Christmas Memory

When I was a twelve year old boy I remember a Christmas at my grandparent’s farm. It was tradition for all of us to gather there. There was the adult table in the dining room, and the kids table in the kitchen. We had all come to gather around the tables for lunch, the two grandparents, their three children and their spouses, and seven grandchildren. This memory happened before all of that. I remember, before the goodbyes, before the sledding, before the gifts exchanged, before the lunch, before the common table prayer, I was on the porch.

I was looking over the snow covered lawn. My gaze had fallen past the garage and past the chicken coop. I had fixed my sight, through the crisp air, upon the the barn. It was there that I remember coming to rest as I chewed upon an apple that everything was right. The cows were huddled in the pasture. Their breath blowing smokey clouds from their nostrils as their sides held sheets of snow. The chickens were nestled in their beds of straw staying warm inside their coop. The cats in the barn doing whatever it is that cats do, and the dogs under the table waiting for the meal to begin. It was their in that moment, that at least in the mind of a twelve year old, there was peace. And it is in that moment that I remember Christmas. Peace like that, will be brought to the world, because of a Christmas long ago, that wasn’t in the winter.

And as I sit eighteen years later in my parents’ living room, strapped to their couch by my friend named Flu and his buddy Fever, I yearn for Christmases like that to never cease.

Sit-You-Down

He killed himself on Christmas day,
or so it seems, and so they say
He hung himself in the garage
and a tree grew up from the floor.
A tree grew up in a crack in the floor,
and as I pass by the window I

see my face reflected there.

We pass each other like clouds in the sky
not knowing, oblivious.  No where or why.
So much flour and so little bread
for so very many mouths
We are all shattered and dead
mirrors on abandoned sidewalks.
All puddle and weed, so many pieces
I look for you but I

see my face reflected there.

This is what we do at my house
we take in orphans and we pass the beer
We say "don't you DARE ignore the here"
and grab you by the collar.
Sit
You
Down
I will hear no more of your excuses.
Do but look around at each one sitting, and

see my face reflected there.

tanka squared

Tanka toy in sand
child playing with friend
oxidize frame
as years upon faces
shadows on the playground.

Out From Bree: Part Two

Out From Bree: Part Two

Out From Bree

The Tale of the Brothers Hamel and Bernus

 Part Two

Boom! Boom! Boom! came three resounding knocks on the east gate of Bree. The thuds, which were so loud that they could very well have splintered the gate’s wooden beams, woke the slumbering gatekeeper, Bernus Wendling, from a deep midday sleep.

In his dream Bernus had been scaling a great mountain when his footing was lost and he stumbled backwards into a great void. He awoke just as he reached the dense forest floor far below. Of course he had not landed in a forest beneath a mountain, but in his tipped-over chair on the wooden floor of his small green gatekeeper’s shelter.

With a shrill gasp he sprang up, and for a moment could hardly believe he had survived the fall. As he stood motionless staring down at his chair, bleary eyed and breathing heavily, his mind eventually wandered back to reality. He dusted off his sleeves and looked up the road that led back into town, hoping that no one had witnessed the embarrassing scene (this time).

Boom! Boom! Boom! The knocks came faster this time, reminding Bernus of the task at hand. “Oh right!” He rushed to the gate and opened the window slot in the door. He nearly toppled over backwards again when he saw a fierce gigantic grey-bearded face staring directly back into his from an inch away. “Ah!” blurted Bernus, accidentally letting go of the slot door, which quickly slapped shut once again right on the great grey face.

“Sorry! So sorry!” Bernus opened the slot again. “Startled me there, ya did! That’s all, so sorry. Uh, hello. Hi. Uh, right, could I get your name sir?”

“I’ll give you much more than my name if you don’t open this gate sometime today!” The old man’s voice was gruff and impatient. “My name is Gandalf, and I have been knocking on this blasted door for the better part of five minutes!”

As grumpy as Gandalf sounded, Bernus was quite used to people losing their patience in conversation with him, and as such was not quick to notice such things. “Well then, Mr. Gandalf, let me open up for you then, shall I? Just one moment, if you please.” The slot slapped shut again, right on Gandalf’s nose. “Sorry!”

From outside of the gate Gandalf could hear the quick scuffling of feet, the clank of a large lock, then the rattling of a latch. This rattling stopped and started, stopped and started, and then was joined by grunting and sounds of strain. “If you’d prefer I could knock the gate over myself to save you the trouble,” Gandalf called from outside.

“I’ve got it here, I think,” came the voice from the other side. “Oh, wait, no I haven’t. Umm.” More grunting and rattling. “This, uh, this happens sometimes. Just a moment. Usually if I…”

After a few more groans and rattlings of the latch, Gandalf sighed and raised his staff. Touching the end to the gate, it swung open with a whoosh! and knocked Bernus, once again, onto his back.

“I got it!” Bernus sounded triumphant.

When the dust kicked up by the commotion had settled, Bernus got a good look at Gandalf. It felt to him as though he were looking upon a weathered statue of a great hero of old. Gandalf stood tall, much taller than scrawny little Bernus.  He seemed all the taller as he wore a high grey pointed hat, a long grey robe, and carried only his staff and a small leather tobacco pouch, which hung at his side.

“Master Gandalf, sir,” Bernus said as he raised himself to his feet, both excited and nervous to be standing in the presence of such a figure, “Welcome to Bree.”

Duluth and the Girl I love.

I'm out here because you're in there. tucking in the kids with clean hands, bloodless hands

Now Warm dozing, dreaming, watching tv and spilling another glass of wine.

You gave me the money and told me up go

You didn't feel safe

You asked me to live with the monsters in the dark so you don't have to. You wanted it all to stop.

Out here the lights don't stop. they fight the darkness.

Out here the silence swarms up from my boots in the snow as I stop to exhale the violence in my heart, and my ears and eyes with every bit of alone this city has to give.

I watch you in your dark in house from my blacked out car; your sleepy shutters drawn.

Out here I watch your suicide son drive his car, fishtailing down backroads and main drags, trying to earn the invincibility he's already been given.

I pull your baby back from the edge thrusting my knuckles deep into her chest pushing life in as she chokes it out. 34 years, & 2 babies of her own. She's still your baby at least for another day.

I leave my own daughter in her bed her tiny fingers pulling at my pockets as I get ready to leave. Pleading with hugs for me to stay.

But you gave me the money. You gave me the gun.

You asked me to live with the monsters in the dark.

i woke up at the end of the world

i woke up
at the end of the world.
arm in arm 
with my favorite girl.
lightening split the sky
and thunder shook the ground
i wasn't looking for the lost
they didn't want to be found.
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i once knew a man
who shot himself in the foot.
that sacramental limp
the holy oil of pain
its all by the book.
and i'm not looking for the lost
they don't want to be found...
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i woke up
at the world's end.
i was wrestling with angels...
He was wrestling with men.

la la la la la
(and i woke up at the end of the world.)

words &  music by Eric C Bervig
Demo recorded in his basement December 20, 2012
marking the eve of the end of the Mayan calendar.

a birth story

These are the stories that are told. 
Stories of pain and moaning,
grasping and bleeding, fear and
jubilant relief. These are good stories.
A currency to be traded in kind.

But they are not mine.

I could hear you coming for days.  
Winston, you gregarious fat man.
Your piquant smile a knife.
Stone-of-Joy standing 
jauntily upon the world's
last island. wielding pen and 
voice at the black dragon, its mouth 
full of fear and ashes.

I could see you for hours.
Leander, Swimming your Hellespont,
and as your face appeared 
it was blue as the waves, 
and your eyes darker still
for Medusa's blood filled snakes 
were wrapped round and round your neck.
Lion-Heart you clawed away the snakes and 
swam on to your Hero and her alabaster towers.

I could smell you in the air
and taste you on my lips
Waits, Watch-man.  
You back alley balladeer.
Croaking, bleating, beating the drum
of the every day miracles midst 
every day's unique misery.
Your eyes open and your mouth 
an organ of soul
You smelled of shit, blood, sweat,
and truth, 
and then you opened your 
mouth and sang it all again, and I 
believed every note.

I took you in my arms and called you
Herbert.  My own.  Blood and sweat
of my blood and sweat.  My blood flowing 
in you and yours in me forwards
and backwards through all time.
Forever Herbert. Forever my son.