Army Day

I place the book back on the shelf
and doubt the authenticity
of My diary

There are crowds cheering
Flags waving
A day celebrating its unexpected clarity.

My step and your step
in synch with his step
in synch with their step
We, all in splendid synch.

In the Jeep I was alone,
my NCO passenger snored
I was careful to drive quietly,
His snore so much better than his talk.

Transformations

We tell stories.

We tell stories to make sense of our lives.

We tell stories to communicate our experience of being alive.

We tell stories in our own distinct voice. Our own unique rhythm and tonality.

Transformations is a weekly story-telling column. The stories are written by community members who are my students. Our stories will be about family, love, loss and good times. We hope to make you laugh and cry. Maybe we will convince you to tell your stories.

— Kathrin Seitz

“Everyone, when they get quiet, when they become desperately honest with themselves, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” — Henry Miller

Kathrin Seitz teaches Method Writing in Rockport, New York City and Florida. She can be reached at kathrin@kathrinseitz.com.

It may have been a monkey
chattering in the tree as we drove by.
I will miss mail call
I may miss my sister's letter,
without it I have nothing to say to her

We did this trip before,
drove the road
alert and sweating.
we brought back the supplies,
Our return was greeted
nice enough

There and back
And the roadside bodies
Even in the hot sun
those roadside dead bodies
didn't stink.
Not if I drove just fast enough.

Gift

I knew it would not be a long visit

The muse came
dragging her robes
needing a chair
impatient

I knew it would not be a long visit
The muse came
and she spotted the painting
on my easel
a glance, nothing more.
sans hurrah
but like she never saw such a thing before.

She came, and she was weary
I knew it would not be a long visit

Please before you go,
Please.
When did pleading ever help?
Please I am so lost
Without you I am lost

She said it was not any one little thing,
it was everything.
she said
you must know this is shit.

The muse came, and the muse left.
I looked at my new painting on the easel.

Hummm, said I,
it's not bad!
Not at all bad.

Time for wine.

Harold Garde splits his time between Belfast, Maine, and New Smyrna Beach, Fla. He is a painter with work in permanent museum and significant private collections. He is the subject of several art films that have been broadcast on Public Television in Florida, Maine and Wyoming, including one in the ongoing Maine Masters series. His play, The Rec Room, was selected and performed in the Maine Fifteen Minute Play competition and later at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in Florida.