Great Writers - John

 Hailing from humid ,sunny southern Florida, John's interest in the strange, melancholy, and macabre began when he chanced upon a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula at the local library at age 12. More books would soon follow starting with Edgar Allen Poe's works and the bizarre, dark realism of Kafka. It was H.P. Lovecraft that most gained Mr. Balfour's attention, however, upon leaving him quite unsettled after reading "The Call of Cthulhu". Later, he realized it was because of the bleak implications for humanity present in Lovecraft's work and the impressively oppressive mood he was able to create. John seeks to emulate the philosophy of cosmic horror in his own writing by creating characters whose horror comes just as much from the mundane world, as the metaphysical one.  buy his work

Martin Gerber was a small man, always dressed in a white shirt, grey pants, and a rather ugly green tie with pictures of golf clubs covering it that his wife had gotten him. He did not like golf, or any sport for that matter, but it had been a birthday present, and he had little care for fashion, so he wore it exclusively in appreciation as much as apathy. Large black-framed glasses were the only thing that stood out on him, though they were not really large so much as they only seemed so on his face. His accounting job and routine schedule to and from it completed the picture of an uneventful life.

Now, small, unassuming men need not have small, unassuming minds. And an observer might believe Martin to have a fantastic intellect, or imagination despite his appearance. They might believe such a thing as they stared at Martin drinking a cup of tea on the bench in front of the bookstore where he spent his lunch hour, his line of vision fixing on nothing in particular for very long, inevitably ending up somewhat north of his dull brown shoes, and they would be completely wrong. There were no great gears turning under his thinning hair and no big ideas bursting out of his tightly-shut mouth. He had little to say on any subject outside his work, of which he was not that interested in discussing, and did not feel inferior because of this. Everything was as it should be in his eyes. One had to be economic not just in action but in thought, and if anything he said could be classed as a real opinion, it was that people wasted life on pointless thought. In this way, he largely ignored everything superfluous to his little corner of the world.

His most effective way of accomplishing this was a decision to never consider anything outside his home and office too closely, which, on this particular Tuesday, he went against. It was a normal day in all respects; he had finished with his numbers and was on his way to the bookstore, stopping first at the cafe next to it for his tea. What made him stop and examine the bench was the sign placed on it stating that it was wet with varnish. Wet. With. Varnish. For some reason he could not process the meaning of those words and stared at the bench uncomprehendingly, realizing after a minute that he had never actually looked at the bench he sat on every day, thinking of it as a thing with a name. It was just something hard he sat on. Now he could not stop looking.

 Not only could he not comprehend the words, but the bench was something utterly alien as well. What was it? Tentatively, he reached out and gripped the backrest, then pulled away from its cool, sticky surface, wiping his hand absently on his white shirt, leaving a crimson stain. Martin did not notice the manager of the bookstore looking at him from the door, nor the woman behind him trying to decide if she should attempt to get by him or not. He did not notice anything but the bench with his handprint on it, and could not stop wondering why it existed. The only thing clear in the quickly forming fog invading his mind was that he would not be getting back to work.

John Meza writes poetry and builds bridges. Photo by John Meza. MORE POETRY BY JOHN MEZA

A city beating
Streetlights
In the dark
Bleeding on each other

A city of stone and sea
Where seagulls
Wake the dawn

From a 200 foot tower
I speak to you
Cover sidewalks
With textured words

Tread softly

My poems
Are beneath your feet

John Swinburn called Corpus Christi home from the time he was five years old until he graduated from Richard King High School in 1972. More about John at the end of this section.

Early that morning, at daybreak, a shallow, nearly opaque layer of water-hugging mist flowed in through the quiet marina. Faith watched it roll in, a slow-motion wave of dense wax sliding in from the open water. It was an odd fog bank, low and creamy, just a few feet above the surface. The masts and decks of boats in the marina were visible, but everything below deck remained hidden. That impenetrable layer of light grey concealed the boardwalk, too, leaving only an orderly cluster of boats rising from a dull, fictile grey cloud.

No one would be foolish enough to venture out in that fog, Faith reasoned, so she thought she could safely assume hers would be the only boat on the open water. She could see the lights of only one other boat. She slogged through the knee-high cloud along the wooden planks between the slips, blind to the boardwalk, so she judged her position by staying equidistant from the boats on either side, safely away from the dock’s edge.

On a clear day, the loud chatter of seagulls would have broken the stillness of the early morning air. Small flocks of pelicans would have glided a few feet above the surface of the water in search of breakfast. The air would have been heavy with the scent of salt water and seaweed. But on this foggy morning, the birds were waiting for better visibility. Silence enshrouded the boats and the marina and beyond, where open water slept beneath a heavy veil. The sweet aromas of salt and fish filled Faith’s nostrils, though the fog muted those scents of the sea. 

Until she had moved to the island a decade earlier, Faith had never set foot on a sailboat. In ten years’ time, though, she had become an accomplished sailor, learning much of what she knew by watching other people sail, reading, and watching YouTube videos. Repetition of the sailor’s art, too, contributed to her skills and built her into a strong and powerful mariner. Open water represented liberty to Faith, freedom from the stifling regimens she associated with life back on the U.S. mainland, the boredom she had so loathed that she had abandoned it, at age forty-six, for the island life.

Her boat’s slip was at the far end of the marina, the very last one on the northwest side. 

As she climbed aboard Norteña, her 28-foot Catalina, she heard a voice. “Miss! Miss! You goin’ out now? Too much fog, Miss! Better wait.”

She couldn’t see him, but she recognized the voice as Lucius Labade, the de facto manager of the marina who possessed neither the official title nor salary that would normally accompany the role. 

“Hi, Lucius! Nobody else is going to be out in this fog. I’ll be careful!”

“Oh, Miss, you never know ‘bout that water. Better safe, Miss. Better safe. I think you wait until fog lifts, okay?” His voice was closer now, but she still couldn’t see him. 

“I appreciate your concern, Lucius, I really do. But I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.”

Suddenly, the little man appeared in front of her, his face directly in front of and level with her breasts. 

“Miss, please listen; wait just awhile, okay?”

His hot breath, which she felt through the mesh fabric of her bikini top, startled her. He was just inches away, close enough that he had to raise his eyes and tilt his head to see her face.

“Lucius, you know I’m not going to wait, don’t you? I promise, I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Miss, I know you one hard-headed woman. I wish you listen to Lucius this time. This fog not like normal. This too thick.”

“You’re a sweet old man, Lucius. I love you for worrying about me! I’m going to be just fine. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Lucius, at sixty-four, was not much older than Faith. Sixty-four years of salt water and sun had stolen the youth from his skin, replacing it with ragged ancient leather and black dots, lesions of unknown but apparently benign origin. 

Faith stood in stark contrast to the island native. Her toned body commanded hungry stares from men. Their undisguised lust was the only truly unpleasant aspect of island life. Though rarely did any of them continue making overtures once rebuffed, they did not hide their lechery. That open display reminded Faith of her ex-husband’s unrestrained carnal desire—for her in the early years of their marriage and for anyone else younger and firmer in its waning years.

Lucius acknowledged defeat. “Okay, Miss, but promise be careful. And when you back you tell me, okay?”

“Yes, Lucius, I’ll let you know when I get back. I’ve got my radio with me, too, so if I need help, you’ll hear me calling.”

Faith untied Norteña, coaxed the diesel motor to life, and maneuvered her out of the slip toward open water. Until she could catch a breath of wind, the diesel would be the Catalina’s only power. 

***

Lucius stood, his eyes fixed on her boat, as Norteña slid almost silently away from the marina, the diesel barely growling as it thrust the boat forward. He continued watching until the vessel became a speck in the distance. As he turned his gaze away from the disappearing boat, Lucius noticed another craft slowly move out from the far end of the marina, the only other slip with a light. He squinted to see which boat it was, but it was too far away. He walked in the direction of the slip from which the boat had come. Finally, he determined that the light belonged to the empty slip for Abrázame, a boat owned by a relative newcomer to the island, Drake Pool.

Lucius had overheard Pool making a pass at Faith. Pool, who was in his sixties, thought of himself as a lady’s man. During the two months he had been on the island, he had been involved in several unfortunate incidents in which his “dates” had abruptly left his company after, according to their reports, Drake had groped them. Faith had been one of the women Pool attempted to seduce. Lucius remembered what happened.

“I have no interest in, nor patience for, men like you,” she had said to Pool after he suggested, during a party at the island mayor’s home, that they retire to an empty bedroom. Unwilling to accept her response at face value, Pool continued his pursuit.

“Listen, honey, you know and I know there’s a shortage of men like me on this island and you already know I find you attractive. Do us both a favor and dispense with the obligatory objections because, you know, I don’t take no for an answer.”

Faith’s eyes flashed and a brilliant red fireball ignited her cheeks. “Your conceit is astonishing, especially in light of the fact that neither your intellect nor your looks are doing you any favors. I am absolutely delighted there are no other men like you on this island, because we islanders loathe dealing with trash! Now, you will take no for an answer, Mr. Pool, and if I must give you that answer again, you will regret moving to this island! Do I make myself clear?”

Pool smirked. “Oh, yes ma’am. I know exactly what you’re saying. Enjoy the rest of the parry, uh, I mean party.”

Lucius hadn’t heard the entire exchange, but he had been at the party and heard enough of the words and the way they were exchanged to know of Faith’s displeasure with Pool. Lucius hadn’t liked Pool from the moment he met the man. Pool had always been mean to Lucius, talking down to him, belittling him. Lucius glanced back at the slip where Faith’s boat had been, then turned again toward Pool’s empty slip. 

“Best see about this,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. He looked toward the slip that held his own boat. At first, his movements were measured and slow, but as he continued along the boardwalk, he picked up speed. By the time he reached the section of the docks where his boat was moored, his pace was as close to a run as his old body could do.

“Dammit, this not good, I just know is not good!” he said aloud. He unwound the ropes from the cleats on the port and starboard sides of his boat, both stern and bow, then pushed away from the dock with a long pole. His little boat, half the size of Faith’s, drifted a few feet into the pea soup fog; he started his electric trolling motor and steered the craft around the protective jetty and into open water, following the disrupted fog bank like a river.

Twenty minutes later, Lucius began to see signs that the fog was lifting, or perhaps simply melting into the surf. The morning sun was high enough to burn off the top of the bank. A light breeze, the sun’s gift every morning when air began to warm, blew away the remnants of the fog is short order. 

Though he welcomed the breeze, Lucius wasn’t happy that the disrupted fog, which had left a bread-crumb trail to follow Pool, evaporated. The only way to follow him would be by sight. He pulled a pair of binoculars from a tray beneath the wheel and scanned the horizon in front of him. Initially, he could see nothing but sky and water, but after another scan he saw something that looked the size of a gnat, a mile or two in front of him. He steadied the binoculars against a wooden brace and looked intently at the gnat. 

“Both of ‘em; they both way in front of me.” 

Lucius hoisted a single sail and set out in the direction of the gnats on the horizon as fast as the sluggish breeze would take him. Though he knew it probably wouldn’t help, he kept the trolling motor going full blast, as well.

He was surprised that he caught up to the two boats as quickly as he did; in less than forty-five minutes, he was within shouting distance of both vessels, neither of which was under sail. As he neared the two boats, he saw Pool drop anchor. From Norteña, Faith, whose boat was already at anchor, also watched Pool. 

When Lucius was just a few hundred feet from the two boats, Pool turned toward him and scowled at his approach. 

“Hey, Lucie, what are you doing out here?” 

Faith turned in Lucius’ direction, a quizzical look on her face.

“I came to make sure everybody okay; fog bank really bad and could come back. You go back in now, yes?”

“Lucius, don’t you worry about us, we’ll be fine. Mr. Pool seems to want to spend a little time out on the open water with me.” Faith’s smile suggested to Lucius that she was, indeed, fine.

Pool glared at Lucius. “Yeah, Lucie, you don’t need to worry. Go on back to the island. We’ll be fine. We just need a little privacy out here, you know?” 

Lucius looked at Pool’s smirk, then at Faith. “You sure? Miss, better if you go back now, okay?”

Pool’s face turned red. “Listen, goddamn it! Get the hell out of here, Lucie! Got it? We want some privacy!”

Lucius looked at Faith again, a deep wrinkle in his brow and his head cocked in disbelief. 

“Miss? You sure?”

“Lucius, you’re a sweetheart, but I’ll be fine! I really appreciate you coming all this way, but I’m just fine. I just want a little time with Mr. Pool, away from the prying eyes of the islanders, okay? And, please, let’s keep this between us, all right? No need to start the gossip mill.”

Pool sneered at Lucius. “Go on, Lucie! You heard the lady!”

Lucius started to open his mouth, but clinched his jaw, instead, and began to maneuver his boat away from the two at anchor. As he departed, he shouted back to Faith: “Miss, you tell me when you back, okay?”

“I will, sweetheart! Don’t worry.”

Lucius looked back again. When he saw Faith in the water, swimming toward Pool’s boat, he grimaced. Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

Three hours later, when he saw Norteña come around the jetty, Lucius hurried toward Faith’s boat slip. He waited as she approached the dock, waving at her as she coaxed the boat into the slip.

“I so glad you back, Miss!” he shouted. “I was afraid for you out there with Mr. Pool. You okay?”

“Of course, I’m fine, Lucius. You’re so precious to have worried.”

“I don’t see Mr. Pool boat; he on his way back?”

“Lucius, I asked you if we could keep this to ourselves, right? Can we keep it to ourselves that you saw Pool out there?”

“Yes, Miss, sure. But where is he?”

“You never know what to expect out on open water, especially when you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Lucius, I learned my lesson. I won’t do that again.” She paused and said, “He won’t either.”

Lucius was confused for a moment, but then he began to understand, and the edges of his mouth turned up. She nodded, almost imperceptibly and returned the smile.

“Thank you, Lucius, for looking after me. I’m sorry I sent you away, but I needed to deal with Pool.”

“You my good friend, Miss. Always look after you.”

“And I truly appreciate that, Lucius. Yes, you are my good friend.”

“Mr. Pool not gonna bother you no more.”

“No, Lucius, I don’t think he will,” Faith said, and wrapped her right arm around his shoulders with a squeeze.

copyright John Swinburn

Read more great writing in Corpus Christi Writers 2018: An Anthology

John Swinburn called Corpus Christi home from the time he was five years old until he graduated from Richard King High School in 1972. Corpus Christ was where he developed a framework for understanding the world. He earned his Bachelor of Art’s degree from the University of Texas at Austin, and eventually formed an association management company with his wife. Since his retirement, Swinburn has used his time to write, relax, and restructure his world view and perspective on life, a work in progress. He and Janine live in the Ouachitas in central Arkansas. Swinburn posts regularly on his blog at www.johnswinburn.com. “It’s not for the faint of heart,” he says of his blog. “One day I may use it as a journal, the next as a repository for my fiction or poetry, and the next an outlet for an odd mixture of left-leaning and libertarian political rants.”  

Juan Manuel Pérez, a Mexican-American poet of indigenous descent and the past Poet Laureate for Corpus Christi, Texas (2019-2020), is the author of numerous books. More about Juan at the end of this section.

(an Indigenous truth re-cast in Corpus Christi, Texas)

looming overhead
like bright, dawning giant clouds
just waiting to strike

we see them staring
as we go about our way
doing what we do

those giant eyeballs
between horizontal ears
shaped like antennas

three long fangs for mouths
on top of chin after chin
for one and his twin

they just stare and stare
so we stare back and we stare
such dramatized eyes

then there was sadness
from the eyes of the giants
vanishing slowly

going… and then gone
vanquished by the morning sun
Earth is saved once more

Corpus Christi, Texas 2013

O’ pace yourself thy lover, pace yourself

for with my name they have consecrated

tall buildings and beautiful, baseball fields

even pretty shrines where I’m created

O’ pace yourself thy lover, pace yourself

for only I can satisfy hunger

for only I can take you to places

where your empty belly will not monger

O’ pace yourself thy lover, pace yourself

with a Patty Melt, Chocolate Shake, and Fries

or a Honey Butter Chicken Biscuit 

with Onion Rings and box of Apple Pie

O’ pace yourself thy lover, pace yourself

for there is much more of me to enjoy

MORE LIKE THIS IN CORPUS CHRISTI WRITERS 2021

 Outside Alice High School Facing The Cemetery,

Alice, Texas

January 11, 2018

I.

fully past the fall

in the winter of it all

Alice winds whistle 

II.

winds by this and that

playing tag among the graves

cemetery cool

III.

winds yet not as cold

resets the season once more

January breeze

IV.

dead, the leaves that fall

dry ground willingly receives 

daring nature’s call

V.

small the steps to take

smile so that it may last long

sing along with winds

VI.

by the cool, hard steps

made by man, not by nature

windy reminder 

VII.

the cemetery

reminds me to enjoy life

wind touching my face

At Texas A&M Kingsville

February 15, 2019

I.

out in the open

birds singing in the bright sun

winter in Kingsville

II.

campus patio

smooth breeze parts the nice silence

interrupts nothing

III.

what winter is like

this far south of my Texas

short sleeves and short shorts

IV.

unhurried students

classes must run on spring-time

while cold in New York

V.

“bees don’t speak English!” 

said to the guy fighting with one

hunger speaks louder

VI.

stretched-thin yoga pants

is this the right place for you?

…what was I saying?

VII.

Javalina Pride:

truly it is all inside

beautiful campus

John 16:33 NLT
"I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me.
Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows.
But take heart, because I have overcome the world."

City of some of my very first
dreams and memories
City of my sibling’s birth
and plenty of other relatives
City of most of my parents’ habits,
haunts, and shopping activities
Oh, how I grew to learn
your impact on my family

City of my small-time hangouts
and cruising down Getty and Main
City of the Purple Sage Dance Hall
and pretty, Saturday night chances
City of my athletic exhibition
and my college prep life
Oh, how I thrived within you,
Oh, beautiful city of the green trees

City of some first poetic endeavors
and part of my early writings
City of my initial
and accidental teaching career
City of many friends and relatives
and now my grandson’s place of birth
Oh, how I celebrated within you
in blissful happiness 

Now, a city of victimized darkness
and too many innocent dead
Oh, how I weep for you in deep desperation and inconsolable sorrow

Juan Perez reads two poems

God is Good! God is Great! God is Awesome!

I.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Public School Teachers,

Wise Professors, Students of Poetry, 

PHD Carrying Wal Mart Leaders,

Great Citizens of Nueces County,

All of you present here this very night

A man once said, “Come to Corpus Christi.

I will put you and your words on display 

Among those I know here in this city.”

So eventually I came to this coast

Tonight, I am tasked to introduce him

I say of him, as Kirk would say of Spock,

“Of all the souls I've encountered on my 

travels, his was the most...human.” Indeed

“But good words; that’s where ideas begin. …

Maybe you should listen to them,” I did

II.

A greater poet among great poets

Grand enabler of versification

Facilitator of bards yet to be

The soul of Shakespeare in this century

Grand things and much more can be thought of him

But he will play it off as nothing said

For in this façade of a common man

Rages the poet against his machines 

Like Scotty working poetic engines 

Expecting finesse in understanding 

All the right words in all the right phases 

Going where poems have never gone before

That is this man, my friend, and my brother

Kindred poet of a different mother 

III.

I do love him, but this is no love poem

These are verses of honor, gratitude

Celebration of this prize of passage

For the best and first among us all here

Despite my rants of ethnic brown issues 

Obvious tortilla alliterations 

Chupacabras and pesky wall builders

Our bond has become stronger through the years

Yet we are the same despite differences

Like our love for great women and monkeys

For Mexican food, football, and cold beer

For soda pop, polkas, and poetry 

With reason, I say these words to you now

In some fear that you might never hear them

IV.

One day we will be only memory

To this end, the poet is duly cursed

Yet our words left behind will outweigh us

Fulfilling needs of many who read us

Don’t bother to grieve, it is logical,

Like flowers: here today, gone tomorrow

Yet crafted words remain printed in books

Choose the right ones to say and take the rest

For now we revel in celebration

As we partake in this, a great honor

This city’s very first Poet Laureate

What a wonderful thing it is to witness

And with that I close as I remind you: 

I have been and always shall be your friend.

Juan Manuel Pérez, a Mexican-American poet of indigenous descent and a Poet Laureate for Corpus Christi, Texas (2019-2020), is the author of several books of poetry including the autobiographical, THIRTY YEARS AGO: LIFE AND THE FIRST GULF WAR (House Of The Fighting Chupacabras Press, 2023). The award-winning poet, history teacher, and Pushcart Nominee, is also a member of the Horror Writers Association, the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and the Military Writers Society of America. Juan worships his Creator and chases chupacabras in the South Texas Coastal Bend Area.

[a Mexican Indian cautionary tale]

when you understood
how easy it was for you
reading sacred bones

when you realized
how good you were becoming
playing peoples’ lives

when you recognized
wishes materialized
just as you spoke them

when you stopped caring
with the darkness throughout you
circling your soul

when you thought attained
no limit to your power
thinking you were god

then you ceased counting
the multitude of demons
summoned to service

then it was divulged
your final destination
was far worse than hell

The Kaleidoscope-Painted Devil In Hell

(some say a response
is required by the end,
but who really knows…)

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self

hi, are you new here?
(…hey man, aren’t you going to
say “hi” back to you?)

Old Chicken Bones (O.C.B. Prototype)

rooster-red-rooster
let evolution bring down
dinosaurs and frowns

rooster-red-rooster
a rolled-up conspiracy
unfortunately

rooster-red-rooster
with your carnivorous ghosts
whom shall we fear most

rooster-red-rooster
your odd historical rout
what’s it all about

rooster-red-rooster
these old bones resurrected
shined with perspective

rooster-red-rooster
a duplicated nightmare
when nobody cared

rooster-red-rooster
now it’s done and it’s too late
man on dinner plates 

ever here about
the Corpus Christi kaiju?
until today, no

as real as can be
a kaiju from gulf waters
a platform killer

deep-rig destroyer
what woke it up from slumber
oil-black with fear

man rouses its cage
with deep, pipeline syringes
sucking seabeds dry

within and without
its own veins pump oil-blood
as is its nature

platform one-three-five
on fire and sinking fast
kaiju makes for shore

upon Coastal Bend
kaiju waits for tanker ships
takes back what is his

Corpus Christi Kaiju
 

ever here about
the Corpus Christi kaiju?
until today, no
 

as real as can be
a kaiju from gulf waters
a platform killer
 

deep-rig destroyer
what woke it up from slumber
oil-black with fear
 

man rouses its cage
with deep, pipeline syringes
sucking seabeds dry
 

within and without
its own veins pump oil-blood
as is its nature
 

platform one-three-five
on fire and sinking fast
kaiju makes for shore
 

upon Coastal Bend
kaiju waits for tanker ships
takes back what is his
 

Pendejoism
 

[a Mexican Indian cautionary tale]
 

when you understood
how easy it was for you
reading sacred bones
 

when you realized
how good you were becoming
playing peoples’ lives
 

when you recognized
wishes materialized
just as you spoke them
 

when you stopped caring
with the darkness throughout you
circling your soul
 

when you thought attained
no limit to your power
thinking you were god
 

then you ceased counting
the multitude of demons
summoned to service
 

then it was divulged
your final destination
was far worse than hell
 

The Kaleidoscope-Painted Devil In Hell
 

(some say a response
is required by the end,
but who really knows…)
 

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self
 

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self
 

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self
 

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self
 

hi, are you new here?
said the man with the forked tongue
to his mirrored self
 

hi, are you new here?
(…hey man, aren’t you going to
say “hi” back to you?)
 

Old Chicken Bones (O.C.B. Prototype)
 

rooster-red-rooster
let evolution bring down
dinosaurs and frowns
 

rooster-red-rooster
a rolled-up conspiracy
unfortunately
 

rooster-red-rooster
with your carnivorous ghosts
whom shall we fear most
 

rooster-red-rooster
your odd historical rout
what’s it all about
 

rooster-red-rooster
these old bones resurrected
shined with perspective
 

rooster-red-rooster
a duplicated nightmare
when nobody cared
 

rooster-red-rooster
now it’s done and it’s too late
man on dinner plates

Who is Johnny Jebsen, and why does he keep emailing me?

I dropped off the end of the social media after short-circuiting on the outrageous political pall. We are seeing why Socrates was pessimistic about democracy. The tower of Babylon: Genesis 11.7, let us go down and confuse their language. We have become lost. LOUDNESS. We need to keep in mind that, politically speaking, we are actually being titrated by LOUD PEOPLE; hence questions like What is LOUD in our world?  Interesting for example that merely typing LOUD in caps denotes being loud. Food can be LOUD and colors can be LOUD. What does it mean to be LOUD in people?  How are people LOUD? What is clear proof on the importance and recent appearance of LOUD?

My memorable remnants are few. Not so much for my lack of mental capacity but for the small and focused nature of my background.

As a 4 month old child I was left at the door step of a Monastery; hence, parent-less, without a history I was -- though I had never known it -- turned over to Monastery of the Order of Sanctus Sicario, or what is the Holy Assassins of the Holy Catholic Church.

That no history exists, that nothing has been recorded precludes not that it ever doubtfully existed, but that we were so well hidden.

I dropped off the end of the social media after short-circuiting on the outrageous political pall. We are seeing why Socrates was pessimistic about democracy. We  may be physically overruled by a ship of fools.

The tower of Babylon: Genesis 11.7, let us go down and confuse their language.

We have become lost.

LOUDNESS. We need to keep in mind that, politically speaking, we are actually being titrated by LOUD PEOPLE; hence questions like What is LOUD in our world?  Interesting for example that merely typing LOUD in caps denotes being loud. Food can be LOUD and colors can be LOUD. What does it mean to be LOUD in people?  How are people LOUD? What is clear proof on the importance and recent appearance of LOUD?

Here now is my story.

I drive to work in the long line of bumper to bumper traffic with other suburbanites of lesser neighborhoods making their way to work. Real Floridians love Jesus and kitsch but don't eat quiche. Real men love their guns, always sure to stroke it clean and keep it oiled. They imagine themselves "going in" and shooting "foreign invaders," too.

"Where is the sense of things?" I often asked my radio, but the radio never offered solution. It only talked.

There are few things that make sense in the world, and one of them is just being with the ones you love.

If you want to understand Florida, you have to first accept that anyone who lives in Florida is not from Florida. You're either old and running for a tax shelter or you're running away from something you didn't like. We're all castaways here. 

We're all pirates of some sort. Canadians and New York Jews abound -- a contact zone of cultures, Pittsburgh and New Jersey settlements. Lots of trailer parks fly Canadian flags.

Yeah. All pirates here! Here in Florida, they call me Papillon.

copyright Johnny Jebsen

My childhood was full of wonder and mystery. My sister said my grandmother was of the Delaware (Lenne Lenape) tribe. Her daughter ,Sarah, held an equally strong opinion. She said her mother was crazy and so was I to believe her. My sister is long dead and only has me to stand up for her.

We grew up in Indian country in northeast Oklahoma where the last of the great Algonquin nations were settled by the federal government.

Lenne Lenape literally means “We the People”. The Delaware are recognized as the oldest of all the Algonquin tribes by the Iroquois. The Iroquois was a confederation of tribes including the Seneca, the Cayuga, Wyandotte and others. Many these native Americans were eventually settled in Oklahoma. 

A friend, Jim Winnie, was a Seneca-Cayuga. I also had friends among the Osage, and of course Delaware. [1] The structure of that old Iroquois confederation was an inspiration to the framers of our Constitution.

Like some of my stories this one is fiction based on true stories that happened while I was young.

..

Behold!

The ceremonial drum no longer speaks.

Many winters have passed since the thunder spirits have been called with reverent song.

The thunders, who are the Manitoo that bring the rain which they have been given dominion over by the Creator, 

await the chants of the People.

But the people no longer sing and dance to the traditional songs, and the sacred drums no longer pound to the pulse of the People.

Behold!

The Big Ceremonial House of the

the Lenne Lenape, has burned and fallen. The timbers rot. The sacred poles long ago carried away. 

Now birds sing in the meadow where once the people danced. At dusk the whitetail deer cautiously feed on the sweet grass where once the Sachem stood. 

Behold! 

The Sacred Drum is silent.

Who speaks for the People now?

There is no history and no remembrance. All is shame and the past forgotten. 

The structure of the Iroquois Confederation was an inspiration to the framers of our constitution.

A few miles from my home a tributary of the Caney River called Panther Creek flows into the Caney, River. Across the creek there was a swing bridge to service an old oil field pump house. Just beyond the swing bridge a faint trail cuts through the underbrush to an open pasture where the Delaware Ceremonial Big House once stood. 

Not far, perhaps two hundred paces, a rail trestle crosses the creek and the track winds its way cross country to the small town of Pawhuska thirty or so mile distant. 

That pump house thumps to a drum like cadence as it drives the tie rods back and forth through the sweet grass. The creaking and singing of the tie rods gives the place a creepy feeling especially at night. It was not enough that the big house was once there; the sounds of the pumping, the smell of the crude oil and the pungent odor of decaying timbers gave the place a sense of fearsome dread. 

My grandfather came to the Indian Territory from New Brunswick by way of Montana where his father spent a life in desperation tending to a failing farm. My sister’s story is that my grandmother was part Delaware Indian. My grand mother’s death was a mystery when my dad was only four. My grandfather soon remarried and tended to his oil leases in Osage County. All I knew about my father’s family were terrible stories of pain and regret. 

There were other stories. In my home town. Pistol Pete, the old gunfighter, was still living when I was a boy. He was nearly one hundred years old. Frank Eaton was his name. He held court outside the Burlingame Hotel barber shop in Bartlesville, Oklahoma every Saturday. A flock of little listeners held on his very word as he told of the old times and the men he killed. I was one of those. 

There were also stories of the Manitoo, the thunder spirits, the Gitche Manitou, (the Great Spirit) and Gush Ke Wau, (the darkness). They were just stories. Few grownups took them seriously. Almost none spoke of spirits in public. Almost all of the red men had become Christians. One of my friend’s dad who was the Delaware tribal financial chairman was also a deacon in the Baptist Church. He later served two terms as the chief of the Delaware. Those old ways were not to be remembered.

I had friends who were Delaware, Seneca, Cayuga, Cherokee, Wyandotte, and Osage. One day a Delaware friend, several other boys and I visited his uncle who still practiced the old beliefs. He told us many stories. We asked my friend’s father about those stories. I remember his dad took off his belt and started to whip the whole bunch if us. Those days were best forgotten!

But there were still stories and those stories lived. The Manitoo spirits still lived silently in the hearts of many. The timber along Panther creek and the Caney River below my house was haunted by spirits. The legend was that when you saw the Manitoo you saw yourself.

My friends and I often walked the railroad tracks in the Caney River bottoms to a small oxbow lake we liked to fish. My mom’s housekeeper had showed us that lake. We would catch catfish and crappie there and if she were along she would cook them up with fried potatoes on the shoreline. 

One day there was a report that two boys had been killed on the Santa Fe railroad tracks near Panther creek’s confluence with the Caney, River. 

The boys had been drinking and spotlighting deer on the railroad right of way. They passed out asleep on the tracks. The night train from Tulsa came barreling up the track when the engineer saw something. He blew his horn and the train braked but it was too late. 

Spot lighting deer on train tracks was easy sport among the poaching crowd. The pungent smell of crude and decaying foliage masked a hunter’s scent from the game. And the noise of the oil field wheel houses and rattle of the sliding tie rods masked almost all sound even an approaching train.

The boys were brothers and local tough guys. My friend Ronnie, their step brother, was usually brought along to skin the deer and catch a few fish for their lunch. Ronnie had been there the morning of the accident. He was hiding in the brush while his brothers were drinking. His half brother Jack was the worst. He was a bully and a brute. He called Ronnie Rat Face because of his long rat like nose. He and his dad, Bad Sam, used to join in and beat Ronnie. They and had broken that long nose more than once. So that it was twisted almost cork screw like. Ronnie was terrified of his stepdad, Bad Sam, and often came to stay at my house when Bad Sam was drunk or in an especially foul mood. Ronnie’s mom had died years before. The circumstances of her death just like those of my grand mother were strange. Sherriff Lewis investigated but nothing could be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Bad Sam eventually got sent to the state penitentiary in McAlester for manslaughter after a barroom fight. My mom had been on his jury. Bad Sam got out after just three years possibly because my mom did not want to send my friend’s dad to prison. If she had only known.

When Ronnie came out of the brush he found what was left of his step brothers. The deputies said, when they put Jack’s body into a bag to haul it away it looked like a light bulb smashed in a paper bag. There was not a bone left unbroken. The deputies wanted to take Ronnie home but Ronnie just wandered off and finally appeared at our house four days later. He stayed with us a week before going home. Bad Sam was in a rage. His Boys were dead and all he had left was a Rat Faced little “Indian bastard.” Sometimes he called Ronnie by that name when he was drunk. 

When Ronnie came back to our house we all stared at him. He was black and blue with bruises Bad Sam given him.

“Lord of Mercy. Boy what happened to you?” Glenola my mom’s housekeeper exclaimed. Glenola was a mother and best friend to all the little kids in the neighborhood.

“Some body been whipping on you?”

Ronnie just trembled. He would not eat. She kept asking him what happened but he would not speak about it.

“Don’t you worry yourself. We are going to take care of you.” Glenola said.

Bad Sam came around looking for him but Glenola shooed him off. She was not afraid of anyone least of all a big Osage like Jim. He was big! Fully six feet eight without boots on.

The fireman and that brakeman on that train were the first to break the story. They reported there was something on the track. They said it was big, really big, and scary like. The engineer throttled down and they braked but could not stop until they hit the boys. That was the story they gave to the reporter from the Tulsa World that day. The story was on the radio. Soon the papers were reporting that the engineer saw a weird large creature on the track and never saw the men. 

“If I had seen them boys they’d still be alive.” the engineer sobbed. 

“I can’t believe there was nothing else there.”

Washington County, Oklahoma is way too sophisticated for anyone to believe the outrageous tale of the train crew. But the old silent ones knew. Each man in that crew saw something different. The engineer was angry. He said it was a fierce, cruel monster. The brakeman said it brought on a feeling of peace and calm. The fireman felt terror and fear. He said it was a ghost spirit. The old silent ones knew.

One day Ronnie broke down. “I killed them.” 

‘You what?” My friends and I asked

“Killed em all.” Ronnie said.

“You are crazy.” We all said.

Ronnie then told his story.“ It was cold with snow flakes in the air like when we built our log fort in the Osage. The wind was coming out of the west and spoiling our advantage. As we crossed the swing bridge across the river I was so scared. I held tightly to the bridge cables and took one slow step at a time. The cable was very cold and my freezing fingers stuck to it. The bridge swung in the wind.”

“ My brothers had already crossed the bridge and were up ahead. As the wind got stronger the bridge swung harder. I slipped. I was afraid to take another step as I moved slowly and cautiously toward the other side.”

The brothers had stolen a quart of Crown Royal from their dad. Bad Sam was a bootlegger and had a lot of whiskey around the House. He would not miss it they snickered. They knew different and knew he would miss it. He counted the bottles every day. Jack said they could blame it on the “Rat” and looked at Ronnie and said “Don’t tell Paw Rat.” and then slapped Ronnie across the face.”

When Ronnie cried they snickered some more. The prospect that he would get whipped for something they did was so funny. 

Then they snickered some more as Jack beat Ronnie with his fists until Ronnie was bleeding. 

Ronnie began wanting Jack to die. He turned back down there trail toward the swing bridge.

In the evening twilight the two silhouetted brothers looked like ancient Osage warriors. One with roached hair and shaven side burns and the other with his hair pushed back in ducktails. No paint and no rings adorned their ears; they were not on a sacred mission although they were walking on a sacred path.

As they crossed the meadow Jack looked toward the rotting ruin and with a thin smile said :

“The dog eating Delaware Ceremonial House.”

With that they laughed heartily and broke out the Crown Royal and began passing it back and forth.

Two whitetail deer had been in the meadow and they moved off flashing their tails as they trotted away. By then the brothers were too drunk to notice.

Ronnie turned back up the trail to ward his brothers. They were tugging at the bottle. They stumbled toward that railroad tracks to set up for their shot. They began tossing rocks off the right of way and then at each other. When they saw Ronnie one of them chunked a rock his way striking him on the cheek. Blood streamed down his face. He yelped in pain and tears came to him as his face stung and hurt. Ronnie turned back down the trail a second time.

His brothers shouted, “Catch up Rat if you get lost Paw will whip us.” 

“And he’ll whip you too if the Manitoo don’t get you.”

Then the brother’s chanted, “The Manitoo’s gonna get you! The Manitoo’s gonna get you!”

They laughed and fought over the bottle.

Soon. It was turning very dark. It was the dark of the moon and the sky turned to blackness as clouds covered the stars. Ronnie sat in misery at the base of the right of way and then took refuge in the ruins of the old Big House crying and shivering in the cold. His flashlight dimmed and the battery was fading as the light flickered off and on. He felt secure his brothers for all their swagger were afraid of the place he thought to himself. 

In the quiet and the dark Ronnie thought about his despair and how he despised his step brothers and their paw. 

Ronnie’s thoughts turned to the Manitoo and the stories his mom had told him. The Thunderer’s and the Manitoo could be malevolent or good. They could be guardians as or resolutely evil. You could call on the Manitoo for mercy or for revenge. His mom taught him when you see the Manitou you see yourself.

“Could a person call the Manitoo for revenge?” He thought. “Could I ask for the protection of the Manitoo from my brothers?”

He wanted the Manitoo to kill those who tormented him. He trembled. He cried. Hours passed. His obsession made him tremble. He started a little fire in the ruins of the Big House and settled back against an old timber.

No sounds came from the tracks now. The brothers were stuporous. They had started their own big fire, a bonfire of grandiose proportions. It was a white man’s fire.

The wind laid down and except for the drone of the pump house and the singing of the tie rods it became deadly still. The wind stopped The pump engine sputtered and the thump thump of the pump engine and the squealing of the tie rods died away and stopped. The distant glow of the fire on the tracks conjured thoughts of the Manitoo. 

As Ronnie watched the glow of the fire on the tracks his little fire burned low and went out. He could hear the engine whistle and hear the train coming.

At the same time the brothers were startled. They woke to the sound of the train. They were frozen in fear on the track.

Ronnie said to us as he told the story,

”you remember that time when we were camping in the Osage? We built the log fort at Camp Mcklintock. Around the camp fire we told ghost stories. I told the story Chester’s uncle had told me about the Manitoo spirits. The one we all got whipped for.” And then he said “No one believes that stuff anymore. You are not supposed to talk about it. But that is what I saw.” 

“This thing, a monster, stepped out on the track It was red and black dripping blood. As I watched it I was so angry and wanted to kill them and I did.”

“ You mean you killed them?” We all asked.

“I thought If only I could call the Manitoo and have them kill my brothers. I saw the red face in the glow of the fire and all black around it. I thought kill them! Kill them!”

“Then a faint rumble broke the silence. The ground shook and the train approached and as the sound got louder I still watched the Manitoo on the tracks. 

As the sound became louder and the ground began to shake I felt the ground tremble under my feet. Sparks from the fire scattered down the tracks and the grass burned. ‘The train stopped a ways down the track and some men walked back up the tracks. I walked down to the bodies smashed and bruised and dead. I stared at their bodies. Fear and grief gripped me. I wanted to cry and celebrate. I felt Pity and hate.”

The train crew could not agree on what they saw. It really shook them up. One swore a monster was there on the tracks. Another saw pain and fear and a smile with a soft forgiveness.

Ronnie spoke again,

“The Manitoo had been on the tracks, I was so scared I ran and hid in the big house ruins. I hid there four days before I went home and then came here to your house. When I finally got home Paw had already heard what happened. He said I killed my bothers. I left and never went back.”

The sheriff and his deputies walked the tracks and the trains that day were cancelled until the matter was cleared up. Sherriff Lewis looked at the mess.  “How many were there? 

“Two I guess.” A deputy answered with uncertainty. “Then there is this kid here. He saw the whole thing too.” They looked around but Ronnie was gone.

The headline the next day was “Train crew sees Indian Ghost Spirit”. 

Ronnie Truly believed he had called the Manitoo that day. He had called on the spirit of his dead mother and all the spirits. He called for revenge without pity. He cried for days afterward. His stepfather hated him so Ronnie left, never went back and was raised by his mom’s sister. Ronnie had heard me tell about the electric chair at the state penitentiary in McAlester. When I stayed with my Grand Parents in McAlester during the summer if they had an execution the lights would dim all over town. Ronnie knew he deserved the Electric chair for murder but the sheriff never came for him. Who would believe a story like that anyway?

Ronnie never recovered and rarely spoke about that night. He wanted both punishment and forgiveness for the evil he thought he caused. 

Years later I saw him on the street one day.

“It was real, I saw the Manitoo and it felt my hate. I am still ashamed” And then Ronnie just turned and walked.

The Manitoo spirits vanished a long time ago. After the Big House burned there was a superstition the meadow where it once stood was haunted. It was a widely held belief. I guess things can happen that no one can explain.

The old Algonquin traditions hold that the Manitoo are guardian spirits. The “Gitche Manitou” was brought to the Delaware by the Black Robe Jesuit priests and was to be loved and not to be feared. It is Gush Ke Wau, the dark one, that is the stuff of horror.

Legend has it and the Sacred Pole In The Ceremonial House of the Delaware people shows a face blackened in death for the death spirit and red with fire for the life spirit. Ronnie lived his life believing he saw the Manitoo that day. It is what the train crew and the men killed on the track thought they saw. “When you see the Manitoo you see yourself.” Always remember that.

“Some times it comes as quite a shock when you recognize yourself in someone, especially if you don't particularly like that person.

"When you meet anyone, remember it is a holy encounter. As you see them you will see yourself."

"As you treat them you will treat yourself. As you think of them you will think of yourself." 

"Never forget this, for in them you will find yourself or lose yourself."

"Whenever two Children of God meet, they are given another chance at salvation."

"Having made this choice you will understand why you once believed that when you met someone else, you thought they were someone else."

"And every holy encounter in which you enter fully will teach you this is not so.”

In the face of the Gitche Manitou we see the red spirit of life and the black spirit of death. Two entwined as one.