Nails, Steering Wheels, and Andromeda

Nails, Steering Wheels, and Andromeda

By Peter Merz

Son (that's what my mom liked to call me), remember when

Uncle Fred kept placing nails under your grandpa's car?

Mom  asked (probably rhetorically, 'cause I'm quite sure

yes or no, she would repeat it down to the last comma and period).

It's a story I've heard over and over

at least 3.5 quadrillion times (and believe me, that's no exaggeration!)-

I wonder what color grandpa's steering wheel was…

Whether black, or brown, or maybe even periwinkle (hey, you never know-

after all, he was always a little bit unusual- yeh kinda like me).

Suddenly, little David burst in with his once blonde hair,

now dyed three shades of orange!

Brilliantly, I used this to my maximum advantage

to quietly egress, sneaking softly outside-

filled with an incurable wanderlust beneath the broken streetlight,

Gazing in awe and wonder at Andromeda.

Fugitive Busted by Facebook

Fugitive busted by Facebook

Assistant U.S. Attorney Michael Scoville displays part of the Facebook page, and an enlarged profile photo, of fugitive Maxi Sopo on Tuesday in Seattle. -- PHOTO: AP SEATTLE - MAXI Sopo was living the dream of a fugitive abroad, kicking back on the beaches of Cancun by day, partying in the clubs by night. Then he did two things that are never a good idea when you're on the run from authorities: He started posting Facebook updates about how much fun he was having - and added a former Justice Department official to his list of friends.

By Peter Merz

Oh, what folly, Maxi Sopo!

Broadcasting escapades in Cancun’s glow.

On the lam, yet living like a king,

Beach by day, by night the dance floors ring.

But, alas, he flubbed his cloak and dagger,

Adding friends to Facebook with a swagger.

Among them, a former Justice hand,

Not the wisest move for a fugitive so grand.

Did he not see, in his sunlit revel,

That social media could be the devil?

A digital trail, a breadcrumb so wide,

He might as well have called the FBI to confide.

Now, forget the tales of wanted men of might,

He’s the star of “America’s Least Bright.”

Grab the popcorn, dim the light,

Tonight’s rerun is his oversight.

Maxi Sopo, the lesson is thus:

Silence is golden when you’re on a bus,

From the law, in shadows you must dwell,

Not in Facebook updates, where tales do tell.

I LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT

By Peter Merz

"So then we are agreed."

"Aye, four years then."

"Get your family and effects and meet me in the square in an hour."

Sean MacDonald was a "Redemptioner" from across the pond. Well from Northern Ireland to be more precise. He had come to the New Country with high hopes and aspirations of creating a new existence in the land of freedom and opportunity. And if that meant be basically an indentured servant for a span of four years, well then that was a small price to pay.

"You're late," said Harold Zimmerman. Harold was a stout and muscular man who stood head and shoulders above most who had come to call Bethlehem, Pennsylvania home. Zimmerman was a carpenter by trade and had bought MacDonald's services due to an increased workload. Harold had immigrated to the colony of Pennsylvania in early 1740's and had become a leader and pillar in the community of Bethlehem.

"Aye, I beg your forgiveness, sir. This place, she is'na Tipperary. I had a devil of a time finding my way around. But fear na' I will make it my foremost priority to learn the ins and outs before week's end," apologized MacDonald with much use of hand gestures and body language. MacDonald was regally slim and stood at 5'10" tall. He had a high Scottish forehead and was a very handsome man of 33 years of age. He and his family were a mere drop in the bucket of families who had left Ireland not just because of the hope of financial reversals, but also because of religious persecution. The MacDonald's were devout Presbyterians and in a heavily Catholic Ireland it had been a struggle to survive under the hand of such heavy religious prejudice. Sean Macdonald had tried his best while still residing in Tipperary to make the best of such a nearly hostile living situation. "For the love of the Saints," MacDonald had tried to tell his Irish neighbors, "The ground that our fathers ploughed are both the same – and the places we pray, they just have different names. Cut me and I bleed!" But he might as well have been speaking to a wall of stone.

"Alright, MacDonald," came Zimmerman's voice interrupting MacDonald's harsh memories of Ireland. "Get yourself and yours into the wagon and let's be off."

MacDonald composed himself and guided his family into the awaiting wagon. Best to let the dead bury the dead, he thought to himself. His eyes fell upon a newspaper in the wagon. July 4, 1755 the date read. "July 4th," he muttered under his breath. "I like the sound of that. It has a nice ring to it."

"Did you have a question?"

"Nay, Mr. Zimmerman. Just thinking aloud."

The wagon rode off into the sunset towards Harold Zimmerman's homestead, carrying with it a man willing to trade four years of his life for a chance at freedom and prosperity. The newspaper that MacDonald had studied with such vigor, fell from the wagon.

The following morning a traveling tinkerer happened upon the newspaper. "July 4th!" The Tinkerer mused excitedly. "I much like the sound of that. It has a ring of excitement. Revolutionary! Yes, very revolutionary."

Episode at Journey’s End

Episode at Journey’s End

By Peter Merz

Peering through the mists of time,

thoughts collide, dreams stand ajar.

I catch but a glimpse

of

the

voyage

that awaits --

from galaxy’s end burns a star!

Are our fates and futures set, or

can

I

alter it?

Can I bend

the

rainbow

that

holds

my

destiny?

Escape the grip

of predetermined motion?

And Through sheer introspect

dig down deep to the best in me?

Planned

coincidence

sows her seeds of doubt.

Hard to decipher in this fog,

as I set out on an Odyssey of the soul --

keeping clear of three-headed dogs.

Shadows of Chimera haunt my waking dreams;

I feel the bite of the Winter of Discontent,

as I cower before the trials of Hercules:

who am I

 to run the gauntlet

with the gods even for a moment?

Jaded by the journey, have I lost more than I’ve gained?

I’m trying to find shelter from this acid rain…

Am I lost or am I reborn?

Have I been weakened

or have I found a new strength?

And as I reach journey’s end,

I wonder for a moment…for many moments…

How to go on with the rest of my days --

Until hidden inertia starts me off again.