Christopher Donahue

Bombadill dreamed he was wearing a trench coat with a fedora, and his wife was giving him a hard time about it. Perhaps it was because of something he ate, or some slight reference to Casablanca during the day that he had that particular dream. Or perhaps it was because in the woken world, he did indeed own a trench coat and fedora,  and he was married to a wife who liked neither. She did like Casablanca however. He would point out guys in old movies wearing trench coats and say how cool they looked. Invariably his wife would rejoin: “Yeah, eighty years ago!”

Bombadill woke and got ready for work. The weather guessers predicted intermittent light showers so he grabbed his trusty trench-coat.   The standard uniform of guys in raincoats in Boston is a baseball cap of some sort.  No fedoras. Consequently, he donned  a Kenmore Air cap, as a nod to the rainy city on the other end of U.S. Route 90, and headed out to catch the train to work.  

It was another tired Monday after a poor Sunday night’s sleep. He walked to the commuter rail in a daze and in real fog. Tired and exhausted, his thoughts were clouded and he had the painful sense of time passing with excruciating slowness. The psychic membrane between dream world and waking wasn’t clear to his exhausted, foggy mind.

He stood on the platform in his trench-coat, waiting for the train, not quite sure if wasn’t still dreaming. Hello Monday!

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

Splashing through the puddles in his duck boots, on the way to commuter rail, he felt like a kid  braving the April showers. He was catching the late train to work, and was in a surprisingly good mood for a rainy day.  He attributed the general upbeat feeling to the realization winter was really, indisputably over.

Walking along the sidewalk that parallels the tracks, he reflected on how safe and suburban his life had become. The trees were beginning to bud, the houses that abut the tracks looked trim and neat,  and robins darted here and there. A little ways up he could see his friend Annie waiting for the train. She was holding a white and purple polka-dot umbrella, and wearing a yellow raincoat.  She was slowly, strolling through puddles, in a circle, wearing her green, knee-high rain boots. 

On impulse, and for some reason he really didn’t understand, he called out:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur
Of which vertú engendred is the flour;

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he realized he had wanted to show-off his poetry prowess. She looked up and replied with gusto:

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,

He was outdone!

They both laughed, and closer now, high-fived.

“How’d you know that” she said?

“Once an English major, always an English major. Especially in April.”

copyright Christopher Donahue 2017

My yearly contribution of doggerel for  National Poetry Month:

I Used to Look Good in The Morning

I used to look good in the morning, but now I look really bad,

I used to sleep with a cherub’s face, but now it’s an old sea hag’s

I used to look good in the morning and woke looking sexy and strong,

Now I wake spent and haggard, and start the day with a yawn

I used to look good in the morning, and start the day with a song,

But the realization of my poor singing, convinced me that was wrong 

I used to look good in the morning, and start the day with a bong,

Now I start with coffee, going forth with hammer and tongs!

Finis

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

There’s no better place I’d rather spend a wintry Saturday afternoon than lost in the stacks of my local library. Hiding out in the library is a great escape from the troubles of daily life, even for a few hours. Walking in the door takes me back to a time  when the possibilities of learning and humanity seemed limitless. When I’m in the library, I’m reminded of the wonder and excitement of learning and the noble achievements of human civilization. It’s easy to forget about all those good things during when I’m  preoccupied by all the bad news of the world.

Obviously, the most wonderful thing is the library is an actual physical place I can visit; not a digital matrix I make believe I’m traversing. Instead of relying on an algorithm and looking at a display, I stroll along and discover new authors and topics I never heard of that piqué my interest. Digital data storage and the cloud have their advantages but getting lost in the stacks is an entirely superior experience to just sitting at a desk, looking at a screen, and that’s what I love about it. Going to the library is a sensory experience.

Going to the library always reminds me: Some of the best books I’ve read and most important things I’ve learned, I’ve come across by accident.

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

March has arrived. A mild winter will soon draw to it’s astronomical close. How many winters have I seen come to an end? I’d rather not reflect on those specifics. Indeed, I don’t want to be reminded of that exact number at all. Some winters passed with a feeling of relief along with the anticipation of spring. Some winters passed with melancholy  because that particular winter was gone and would never return. In those instances, winter was a reminder of the loss of another year and that time keeps moving and moving.

Winter came before me. Winter will come after me. The end of winter reminds me everything will one day pass and be lost. Returning to the  cold, icy oblivion it came from.

There’s something about March that doesn’t lend itself to upbeat thoughts!

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

February was lost to the flu for me. I flirted with getting a flu shot all through January  but never found the time to get one. Whether the flu-shot would have saved me, we’ll never know. But I got hit with the flu and spent a week in bed, and the following week feeling horrible.

It is amazing  how illness affects the mind. In a swoon, I would wake up  from some weird anxiety dream involving bass guitars. I’d roll over and go back to sleep and have the same restless dream. To pass time as I slept in fits and starts around the clock I read a Simmeon novel, Maigret Bides His Time.  The novel was one of the best Maigret’s I’ve read and I kept thinking how I wanted to recommend it to friends.  Then I started having anxiety dreams about the book and how somehow the plot was foolish because of a rain coat. I’d wake from this dream, toss and turn, fall asleep again and go back to it. The rain coat!

But a sure sign I was ill was that I didn’t drink coffee for the whole period. It must be a biological thing: obviously my body wanted to rest not stay awake. It takes a lot to keep me away from my coffee. I start each day with a strong black cup, then have another before I leave the house. But no coffee at all when I was sick.

Somewhere in my feverish existence , the flu had me far from my coffee.

Copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

On a garish, orange and pink comforter he lays down to take a nap before watching playoff football. His head rests on a fluffy white pillow. As if on cue his cats, Quiet Rustle and Felix, jump up on the bed to join him. Felix curls up under his arm, and Quiet Rustle settles on his stomach. Besides a snooze before football, they are practicing as a three-man sleeping team for the Slumber Olympics.

Together, they drift off to sleep and dream the same dream.  Quiet Rustle and Felix are  tigers playing in the pounding, blue surf on a dazzling white beach. The Human dreams he is standing in the shade of banyan tree, watching the tigers play. Suddenly, he looks down in astonishment to realize he is a tiger now too.  With joy, he runs onto the beach to play with his trusty friends in the breaking waves.

Because we are all tigers in our dreams.

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

It felt like he was starting a new job, but he was going back to the old one.

He had taken a week off to start the New Year and he could not believe the effort it was taking to go back to work. He was shocked to realize how much he didn’t miss his job. When he left work on that last day before vacation,  he immediately put it all  behind him. All the various crises he was over seeing, the struggles and years spent to get to his position, how much his job was part of his identity. ALL PACKED AWAY AT THE STROKE OF 5 pm. It was like he used a mind eraser. He forgot all about work. And it was easy to do, because he spent more time with family and with the interests he really loved. In short, he entirely forgot about his job and didn’t miss it.

And now he was going back to work.

The cold, white sun was not warming him up on the train platform. It was just after dawn and the sunlight came straight onto his face through the bare trees.  The light was blinding but no warmth. Nada. He closed his eyes. What’s the problem? he thought. He was glad the cold was back.

He leaned back against the railing as he stood on the train platform and waited for the 6:45 AM.  The railing was at just the correct height so he could lean back and simultaneously rest his back pack on it. A fellow commuter, a regular, came up and stood next to him. She leaned back and with a quick shrug rested her large purse on the railing.

“This bag is getting heavy,”  she laughed.

“You’re right about that, ” he said.

copyright 2017 Christopher Donahue

I woke up today to find Old Man Winter out in the yard.  He was quietly, milling about outback in the leave-strewn garden.  I was surprised to see him because he wasn’t due for a few more weeks. A light dusting of snow let me know he was around. I’ve known him for quite some time and was glad to see he wasn’t in a bad mood.

As I looked out the window, he glanced up and gave me a quick nod. It’s a yearly ritual we ‘ve been doing as long as I can remember. At the start, he saw me as little boy, looking out with excitement at the new fallen snow. Now he sees my haggard middle-aged-morning face peering out- toussled bed hair and a weekends worth of beard stubble.

It’s strange to think of him coming around before I was born. And stranger to think of him coming around after I’m gone.

At that point, at least I won’t have to shovel!

copyright 2016 Christopher Donahue