Unknown's avatar

Lincoln Portrait Revisited

In 1942, the American composer, Aaron Copeland, was commissioned to write “The “Lincoln Portrait,” a musical tribute to Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States. A classical orchestra piece with narration, it has been performed in the years since as a celebration of the democratic ideals that have made America great.

In these current tumultuous times, times when each of us are asked to step up and embrace the primary responsibility of being a citizen by exercising our fundamental right to vote, I offer this rendition of the “Lincoln Portrait” by Tom Hanks as a reminder of all we are blessed with to be able to call ourselves Americans.

Vote America!

tio stib

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Unknown's avatar

Our Lady Liberty

I’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty, but before I lost my sight, I often saw images of this one hundred fifty foot tall icon that welcomes all who sail into New York’s harbor. For me, the Statue of Liberty stands for all that is good about America, as put so beautifully by the poet Emma Lazarus-

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus, 1883

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door

statue of liberty

The statue, a gift to the United States from the people of France,  was dedicated on October 28, 1886. Shipped across the Atlantic Ocean in sections, the copper clad skeleton was erected on a pedestal on what would later be renamed Liberty Island. The pedestal was paid for by thousands of American citizens who donated to a fund raising campaign headed by Joseph Pulitzer, publisher of the New York World newspaper.

According to Wikipedia-

Pulitzer pledged to print the name of every contributor, no matter how small the amount given. The drive captured the imagination of New Yorkers, especially when Pulitzer began publishing the notes he received from contributors. “A young girl alone in the world” donated “60 cents, the result of self denial.” One donor gave “five cents as a poor office boy’s mite toward the Pedestal Fund.” A group of children sent a dollar as “the money we saved to go to the circus with.” Another dollar was given by a “lonely and very aged woman.” Residents of a home for alcoholics in New York’s rival city of Brooklyn—the cities would not merge until 1898—donated $15; other drinkers helped out through donation boxes in bars and saloons. A kindergarten class mailed the World a gift of $1.35 from Davenport, Iowa.

This story brings me to tears, this is my America, the America I believe in, good people working together to build a better world for all. We need a new common vision, a project all Americans can contribute to as we collectively deal with challenges our country has never faced before.

May I suggest for starters, that you consider donating time or money to your local food bank. Millions of our fellow Americans are suffering through intense difficulties and they need our help.

I believe in America’s good. I believe in you!

“Namaste”

tio stib

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Unknown's avatar

The Lost American Porch

I once lived in a small town
in a small house with a front porch
a sheltered space protecting the entry door
a spot where I would hang out
sitting on a chair, sometimes the steps
drink a beer or lemonade
and simply enjoy the world passing by

a horn would honk, a friendly wave
kids would call out as they passed on their bicycles
neighbors walking dogs, hurrying home from work
“Hello!” 
“Good evening!”
“Nice to feel summer again.”
“Yes, aren’t the roses beautiful?”
“How’s your garden?”
“Beans and peas are up.”
“Going fishing Saturday?”
“Yup.”

these words and waves were the gold threads 
that wove a sense of connectedness , a feeling of belonging
through my life, a fabric seen and felt but not recognized in the moment

I’ve since moved, to bigger places, more complicated worlds
houses that now greet the street with cavernous carports
yawning doorways for cars beside small openings seldom used by people
and these places lack porches, no commitment to connect to the outside world
no attempt to simply sit and watch, to hear, to feel the pulse of community

I do miss the lost American porch

I miss the Americans who used to wave and talk as they passed by

tio stib
2018, 2020

You might also enjoy: Finding Home, Let’s Voyage Into the New American House

Unknown's avatar

My Bubble of Being

 

suddenly the din of chatter
the barrage of sounds
the parade of voices without faces

suddenly it was too much

but it was just another yoga class
same time, same people
same routine I’ve followed for years

but too much
suddenly different
suddenly overwhelming

out of the blue
all this noise
all these people

I was dumbstruck

disconnected

surrounded by life I
felt no part of

a blind man

alone

inside my bubble of being

tio stib

Unknown's avatar

A Lesson From Riding a Tandem Bike

 

recently I had another blind guy first
a ride on a tandem bike
yes, a sighted and adventurous friend
piloted the machine in the front seat
me, I rode behind and simply pedaled

and trusted

if your the blind guy on the back of a tandem bicycle
trust is the biggest challenge
the only way to overcome fear that the trip will not have a happy ending
so I trusted my companion, a fit, athletic person
could reasonably handle the demands of driving a bike
with me on the back
across flat terrain

good, got that out of the way, what’s next?

communication
the rider in back needs to know what the rider in front is doing
ideally before it happens

turning left
turning right
coasting
braking
ready to stop

I am fortunate as my friend and I communicate well and
we quickly sort out a string of descriptors

okay, I’m almost feeling confident
let’s try this
how do we start

both lean left
both get our right foot atop our pedal
she says “ready, start”
we both push down on our pedals

hwoa!

I am suddenly off balance
I’d forgotten the momentary awkwardness
that interval between zero and building up enough momentum
for the bike to suddenly balance itself

we lurch to a stop but don’t crash

review the situation

try again

almost

and again…

YES!

suddenly a tandem bicycle becomes a flying machine
and a blind man becomes free again, but not quite ready
to release his death grip on the handle bars

the lesson-
sometimes you just have to jump into the void
trust you’ll get through the momentary awkwardness
build the momentum needed
to ride into life’s next great adventure

tio stib aka uncle steve

 

 

Unknown's avatar

My Friend Ego


Ego is upset today
I wouldn’t let him out to play

sometimes he thinks he is the king
and disagrees with everything

he worships his own point of view
scoffs at ideas that are new

at his worst
he’s quite the boor
and then I shove him
out the door

now locked away
inside my mind
I hope
he will become
more kind


tio stib
Unknown's avatar

Jumping Off

leaning out the open door
time roars by

it’s gone

no more

behind me in the train’s cocoon
dreams fly off to distant moons
faces glued to heartless screens
joyless stares and silent screams

and so we travel every day
secure and safe or so we say
the child no longer comes to play
the status quo will have its way

I wonder what my life might be
had I the courage to jump free

will I stay an untold story
remain in hopeless purgatory
pretending that I care no more
soul crying for its need to soar


jumping off
into space
the unknown flying in my face
It’s not clear where I will land

no matter

I am free again

tio stib
2016, 2017, 2025

Unknown's avatar

A Season for Adventuring


ghosting through the morning mist
as day warms from grey to gold
my stomach growls
the road answers with a small cafe
I park and walk into a world of steamed up windows

cradling coffee at the counter
I smile at the ragged young hiker beside me
devouring a mountain of hotcakes

he turns
I nod
he smiles, syrup dripping down his bearded chin
fellow travelers
men of the frontier

coffee vapors float into memories
last night
riding Cat Stevens Peace Train
rocketing into starry oblivion
past the moonlit salutes of cacti sentinels

roadtripping
on the loose
free again

all those blue highways
all those maps
all those little country stores
stops to buy soda, root beer please
asking

how far to the hot spring
which way to Bogans’Oasis
is the road over Steens Mountain open yet

standing on worn wooden porches
enjoying the tickle of icy carbonation
looking out, urged onward into the unknown

wide eyed wonder watching wild horses explode from clouds of purple sage
stunned awe as two golden eagles spiral from heaven locked in primal need

“Jeez! That’s a helluva rattlesnake.”

face dripping with sweat
cresting the final ridge
exulting, yelling
dropping packs
careening downhill with reckless abandon
plunging into turquoise water blanketed with dancing diamonds
erupting, screaming
in kaleidoscopes of icy rainbows.

the serenity of another wilderness
swallowed in vapors of holy water
a newborn babe
swaddled in eternity
alone
but far from lost
in the oneness of a desert ocean

as sky slowly slips
from gold
to pink

to gone

the blessings of
so many Shangri-Las

I will not travel these roads again
but they will haunt my heart
when
once again
Fall calls the vagabond

to a season for adventuring


tio stib

You might also enjoy: A Wilderness Pill; Breaking Trail
Unknown's avatar

Once Again

 

the blind man sits on a bench
breathing in the winter warmth
of blue sky sunshine

tasting the scent of low tide seaweed
on a love hungry tongue

smiling
as the gentle breeze
caresses his tear streaked face

once again
he reaches out
seeking the missing hand
the tender touch

to comfort his lonely soul

tio stib aka uncle steve

Unknown's avatar

When Buildings Were Beautiful

When Buildings Were Beautiful

he’d stared up in awe
the lanky fifteen year old boy
the boy who’d spent his life on a family farm
in Ashtabula, Ohio
until Mother suddenly died
until Father
not a strong willed or disciplined man
lost the place to the bank

and the kids, all eight of them
piled into
onto the old wagon
and the tired, hungry horse
slowly pulled them away
away from the homestead
away for the last time

a life working on somebody’ else’s farm
was not the future he had in mind
so he jumped off near Cleveland
hopped a train
slept rough
until he’d found himself caught up
swept along in the morning rush
of the bustling hive
that is New York’s Grand Central Station
then spat outside
onto the crowded sidewalk

a fifteen year old farm boy

bewildered

alone

naked on the stage
of unrelenting urban chaos

honking horns
screeching tires
Screaming boys hawking newspapers
and people
more people than he’d ever known

rivers of people streaming in all directions

pushing,
jostling,
hurrying by

and the farm boy from Ashtabula
who’d never seen anything taller
than the presbyterian church steeple
was suddenly lost in a forest of massive monuments
a forest of buildings so big, so tall
he was gasping in astonishment

then he saw it

its glittering spire
towering far above the skyline

and pulled by the sirens in his soul
his feet began walking

which is how a farm boy from Ashtabula, Ohio,
found himself on 42nd Street
found himself gaping up
gaping up at the staggering height
the 1046 feet
of Art Deco magnificence
that is the Chrysler Building

a building standing alone in symmetrical splendor
its triangular windows winking at clouds
its arched stainless steel spire
flashing sunbursts into the nearby heavens
its gargoyles staring
in stony silence
at ant like passersby below

now
fifty years on
boxed in by multi-storied ugliness
she was no longer the tallest
but she still dazzled
a timeless beauty

He looked up and smiled
tipped his hat
to the woman who had inspired a career

then the man
who’d once been a farm boy from Ashtabula, Ohio
turned and walked away

floating on memories of a time

when buildings were beautiful

tio stib aka uncle steve