20160101 (style)

It's dangerous to leave me 

Alone in a roomful of high

Decor magazines flush with

Examples of luxury real 

Estate. I quickly observed what 

Cannot be more luxe? What

Room could not be larger,

Or ceiling higher? Why settle

For a plain ceiling, cornice

Molding at least. That's too plain

Join multiples of contours until

They wave in and out, colors,

Gold leaf applied on the

Edges or within the hollows.

With a broad base, dentils 

Supporting. Improve the lighting:

Toss the simple white globe for

A multi-branched sparkling

Glass chandelier lit by several 

Levels of candles, brightness 

Varied by dials at either 

Entrance or with a handheld

Remote. Decor at the base

Must seem to flow, waves, 

Fleurs de lis, a grand medallion

Matching the rope applique

Set three feet away from 

The walls. Since the ceiling

Now must be higher there'll

Be room for picture and chair 

Rail, stained, polished oak 

Raised paneling to give 

The room a masculine flair.

In that case we'll trade in wall-

To-wall carpet for parquetry

Contained in an inlaid rope,

Scratch that for marble intarsia

Something like the floor of

St. Peter's to give it acoustics.

Solid polished brass door 

Handles on tall French doors

At least three inches thick

For each of the entrances,

Five hinges per door to hold

The weight. My very generous

Children have offered me a 

Grandpa suite for my anticipated

Invalidity and proposed I 

Could make my wishes

Known when the architect visited. 

Should they conclude these

Suggestions beyond the pale,

I won't insist on the crimson 

And gold silk moire wall 

Covering and the paired 

Art Nouveau chromium

Sconces on each of the four

Walls. I'm nothing if not

Reasonable.






c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151231 (comprehension)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FG0fTKAqZ5g

Step away for a moment

From the rush of time, the

Rotation of the earth that

Makes day of human 

Proportion. Light dispelling 

Darkness we sighted think

Real only because light

Shows us what dark obscures

Color, shape, motion.

For all the reality we ascribe

To darkness it is not physical

Like a shroud or room-darkening

Blinds that under the best of 

Circumstances only toys with

Light inveigling itself through

The cracks of the doors and 

Windows edge, confirming its

True being, true power. The 

World's been in a darkness

Of another sort--unseen an 

Experiment in a box away

From any eye, from every ear.

But now our world sees itself

If only in the warmth on

Primitive skin, which eons on

Will crisply delineate the flowers

Of the field, the gray-green of its

Lover's eyes. So, too, with

Touch, once we distinguish

Ourselves as that inside 

Our skin from that outside it. 

We'll sense where our legs 

Our hands are, if we're seated 

Or upside down. We'll perceive 

Motions of others by sight 

Or by contact. And we'll hear

Through the air what we see

By light. If you're still outside 

Our world, a giant floating in 

The void, you will see nothing

Of import occurring on the 

Surface except the seasons, 

Patterns of clouds, periodic 

Lightning strikes, occasional 

Streaks of microscopic

Contrails, perhaps the bloom

Of obscuring smoke in the

Industrial age. You would learn

Little of the adventure of the 

Universe's comprehending

Itself until you shrank to be us

In every regard, each limitation,

Each power, each vulnerability,

Tried each limb, measured each

Sense, loved as we love, worked

As we worked, struggled as we

Struggled, suffered as we suffered,

And died as we died.







c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151230 (steak)

The Native Americans had it right

When they apologized to the animal

They killed. We'd be better as

Unashamed carnivores at least to

Recognize some critter had to suffer

For us to benefit from its hard won

Protein. Put yourself in their place

Suggest the PETA advocates.

Any who think self-servingly our 

Prey have no concept of their 

Death has not looked in the eye

Of a steer headed up the slaughter

Ramp. They certainly sense terror.

Their bodies react, rebel accordingly.

Yet I, sentient human, will revel in

The taste of their sear-braised flanks,

The food so far removed from what

Once it was--thriving muscle perhaps

Driving a huge beast across a plain,

Once a piece of a magnificent spirit.

Moderns have the grossly mistaken

Descartes to thank for reducing herds

To unconscious automatons whose

Squeals of pain were reflexive and

Unsensed. Rene, you should have

Stuck to math. Your biology betrays

Your poor health and isolation from

Pets and the like. Rene, poor Frenchie,

Who could barely proclaim himself

Alive, made it easier for men to

Kill for their food and to take noble

Steeds into war's mayhem. We

Have been terrible stewards of those

Placed in our care, working thousands 

To death, in the heat of Manhattan's

Summer sun, or in the frozen ice

Of polar quests. May God forgive us.

Yet we continue. May God

Forgive us.







c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151229 (mass 5 PM)

Sanctuary of the beautiful St. Michael's Catholic Church where I attended Mass Christmas Eve

Two things impressed me on

Entering St. Michael's Catholic

Church in Olympia's northwest

Quadrant: first, the beauty of the 

Light coming through the glass

Face of the entrance, and second,

The attendance filling the nave

To standing room only. Stationed 

At the entrance were the customary

Greeters extending the hand of

Fellowship, a commonplace

In any church wise about growth, 

Who passed out a stapled foldover 

Of hymns for the service, of which 

Only a few songs were used.

I took a place closer to the

The sanctuary empty because

The vent under the window

Briskly supplied heated air,

Almost whistling, billowing

Skirts of women who stood

There a moment, thought

Better of it and slipped

Aside. There was none of the

Solemnity I'd last experienced

As a Catholic in the '60s. A lot

Of types, not just children,

Traipsing the aisles, with some 

Regularity as if they checked on

Something at the front, found

It well, then returned to the 

Rear, to see if everything was

In order there, etc.  As always

Most retained their outerwear

Through the service; few

Offered more than a glimpse

Of their red and green finery.

Many wore fashionable black

Couture. Others, like me, came

Dressed as they were, business 

Casual to jeans. Only the noisiest

Babies were sequestered in the

Nursery. People of every age

Filled the expandable/stackable/

Moveable pew/chairs that have 

Replaced anchored benches the 

Long kneelers and hat clamps of

Which were my playthings when

I was a tot at church in the late '40s.

Except for a smattering of Native

Or Inuit the congregation was 

White as wavecaps. To make me

A liar the celebrant priest was 

As dark an African as I have 

Ever beheld. In the two years 

Since I last came here for 

Worship his command of English 

Had improved not a whit.

For the sermon he spoke from a 

Prepared text in hand what could

Pass as a standard all-purpose 

Homily for the season. It's right 

To call it a Mary-Christmas--

Had there been no Mary to bear

Jesus there would have been no

Salvation. Not at all how I

Would have put it, what with 

No foreseeing the suffering

Toward which incarnation bent.  

Last, my observation that

Fewer than half the thousand to

Sixteen hundred present made

Their way to communion. Many

Who returned from receiving,

Having thereby completed their

Obligation to attend mass on the

Holiday, proceeded directly

Through side doors to the 

Parking lot to get a jump

On the clog of the later exodus.

As a guest I was grateful to

Worship among believers. But 

Despite English, the terrible

Anti-melodic post-Vatican II

Music, the utter strangeness of 

Foreign clergy, I was surprised

So little had changed from when

I was an altar boy.







c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151228 (desperation)

Someone broke into the 

Mailboxes last night. 

Second time in a month. A

Community-style cluster-box

Unit standing on a poured

Concrete foundation block,

Unbudgeable anchor for

The dozen or more families

Residing on the cul-de sac 

Of Aspinwall Estates, 

Forest home to upper

Middle class worker bees,

Doctors, lawyers, well-paid

Ministers of the numerous

Small to middle-sized 

Corporations of recent founding.

Box doors open by key 

On the back to protect 

Customers from traffic 

On the access court 

When fetching their mail

And open by key on the

Other side for the mailman.

Ideally such units reduce 

Postal costs markedly for

What would otherwise

Be a formidable, expensive

Door-to-door service. 

Regulation rather than choice

Determines who gets it--an

Acceptable inconvenience

Compared to paying monthly

For a P. O. box at the 

Nearest station. Someone

Crowbarred the delivery side, 

Large doors at the top, the

Bottom, peeling them back 

As one would a tin of sardines. 

Surprisingly the brass and 

Steel lock held so the thief(-ves) 

Could reach into fewer 

Than half the letter

Compartments--nothing like 

A professional job. Were 

They kids in a pickup, 

Cruising the posher

Suburban realms, hoping to

Score cash-laden Christmas

Cards, or someone clued into

The shipment of a Rolex, an

Amazon parcel of high-power

Coke? I once worked for an

Office in an area replete 

With public housing which

Had been converted to cluster

Units from door-to-door for

Far less of a saving to the

Post office but with a greater

Security of the mail for the 

Customers. Previously thieves

Openly followed the carriers

As they delivered, then stole

From the cheap mailboxes

Hung by a single nail at

Each door. Seasonally, 

Around the Fourth of July, 

Vandals with M-80s would

Pry open a single central box, 

Deposit several grenades,

Their fuses tied together to

Unify the bangs. What result

Such simple craft wrought.

Investigators queried local

Hospitals of emergency

Treatment for persons showing

Flesh wounds from aluminum

Shrapnel. They were not

Apprehended. Last night's

Destruction was just another

Lesson in how vulnerable all

Of us are, both rich and poor

To guerilla crime.





c. J.S.Manista, 2015

20151227 ( pets)

If you're old, already napping 

Half the day, it will be hard 

To notice the disturbance 

Jetlag wreaks in your visiting 

Hours. Rather than trouble 

You about your failure to 

Engage in scintillating 

Repartee′ your hosts civilly 

Let your body lie like a lump 

Undisturbed in a bedroom 

Designated for your stay, 

The couch, or any chair into 

Which you have collapsed. 

The only one not accepting this

Arrangement is the dog, in this 

Case a recently groomed (yesterday),

Sweet smelling (what type of

Shampoo do they use?), white-ish

Blond Bichon-frise/Cavalier 

King Charles, breviterized into

Cavachon, and given to the 

Most ebullient personality

Packable into eleven pounds of

Pseudo-wolf since we started

Taking them in, sharing our food,

Heated homes, and, unashamedly,

Beds. One might have to yield 

To this (your) nose-licking,

Agitated creature, eager for play.

Not to respond is a course you

Do not want to explore as it

(the nasal tongue-lashing) will

Only get more aggressive.

As I write she is penned 

In the kitchen with her food,

Water dishes and her brand new,

Upsized sleeping bed. The girls 

Speculate she will not get

Much larger. The family is off

Doing some shopping, daddy is

Slicing open several people's

Backs, mending the broken,

Straightening the displaced,

Easing the pain as best science

Knows how. Her name is 

Cosette, after the character in

The musical Les Miserables.

Gus-gus, their darling black

Rabbit who preceded Cosette

In role of family animal care,

Is in his hutch gnawing through

Three delicious fresh carrots.

We love them, we leash them,

We pen them, first because we

Want them to stay and we can't 

Count on it--ever--as I learned

With my Sophia who wandered

Away for little more than a day.

And we may have paid dearly 

For them. Gus-gus has a larger

Keep in the back yard and on

Sunny dry days it's his jungle.

Cosi might be left on a tether

As the girls play in the front.

We, as a species though, bristle 

At being hemmed in, jailed,

Closeted, caged, but we 

Paradoxically think nothing 

Of pens, chains, and zoos.







c J.S.Manista, 2015

20151226 (fear of flying?)

Don’t show me a plane ticket

Without first saying, “Now, Jim,

I’m going to show you a plane 

Ticket. Sit down if you have

To.” I’m not sure how I’ve gotten

Spooked about flying. I’ve not

Been in a near miss, not even 

Near a near miss. And it’s not

The flight itself nor missing

Connections which happened

Only once. I think it’s just a

Fear of the unknown—leaving

My base of operations, the pets

Who provide me so much

Stability. Usually I’m good

Among strangers—the other

Passengers on the flight. I 

Imagine walking up and down

The aisle saying hello and

Reducing the strangeness.

In my dreams they cheer and

Plead, “Read us your work.”

Like that’s going to happen 

Anytime soon. Or, “Write

Us a poem, baby,” or, be still

My heart, “Young man, I’m 

a publisher. Here’s my card.

We’ll have to talk after the 

Holidays.” That would just

Blow me outta the plane,

A career cut short in its prime,

Be careful with your expressions.

So I get to my seat between

Amy Adams and Nicole Kidman

Lookalikes who beg for more

And right in front of me expunge

iPhone pix of their very handsome

Beaus, texting, “So long, Terry/Brad,

I’ve finally found the one I’ve

Been looking for. It was really 

Very nice. But if he has a heart attack

When we get naked, I’ll call.”

Of course that kind of thing is

Not going to happen. I’ll take

A seat between a lady with a

Very sick or irritated child and

An NFL player who just got

Dumped and is going to try

To stay rabid drunk until he

Gets home. I won’t mind the

Vulgarities except for the 

Madonna and child so I remark

“Could you please mind your

Tongue,” and lo, she replies,

“Keep your business the fuck

To yourself. This ain’t even my

Baby. His mom’s in the slammer,

And I’m taking poopie-diapers 

Here to the grannies.” Mr ex-NFL

Calms down, starts to cry that

Drunks cry, wipes his face on 

My shoulder, “Hold me, please.

I’m so alone--such a failure.”

Are you getting the picture? Not

That it happens that way all

The time but it could.

c. J.S.Manista, 2015