster
called “Space Mountain.”

I had seen other rollercoaster rides
but this one is all inside a big building
and it is dark in there.
I think that made it more frightening.

So, I was in line to get on the ride
and just before I got to the end,
to that last part of the line,
I turned and left
before getting on.
I was scared of something.

Two years later,
my parents took us to Disneyworld again.
I remember looking at that line,
at Space Mountain,
that filled the inside
and stretched outside…
people waiting 45 minutes,
maybe longer…
many, many people,
every day bringing many more people
to ride this ride.

This really made me think,
challenging what I had believed.
if there was something to fear
and if this was something to avoid,
why would so many people
wait so long to ride this ride
without turning around and leaving
at the last moment?

So, I decided to ride this rollercoaster.

Waiting in line,
with my sister,
I never mentioned
being scared or nervous.

And I didn’t turn away
at the end.

The ride was intense,
exciting and scary…
People were screaming.

I think those people must feel
those same feelings
that I’ve felt,
being both scared and excited,
as we wait to get on and ride
Space Mountain…
and it is intense and scary
and we do return to ride it
again, like I did during that
trip to Disney World.

Not only do we do this
despite the fear
but I think we want to be scared;
I think this fear can be exciting(!)
and the feeling intense.

What makes more sense?
to say that we do this despite the fear
and that maybe we find being afraid
to be fun and exciting?
or to try to tell ourselves
and others
that we are not afraid?

- Bruce Whealton Feb 2009

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Death itself is the only true evil,
destroyer of all…
all that we know or can know
is here in what we call life.

Death is the dominion of the Devil.
It is this that the Gnostics got wrong,
when the claimed that Heaven was good
and this existence here,
this world, was ruled by an
evil god – making this place evil.

Death is the great enigma,
hidden in complete secrecy,
shrouded in mystery,
the place where no one,
no one in existence now,
has ever gone.

Having not gone there,
having never seen death personally,
it has always just seemed like
an illusion…
something not real or possible.
Perhaps this is just a coping mechanism,
for dealing with the unspeakable,
pretending that Death
itself, does not exist.

When I heard that my cousin
had committed suicide,
last year,
I had to know how -
she hanged herself -
because that would be the only way
to make sense of what I was being told.

I wanted to say “No!”
or ask my sister,
if she was sure.

But I didn’t say anything.

I don’t think she really was thinking
about how permanent were her actions
or where she was going,
metaphorically speaking.

I think she must have wanted
to go away,
in her mind,
to escape, or retreat,
to some place of her creation;

But where did she get the idea
that suicide would get her there?

Death offers no hope,
no answers,
no meaning,
no comfort…
only pain,
suffering.

Death is the Devil’s domain…
the enemy of everything
we’ve ever known,
of everything we’ve ever loved,
of everything that’s ever mattered -
mattered to us.

I still don’t understand,
how my cousin could have thought
she’d get where she wanted to go
by committing suicide.

Bruce Whealton February, 2009

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What do these memories mean?
How can I know that my memories are true
and real?

Sometimes it seems
that these are just
the stories that I tell,
(the stories that I tell myself
so I won’t forget)
about what was
and what I’ve lost
and what I desire back
from the past -
I don’t know if
anyone cares or listens
The characters in some of these stories
are gone – some dead now.
So, I alone tell my stories
without anyone to verify their truth.

Was it real?
My brother, once for a while
like a best friend
now I don’t even have a brother.
If dreams are a form of wish fulfillment,
as Freud said,
then perhaps ,
in that state of mind,
when and where I write
my poems,
is a road to my unconscious.
Then in another memory
Grandma says, “don’t hurt Bruce.”
“But I’m bad,” the 10-year-old
Bruce thought.
It’s unfortunate that she is
but a memory.

How I miss that love!
How I miss her!

-    Bruce Whealton 2009

Note on above:  Freud called dreams the “Royal Road To The Unconscious.”  Healing and health came from gaining awareness of unconscious, repressed thoughts or desires.  In some of my poems it seems that I am letting the Muse speak to freely and offer insights or increased awareness of things that were hidden.

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If I could do it again… Dream insights #1

I’ve dreamed this so many times…
sometimes there is a part of me,
that ventures back in time,
to warn me of what would happen…
what life would be like if I follow a certain
path.

Other times, it seems that clear that indeed
a dream is a form of wish fulfillment…
and so hard it is to awaken from this dream.

Freud claimed that this was wish fulfillment, but
what purpose can this serve, only
to disappoint upon waking -
to find that the miracle that I so wanted
was just a dream.

It seemed so much like it would be
possible to change things,
set things right again.

Some say hope is dangerous
others that it is necessary and important.

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It seems just like yesterday…
I can’t be more than 5 years old…
I have to reach up to touch
the handrail.

Looking down,
I see the Church crowd below…
and a man is speaking,
(since then, I learned,
that was our priest)
then it’s quiet

And looking down in awe
I ask “Is that God?”

People turn to me,
looking up from below
Mom and Dad are laughing
at me.

I was usually so quiet.
I remember that.

They pull me back to my seat,
saying “sh”
but they didn’t answer me.

I just wanted to see God
but I was afraid to get up.

2009 – Bruce Whealton

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