 Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in Southern California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at [email protected]. Weekend Houris Gamboling in a breeze as if before the caliph, caparisoned with numbers and foreign names, gambling to be first among the many at the start, A seraglio of sloops vie for favor on the bay, from which I wish that I could choose the homeliest among them for my own. (But I am left alone on shore with only dreams to fill the day and stay my melancholy memories.) From mark to mark they tack for best position, each houri displays herself to best advantage, then they round the weather mark to dance, Erotically swaying downwind with parti-colored spinnakers set, snapped open like the oriental fans of tremulous virgins fluttering in aromatic zephyrs. (Yet I am left alone on shore with only dreams to fill the day and stay my melancholy memories.) The committee boat lies alee at anchor and like the chief eunuch of the chamber selects one maiden for the honors of the night. After this day’s decision all the sloops run for shore to undress and bathe and with naked limbs lie naked in the yard awaiting next weekend to tantalize again. (I am left alone again to fill weekdays with melancholy memories of the houris’ dance.) Sand Sentinels Hurricanes, cyclones, tornados bring Death, cataclysm and annihilation in High skies, deep seas, feeding ravenously. Desert dust devils arise in dead calm, Scoot across high plateaus until swallowed Into themselves, disappear to emerge miles away. Hard to comprehend births from nothingness, Fed, like yeast rising, with the heat randomly Spread through yucca, sage, sand – dull yellows. Small whirlwinds, short lives borne to travel, then Expire: entropic universe, from nothingness to nullity, Reappearing randomly, bursting from unexpectedness. Sand pyres geneses, autobiographies of formidable lives, Silently disappearing like Wonderland’s Cheshire Cat, To appear elsewhere with whispered possibilities. Admonition El Niño, La Niña, tornados in Florida and California, too; calendar turned topsy-turvy, hurricanes in January in both oceans, temperatures reversed across the continent. Heated thunderheads congeal above the peaks, chemical reaction overflowing its beaker; wrong season, wrong direction, inversion layers subverted, creating out of sequence, manmade cataclysms. And still arguments rage like caged animals snarling at each other while responsibility continues to be debated irresponsibly; you’d think storm deaths should be deemed civil action lawsuits, yet how do you sue yourself? Climate damages are irrefutable, change is inevitable, and yet Gaia groans under stresses. Her self-healing may take many millions of years – and billions of lives.
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