Ode to the Stove

Now I suspect (though I have no method to confirm)

that the reason Henry David Thoreau

wrote so little during those two years outside of Concord,

hanging out at Walden Pond,

was that he was chopping wood, and starting fires, and tending fires,

and just basically busy with the business of staying warm.

When you are worried about staying warm,

writing just doesn't seem to be all that important.

Writing is pretty sedate,

just you and your own thoughts running out your fingers.

But I admit that when I embarked upon moving the wood pile

so that it was closer to the house and splitting axe and splitting log,

the moving seemed more important too.

But the words were already coming, spilling out,

running down my muscles into these two hands.

Thank God I learned to type cause the words come so much faster now

making it hard for me to keep up.

And I admit I had to hold that first stanza in my head for a bit

 as I moved that 1/2 cord from one part of my yard to another.

But I did it

(stubborn I suppose),

and now I'm looking

at the fire and how much it draws my eye.

At two in the morning, +

I wasn't thinking about the poem I planned on writing today.

No, I was trying to get the fire started again,

so my house will stay somewhat warm

without my paying tribute to the Gas Company.

Now I admit, I admire Thoreau,

and wished he'd managed to stay out there for more than just two years.

Just two years of chopping wood, drinking water, burning oil for light,

and thinking about being disobedient.

In my own way, I'm being disobedient too,

but only as much as my fire will allow.

The 4 Stooges

Greetings.

My name is Jean Phillipe Gillespie Nate the III.

And while I am one of three:

my grandfather from a land so far away

and my father who looked a lot like me

let me endeavor to showcase to you

my ruminations, extrapolations, expostulations, affirmations, enunciations, and articulations

on why it was 4 wise men who set out to see what was hanging out

under that big ol' star.

"O' beautiful star of Bethlehem"

Cause you see my gift neither glittered like gold,

or fragrated like frankincense,

or was as malodorous as myrrh.

My gift was fresh spring water,

that rolled down Mt. Ararat

over gold flecked granite

and watered the Burseracae Tree

but dried up before reaching Commiphora Myrrah.

My water is what made all this possible,

and I was giving it to you.

And during the walk, I lost track of what was yours and mine, and drank yours.  

So I had to go back...and they kept on.

This old wise fool is always late.  

And I might've had some questions I was going to ask had I made it to the church
on time,

Cause, you see, I'm the inquisitive sort

and don't see myself getting fingers jammed in eyes,

hit below the belt

or  my nose tweaked because

I'm .Jean Phillipe Gillespie Nate the III and when Larry, Curly and Moe reached you first,

they gave their gifts and didn't really understand that the greatest gift is life itself,

and I'd want to know exactly what you were thinking.

This shit, this life, is crazy....

For all we know we're here all by ourselves

and there is no one in charge,

minding the store,

behind the steering wheel.

This thing called life is some sick sort of runaway mule heading for that cliff.

No...if you'll forgive me for my protestations but emancipation ain't all its cracked up to be.  

Why Larry, Curly, and Moe just want to keep everyone laughing,  

I want them laughing too but I want them laughing because they know.

This shit, this life, is crazy....

and its scary and its a bit jacked up

But the alternative?  

The alternative to life is....

The alternative to life is....

So, if you'll forgive me, I really, really, want to know what exactly were you thinking?

Were you bored?

Or perhaps, you don't have any answers either...

now chew on that one for a bit.