if there’s nothing new under the sun,
should our searchings be confined to the shadows?
in the shaded places would we have any hope to find
crystals that might in the open reflect and refract
colors we could never name?
our world is old and dying.
our words echo down empty wells.
something scurries in the darkness.
we don’t know its name,
it draws near.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
you reach a certain age, you think about
death all the time. not that it’s an obsession.
it’s a companion, with you while you walk
along the sidewalk, cars speeding past you
down the street, inches away (inches
away). with you when you cross the street
(jaywalking? against the light?). with you while
you ride your ten-speed bike (not fast enough,
your bike, not massive enough, no protective
cage). with you when you eat your dinner.
with you when you do your morning push-ups,
jumping jacks, running in place (going nowhere).
all but holding your hand when you hack up
clots of sputum, too much smoking for too
many years (the surgeon general warned you—
he warned you! you wouldn’t listen). you watch
your diet and watch your weight. you watch
and wait, you’re never alone now. you
couldn’t be more alone.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)
“An overstrained sense of manliness is the characteristic of seafaring men, or, rather, of life on board ship. This often gives an appearance of want of feeling, and even of cruelty. From this, if a man comes within an ace of breaking his neck and escapes, it is made a joke of; and no notice must be taken of a bruise or cut; and any expression of pity, or any show of attention, would look sisterly, and unbecoming a man who has to face the rough and tumble of such a life. From this, too, the sick are neglected at sea, and whatever sailors may be ashore, a sick man finds little sympathy or attention, forward or aft. A man, too, can have nothing peculiar or sacred on board ship; for all the nicer feelings they take pride in disregarding, both in themselves and others. A thin-skinned man could not live an hour on ship-board. One would be torn raw unless he had the hide of an ox. A moment of natural feeling for home and friends, and then the frigid routine of sea-life returned.” – Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast