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writers get their inspirations from many sources, for sure. some come from the news, or events of a personal nature, or drug induced; an endless muse from endless sources, for sure.

today, I was inspired by Dave Pudelka. Dave died two years ago of complications to his lungs; gift from the U.S. Government use of Agent Orange while he served in Viet Nam.

Dave a mild-mannered man. a family man. a logger. a border patrol officer. and he told the most horrible, boring jokes that were ever told before his life or since (so bad it made me laugh in amazement)

i last saw Dave three years ago. he and his wife Heather came to visit for a day. we visited, watched a movie about the secret lives of pets, ate a wonderful meal, and he told more of his hoooooorible jokes…

he inspired me today as i passed the spot we’re we met him on the highway as they traveled up the highway. i pass this spot often yet today his picture of standing there was as real/vivid as it was three years ago. in this, a poem is created.
*

This Concept Called, Time

By: Dave’s spirit

Jungles of vibrant drops of greenery
Wet
So wet the very being rotted

Bullets flying as if guided by intentions
Killing
Killing
Writing home so far from reality

It started
It ended
and then,
it began…

A family with one, then two, then three
in small home by a lake filled with algae
surround by a forest of work, until the Owl came

Out of work to soothe the conscious of an America that paid more in homage
to Owls, Wolves; misguided environment winning over the hard work of men and women
called loggers

Finding a border to cross where trading in the saw and hard-hat for a uniform
Black boots
a badge

Retirement to hunt and find
sickness
so hard to breath

Each breath so laborious
a smile still so powerful
and those great jokes

…

Dave is gone now, his wife still grieves as she cans the gardens bounty
But is he gone?
No.

Today, I saw him clearly standing tall wearing the face of a child, a young man, burly with an ax, polished in uniform,
and finally
pulling an oxygen bottle with dignity.

It’s a curse to know, to see, and be
where time is meaningless
to watch the infinitesimal sparks of life
float far from the flame

It’s a blessing though, to know, to see, and be
able to know it never ends
to watch the infinitesimal sparks of life
explode into a roaring flame.