What We Forget About Jesus |Relevant Magazine
I just found out this piece that I wrote several years ago was just reposted at Relevant Magazine. Check it out!
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All I Have To Give You… #poetrythursday
If I could give you any gift,
I’d give you
cathedrals, spires and
hollow, with
a gargoyle choir to scare demons
and chase monsters from your closet.
I’d give you
Serengeti grassland, stampedes of
gazelle, and
sunset to match your eyes, sparkling.
I’d give you
rivers, and ponies, and gentle downy goslings.
And simple clouds to roll across your face in the morning.
Mountains and valleys, and oceans and lakes, and eternity
baked in a pie…
but all I can give you
are ink scribbles
and smiles,
and pictures painted with words,
and a forehead kiss goodnight.
Frankie Bruzzi and the Toilet Paper
I love to tell stories about growing up in Roulette. I have to tell them sparingly, because my kids would ask me to tell them over and over again – to the point that we wouldn’t get anything done.
My favorite stories usually have Frankie Bruzzi in them. Now that he’s an adult, I’m sure he prefers to go by Frank – but he’ll ALWAYS be “Frankie” to me.
Frankie was a good looking Italian kid who lived along Route 6. We rode the school bus together from the time we were in first and second grade. In junior high, we were both in band, chorus, and drama, and we both played the saxophone, so our social circles merged.
Whenever Frankie’s story intersects with mine, there’s bound to be an adventure.
When Frank started driving, he would pick me up for school, and for marching band practice. On this particular adventure, Frank had picked me up in his step-dad’s soft-top Jeep Wrangler. We went to an all-day end of summer marching band practice, and we were headed home on the back road (Card Creek / Kim Hill Road).
My naturally curious self decided to open the glove box, and I discovered a roll of toilet paper.
“What’s this for?” I asked curiously. Although now that I have much more life experience than I did as a 16 year old, it was a dumb question.
Frank explained that he often found himself in need of bath tissue when he was driving in the woods.
I got the bright idea of holding the roll, and letting out the paper a little at a time, so that it trailed and flapped in the wind. Since the doors were off the Jeep, this was quite easy, and quite entertaining. I had stretched enough toilet paper that we had a flapping white tail about twenty feet behind us.
While we laughed and enjoyed ourselves, we didn’t think about the consequences. What could go wrong? It’s just toilet paper, right?!
Another car turned onto the dirt road behind us. I got a little nervous about the long trail of toilet paper, and started trying to roll it up – but unfortunately, bath tissue, even double ply is perforated, which means there are weak points in its tensile strength.
All thirty feet of toilet paper let the roll with extreme velocity, which may or may not have been influenced by the excessive speed in which we were driving. The long snaking streamer of white flew straight backward, and piled up on the windshield of the car behind us, completely obscuring the windshield.
As the brakes behind us squealed and skidded on the gravel, I looked at Frankie, who looked at me… both our faces frozen in an “OH CRAP” face… and Frankie dug his heels into the accelerator. We were home before we could even think of getting caught.
So, almost 20 years later, I find myself making an open and sincere apology to the poor soul who got TP’d on Kim Hill Road at 50 miles an hour.
His Hands – Poetry Thursday by Josh Hatcher
I have
Bloodless, mottled hands,
with slender fingers,
and pink
chewed away nails,
tough fingertips,
callused by phosphored bronze
and silvered steel
And gentle palms
that a sliver
would wreck.
A solitary childhood scar,
definitely from a
jackknife rests on
the first knobby knuckle of
my index finger,
and short,
dark hair
trails
down to my
curved
little pinky.
His Hands
He has
strong, meaty
palms, rough
and scarred,
and sinew-wrapped
fingers, muscle to the bone;
Dirt pushed back beneath
His unmanicured nails, broken
by hammers and ironwood.
Scars deep through His wrist,
Through back and front,
Blessed are
His scars.
Poetry Wednesday: Prayer in thanks for the muse
This is a poem written in the fall of 1996, after finding inspiration to write after a trip to Nashville with a poet and a baseball player.
fold my hands, close my eyes,
try not to get distracted.
Why is it that you give me this?
Why do you speak
from my simple mouth?
(Something has to come
out of this poem…)
chewed pen-cap frustration
faded in Nashville.
The muse, perched on my
shoulder
screamed
above her usual whisper.
(if my muse had a color it would be green…)
More-than-Mentor, I thank you for
muse and rhyme, and for just knowing what it takes
to awaken me.
In stillness
I see what you’ve taught me,
shown me,
made me.
(I see how black I’ve made myself…)
Why do you speak through my simple mouth,
pink and coated from morning?
An Introspective – Poetry Wednesday
An Introspective
i (train tracks)
Standing ankle deep
muddy boots,
by empty silent train tracks
underneath a dogwood,
blossoms like white cigar-smoke rings.
(Don’t worry: the lilies have clothes
and the birds have food.)
ii (bald spot)
Lying knee high
brown-grassy curtain,
atop my mountain perch,
Sun, behind his orange veil
perched on his own mountain,
underneath a yawny blue sky,
cloud trails like dying white cigar-smoke rings.
(Conscience is quiet behind gratification.)
iii (inside)
Crouching beside
crimson tinted heart,
inside my ribcaged chest.
Lungs filling thick with air,
slowly deflating flat,
stomach pumping full of bile.
long winded exhale blows white cigar-smoke rings.
(Sometimes one must test to make sure he is not what he hates.)
Farmer Jack the Clown
As the son of Yogi the Clown, I’ve grown up in a clowning family! I’ve been doing it almost as long as my Yogi!
Farmer Jack can come to your party, parade, event and make balloon sculptures, or sing silly songs – as well as provide singing telegrams and balloon flower bouquets.
Farmer Jack also has a mobile petting zoo! which includes, bunnies, chickens, guinea pigs, and a few extra clown helpers!
Music
Josh Hatcher is a rootsy, jazzy, folk-rock artist from Northern PA. The backwoods folk meets suburban garage rock is simple, rough, and smothered in rich lyrics that demand a second look. Embedded in the music is a priceless mesh of jazz, folk and roots rock, along with technological effects and industrial and ethnic percussion. It’s a frappe of modern folk, alternative rock and electronica that shouldn’t be missed.
Drama Llama Ding Dong
If you find that your life is full of drama – people arguing and fighting with you, talking behind your back, betraying you, or a host of other “drama” related issues- then you may fall into one of the following categories:
1. You are really sensitive – and you need to lighten up.
Try not to take everything personally. Try not to assume that they are talking about you. And if they ARE talking about you – recognize it’s probably because of the way you have acted in the past. And if they ARE talking about you – and it’s NOT true – then learn to rise above the mess, not descend into it further.
2. You actually crave drama.
In the same way that sometimes I get a craving for ice cream – you have a craving for drama. You are not happy unless you have an enemy.
Guess what? There are plenty of enemies in this world. You don’t need to create more of them.
If you find yourself in this position – chances are good you’ve been raised to look for the enemy. It’s time to intentionally look for the good. Time to express gratitude. If you need an enemy – find some real evil and injustice, and tackle that. Use that energy to help someone less fortunate. It might turn it all around – IF you can get your focus off yourself. Which leads me to the next issue.
3. You are stuck on yourself.
And you think everyone else ought to be too. My friend tells me there are two types of pride (or vanity) – Big Wheel Pride – “Hey, look how awesome I am on my new big wheel!” and Worm Pride – “Woe is me. What a wretched waste of time I am. I’m just a nasty earth-dwelling worm.”
The problem in both of these forms of pride is that the idol, the subject of attention is the self.
Certainly, there needs to be SOME focus on self for a healthy life – but if we’re out of balance, we’re creating drama not just in our own lives, but that spills out into the lives of others.
No one wants to admit that any of these might be them. But the truth is – drama begets drama. You get out of life what you put into it – and while bad things happen to all of us sometimes, how we react sets the tone for the next situation. If our attitude is negative, we will only perpetuate the cycle.
Writer
Josh Hatcher is a published author, blogger, poet, songwriter, and experienced copywriter.
If you would like to check out some of his work, CHECK IT OUT HERE