The Mule and The Donkey

Once upon a time there was a Donkey. She had a certain job she was responsible for. Her job was to look after the farmer’s prized breeding sheep. Protecting the sheep was an important job and she was trained her whole life to be the protector. The farmer knew this job was best suited for her type of donkey.

The farmer had a mule on the farm. This mule was a very stubborn yet a special kind of mule. The Mule also had a certain job in a certain place on the farm. The mule pulled the cart that took the farmer and his family to town when they sold vegetables and wool at the market. Everyday the mule would wait for just a glance of the donkey, as you might imagine, he was in love with the donkey. She had such a special job and was so beautiful and well taken care of. The Mule could not help but stare as she walked by his field every day on her way to her section of the farm.

The Donkey and the Mule started to make eyes at each other. Then, as you can imagine, they fell in love. Well, they slept in the same barn, worked on the same farm and basically did the same job for the farmer. They had so much in common that falling in love was bound to happen.

The donkey had a way of being a donkey the mule didn’t understand. When things got difficult in her field, she would stop doing the work, then bray and bray and bray. When she was not looking after the sheep, sometimes the farmer had her moving rocks, fallen trees and brush from his fields. She really didn’t like this work.

The mule would get to see her all day though. When general farm work was going on, the mule was always tied to a cart, waiting for the farmer to pile it high with whatever he and the Donkey had collected. The Donkey was amazed at how much the farmer could pile on the cart without the mule even making a sound when he pulled it away.

She was in love with how strong the Mule was. The mule didn’t understand why the farmer would make his prized protector Donkey work like she did. She was breed to be a protector of sheep. She came from some hard working Donkey stock however, part of her Donkey bloodline was from a rare Donkey breed that was known for absolute beauty.

One day, some terrible storms were brewing in the West. The Donkey was in her field protecting the sheep and the Mule was off in town with farmer’s boy selling wool and vegetables at the market. The Donkey looked up at the sky and saw that things were getting really Dark. The wind started to howl and blow. The Mule was only a couple of miles away and he noticed how violent the storms were that were coming from the West.

The mule was terribly worried. He knew the donkey was alone at the farm. He knew she would be locked out of the barn. He knew how scared she was of lightning and thunder. When storms came, the Donkey and the Mule would naturally seek shelter in the barn. When storms had come before, the Donkey would hide in her stall and cower down and jump at every little crash of thunder. The mule thought she was funny like that. Sometimes, much to the Donkey’s amazement, the Mule wouldn’t even come into the barn when it was storming outside.

The Donkey, just as the mule feared, was locked out of the barn. A serious wind had come up on the farm. Lighting, thunder and hail. The mule could see from afar that it was storming, but had no idea that the storm was so violent at the farm. He was very concerned for the Donkey. The Donkey was hiding under a pine tree, alone and scared.

What the Mule also didn’t know was that a violent tornado had come with the storm and it was strong enough to knock the Farmer’s barn down. And whoa was the Donkey scared when that happened. She was so scared that all she could do was hide under the Pine tree and bray and bray and bray. She was wet and had been hit by some hail. She watched as the roof of the barn was ripped off and thrown across the field. She listened to the sound of the Tornado as it threw hay, feed and everything that was in the barn all about the farm.

When the farmer and his boy got back to the farm they were very concerned for their barn. The mule was very concerned about the Donkey. He called out for her with his Hee Haw and she brayed and brayed and brayed. The farmer and his son went in to the house and left the Mule tied to the cart. The mule wanted to go find the Donkey. So, he pulled and pulled and got the cart stuck on a tree stump and got free from the cart.

He was so worried about the Donkey. The farm looked terrible with everything scattered about. He was not concerned with the hay. He was not concerned that they would have nowhere to sleep that night. He was seriously concerned for the Donkey.

He could not find her. She would bray and bray, he searched and searched, however, she was hidden from view because a large blue tarp was stretched out over the pine tree that the Donkey was hiding under when the tornado violently tore through the farm.

The Donkey kept braying. The mule kept looking and eventually he found her but he couldn’t free her from the tree. A large section of the barn was stretched across the fence and was pressing the tarp up against the tree and that had the Donkey trapped. So the mule, using his strength, lifted the barn section and got his lead rope tied around a wood plank and pulled and pulled and pulled.

The Donkey brayed and brayed and brayed. All this commotion got the attention of the farmer and his son and they came running from the house. What they saw when they got to where the barn used to be, was something quite amazing. The Mule had freed the Donkey from her trap. The section of the barn that was causing the tarp to cover her from sight, had been pushed and then pulled off and sent falling down crashing across the fence.

The farmer and the boy knew the Mule was pretty strong, but were amazed. The mule had pulled one whole side of the barn away from the Donkey and as he did that, the pine tree snapped in half. The Donkey brayed and brayed and brayed. The Mule just looked at her. He was pretty proud of himself. The Farmer and the boy led the Donkey and the Mule up to the house and tied them to the back porch.

What the mule didn’t know, was that the reason she never left the shelter of the pine tree when the tornado was so close, was because she was holding the gate closed where the sheep were out to pasture. The gate had blown open in the winds and the lock that secured the gate was pulled off. She stayed because she was worried that if she left it open, the sheep would run off when the storm had passed.

What the mule did know was they were not going to have their place to sleep. What the Donkey knew was that her feed and her long afternoon hose down by the farmer’s boy was not going to happen. The mule knew his stall and his bed of hay was spread all about. The Donkey and the Mule were tied up and worried about what was going to happen now that the barn was all but destroyed. 

The mule had strained his back. The Donkey was still hurting from all the hail that had beat on her as the barn was destroyed. They were both tired, hungry and thirsty. The farmer and his son didn’t waste any time. Their house had missed the brunt of the storm, so they got busy taking care to get their work animals a place safe to rest. The darkness of night was close at hand so the farmer worked to get the lock on the gate fixed while the boy gathered hay for the Donkey and Mule.

The Donkey watched as the boy fixed the cart where the Mule had pulled himself free. The farmer rolled up the tarp that was draped over the fence and pine tree. The Mule, noticed the hose the farmer used to water his house garden was close to his head. He got an idea. He knew the Donkey loved it when the farmer’s boy hosed her down after a long day of protecting sheep. So, he freed the hose from the holder, kicked the end with his hoof and held it in his mouth. Turned on the hose and held it across the Donkey’s back. She jumped. She was relieved to find the Mule, smiling with the water dripping down his chin.

After the gate was fixed and the sheep were safe, the boy and the farmer took the tarp and made a makeshift stall for the Donkey and the Mule. They spread hay and placed a large can of feed in the stall. The farmer boy walked behind the house where the Donkey and Mule were and led them over to the stall for the night. The Donkey ate from the feed can and as she ate she thought about how hard the mule must have pulled to free her from her danger.

As the Mule fluffed the hay, he thought about how this stall was pretty small compared to their two separate stalls in the now destroyed barn. The Donkey got her fill of feed and nudged the Mule over to the can. The mule ate his portion and nudged the Donkey back over to the can to see that he had left a little in the bottom for her. The Donkey ate and laid down on the fluffed hay. The mule laid down next to her. He was happy. She was touching his back, her head was rested on the strong mussels he used to pull the barn from the pine tree. The Donkey brayed. The Mule hee hawed, and they slept together and whoa was the mule happy about that. And, they all lived happily ever after!

The End.

MuleAndDonkey.jpg.1000x0_q80_crop-smart

Room 101 – An Orwellian Poem

Room 101

Fear, falling to hate like in 1984

The telescreen plays war music

like this video game commercial

and then the enemy is shown

Goldstein / Trump 2018

War is peace!

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength!

2+2=5

CNN / FOX 2018

&hatred&war& they have us

right where they want us

divided and scared.

– use your anger

Luke, come to the

dark side –

&myth&reality collides

God is in question and they

instill more fear more hate

and some eat it up talk about it

all day …

NPR – Democracy Now

Twitter – and another Ad

another like

another click.

we have been baited

the trap has been set.

This is room 101 –

– unless we remember

to love our neighbor

help our friends and

families we will

fall to their

narrative –

We play offense

full court love and reason

we are down at half

time – in the locker room

beat up – pissed off!

It just doesn’t matter!

It just doesn’t matter!

because love still exists

just as the sun moon and

the rain

children still laugh and

the good shall overtake

the bad.

– An injury to one

is an injury to all –

(Don’t Mourn – Organize)

WE SHALL OVERCOME

I do believe!

WE SHALL OVERCOME

some day!


1984-19561 (1)

Photo from the Internet Archive – Get the 1984 audiobook here

poems of Rumi


Coleman Barks accompanied
by Marcus Wise (tablas), David Whetstone (sitar),
Celso Maldanado, Michael Meade, and Olatunji (drums)


Spring

and everything outside is growing!

Even the tall cypress tree.

We must not leave this place!

Around the lip of the cup we share

these words …

my life is not mine

if someone were to play music –

it would have to be very sweet.

We’re drinking wine but

not through the lips.

We’re sleeping it off but

not in bed.

Rub the cup across your forehead

this day is outside of living and dying.

Give up wanting what other people

have, that way you’re safe.

Where, where can I be safe you ask?

This is not a day for asking questions!

Not a day on any calendar.

This day is conscience of itself.

This day is a lover

bread and gentleness

more manifest than saying can say.

Thoughts take take form with words

but this daylight is beyond and before

thinking and imagining

those two. They are so thirsty but

this gives smoothness to water.

Their mouths are dry and their tired.

The rest of this poem is too

blurry for them to read.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good Morning

As mid-afternoon arrives …

At the coffee house …

a homeless man sits in the back drinking water and coffee. Talking. Talking to a person who does not seem to be within the scope of reality. Looking to the ceiling, he is talking of being 73 years old. “If past behavior is a reflection of what I am doing now, why can not reason apply?” was his argument. “If I have never been a cattle rustler, it would seem to be that most likely, almost within intelligent reason, that I will not start being one now.” He then makes his argument to the ethereal judge and jury that, “If I have not hurt anyone by now.”

I am sitting, alone, in the back of the coffee house. Thinking of how fate has sent me down a troubled river of life. Somewhat to be stuck in a two year rapid eddie of confusion. The man’s argument with the angelic nothingness seems to move into the he is a veteran of some war department. Maybe vietnam? He is talking of the moral ethics of lying. “If you were in Nazi Germany, and an SS person asked you if you knew where the Frank family was hiding, would you tell a lie?” “Maybe i killed someone, it was the nature of being in the military.”

I almost speak to him but leave on a connection as if my nod was enough for this juncture. I go to this tavern for the quietness of not being known to may of the customers. The other coffee house is more like a bar. The same people sit on the porch everyday. Somedays, just to see the same people every day is strength enough to know the difference of being seen and unseen.

To be more descriptive of this mentioning of the Tavern. For years, a study of mine has been reading and listening to the words of a sufi mystic poet. The Tavern is a place where soulful dreamers meet to speak in sacred conversation. This poet, Rumi, the translator, Coleman Barks, the reason behind the work, Robert Bly, the mystical meeting that gave Coleman his literary license to translate, Bawa Muhaiyaddeen. This is the coffee house tavern metaphorical rendering of this prose.

I am talking to myself, in a little house next to a church, writing free verse on a social medium that would have given Guttenberg a run for his money! I am doing this for no other reason than to hear myself think. To mention a river of life, a hearts of darkness apocalyptical severing of self. This is not my first rodeo. Matter of fact, this is not me. Sometimes, i feel like a motherless child dreaming of rebirth, dreaming angelic voices.

Between two worlds, two coffee houses, two places to stare into the face of contemporary dystopian fear.

To smile at unknown faces. To continue down into the jungles of mind, spirit and body, knowing that at the end of journeying, will be that final test. The test of the hero, the fight to the finish. In the tavern we will meet, with language as shared experience, in a place where there is no darkness … if love is what you seek, keep seeking. A seeker after truth knows this Orwellian reference and knows the torture of not being allowed to speak freely of their deepest fears without the threat of isolated reprimand.

To make a choice between the seen and unseen. Eventually, the middle place becomes the point of all of this rambling. All of this so called connectivity is doing nothing. Putting nothing into motion. Into the digital realm. And isn’t this the danger of allowing something unseen to be in control of our narratives, vibrations and memories? What is seen, of a relative nature, an appeal to contemporary reason this manuscript may also be.

As much as I, you will have to also choose what is more profitable to you: the truth that you know, or the myth! And yes these are borrowed words, from an outkast jazz seeker, however, answer the question! At least try. The truth is said to be set in stone. So put that marker on the grave of ideals and an ever changing mission and vision. To speak of the myth, like my God mother used to say when questioned where she was going,

“crazy, you wanna go?”

In between two places, the tavern and the coffee house is the reality of sight and sound. About eight blocks of cityscape concrete jungle realty. The truth of the matter as of right now, be here now, I am alone. In a small house. A friend is letting me rebuild this reality that I speak of. To speak of first chapters, economy. Do we not borrow from others ideals and expressions? If, it is what it is, then, like a flow chart into words, sound and power, then follow the connective line into truth. Don’t get stuck there for too long or truth becomes doctrine. Render unto caesar as little as possible. I have chosen to stop feeding a beast. Chant down babylon, one more time. Dread beat dread.

A dance of chaos. Keep your head when everything around us in those eight city blocks makes thoughts in mind travel down realities of aggression, property ownership, competition, exploitation, disease, addiction. All of that is flowing these days in every stream of conscience. Liken a player piano roll, many of the hierarchical abuses are being rendered, and who is playing along? There seems to be no one behind the curtain. Some computer server in a cold climate, tied and chained together holds all our information.

Children these days dream images and ideals from screens. Adults, the sacred poor, all of us are victims of colonial forces. Is this truth? It is what it is, and that is the question. The human race seemingly on a suicide course,

a dangerous game of chicken with mother nature.

And could this be the new myth that many seers have suggested we need to create to survive? The old myth suggests the meek, shall inherit. Mother nature is a fine example of a mean queen given all power.

So, be it, soon come is now, her volcanoes, hurricanes, tornadoes all her faces of destruction are more terrifying, more damaging than the violence of us ants. Us humans and our righteous attempts at creation. Our fear based atom bombs are no competition to what is unseen. What is lurking in the darkness of space. The dance of scientific exploration into black holes, nothingness, no explanation but to keep faithfully reinventing myth.

Who are we without our story?

A Late Night Poem

To whom:

our breath reaches only so far

into sky and hearts on the honest

hope of connection.

Leave the anger behind.

This truth may be confusing

may be too much to disolve

into worth.

I am not looking to impress.

Sharing requires a certain

something that this limited voice

booms to leave behind.

An Interview I Wish Would Happen

So, you are working as an engineer on the only steamboat operating in the United States?

Well, the Steamer Belle of Louisville is the only operating steamboat that survived the packet era of river boat commerce. There are other boats that are steam operated, however, none of them are over one hundred years old. And I work there yes, but what I really am doing is escaping from a life that was being threatened by automation.

What do you mean by that?

Well, by the time I had worked sixteen years in the railroad industry, I had witnessed the transition of totally manual operation of trains to an almost entirely computer, robot operation of trains.

What will happen when most jobs are handed over to computers and robots?

Well, humans will and always have longed to be loved and cared for, so, I hope that we as a people will go back to doing the things that have as much love and care contained in them as possible. It is suggested that humans have a tendency, when disaster strikes, to put differences aside and to help each other out unconditionally in the face of extreme difficulty. This to me is the saving grace of humanity. Unfortunately, waiting till the last minute to make changes is also a human trait that historically has caused so many disasters. It is obvious to me that the bottom line economically is most of the time the reason given for not making the changes required to avert many human made disasters.

You used to be very active in labor and social activist groups, what are you doing now?

Enjoying my new life as a river worker and member of a crew, reading a lot and writing.

What do you mean, “member of a crew?”

Well, Anne Feeney, my favorite labor singer and rebel folk musician has a song titled, War on the Workers, wherein she suggests that “if they call you a team, you better learn how to scream.” I hate it when some manager suggests that a group of workers are a team. On boats, we are all on the same boat is our motto, no teams. We have one goal, keep the boat floating and all the folks safe that are on board. We are all on the same boat is one of my favorite metaphorical reasonings. Something like asking this question – What would we do if we were all on the same boat?

This is the essence of a lack of competition. If teams were applied, then somebody would lose. In human existence and in labor, an injury to one, is an injury to all. The suggestion of an injury to one, is also the very essence of a compassionate community that recognizes that decisions must be made with every one person involved. If there is even one person suffering, then everyone must stop, recognize and discover what is troubling this member of the crew, because ultimately, the crew is also suffering. It takes a full crew to operate a boat safely.

We do not live in a perfect world.

Sure, and we don’t live in a constant state of emergency when all hands must be on deck at all times. And, in emergency situations a good crew would be strong enough to work with a member who can not work at full potential. Such as a strong community that operates with members who are suffering.

What is a community?

Unfortunately, community is sometimes just a word that has been co-opted as a brand and gimmick for profit takers. The same goes for free trade, cooperatives, green, sustainable, local and nonprofits. Many non profits will work their organizers, interns, directors and volunteers to extremes to enjoy a sort of free labor of love aspect of doing business, such as some businesses that make it their gimmick to create and sometimes support worker and farmer led cooperatives, but when it comes to their own workers, union cooperative collectivity is not something that is necessary to achieve.

Do you still support the union?

Well, I have been an active member of one of the oldest unions in the United States, The Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers and Trainmen. I have also been a member of one of the largest and most powerful unions, The Teamsters. What I found being a member of these unions was the same thing Eugene V. Debs found. Corruption, competition and a lack of human care taking. You can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater, however, it seems to me that the labor movement has lost its way. That is why I was a union reformer and supporter of democratic movements in the unions that I was a member of. Democratic principles are nice and all, however there must be dissent for democracy to exist. Power corrupts. Care taking of the minority view is difficult to manage while in power and the troubling results of overpowering the minority is what fails many an organization and community minded endeavors.

Do you support Democratic movements and organizations now?

At the moment, I am not a member of any group or organization. I am still a supporter of Railroad Workers United because that is the organization that taught me most of the deeply held beliefs that I have adhered to as I transitioned out of the labor movement, so to say. I am a solidarity member, however, I am not in the railroad industry, community any more and my work as of late has been internally, moreover, personal and that has taken most of my time and energy.

What about the I.W.W.? I thought you were a member of that union.

I am not a dues paying member of any organization right now. I am only a solidarity member of railroad workers united in so far as I still talk frequently to the secretary and would support works that they might do. If I were called upon, I would give my advice and take the time to offer what time I might have in opinion. As for the I.W.W. That union is closer to my deeply held conviction that Labor is Entitled to All Wealth created by labor. This is not the belief of many of the trade unions of today. I am also more inclined to be a member when what I can offer is wanted. The labor movement in general has lost its heart and soul. That is my department. I am a singer, poet, storyteller, folk musician and griot.

What is a griot?

A Griot is a West African word that belongs to a certain caste of people who are the keepers of the oral tradition of the community that they belong. They are born into the trade and have a high place in society. They are poets, musicians and somewhat the journalists of their community. I am somewhat also a Djeli. There is some crossover in those two terms, however they are closely related in what those roles play in West African Culture.

Why do you consider yourself a Griot?

Well, I was born into a very musical family. My entire German side of my family were and still are members of a social club centered around singing. I grew up in that rapidly disappearing tradition. My father and uncles were folk mass singers in church and my Lebanese grandfather was a chanter at his Greek orthodox church. Back in my school days, (1984) I was a trumpet player in band. One day an artist was contracted by our band teacher, Malinda, to come, build and play African Drums. Herbie Johnson came and we made drums out of PVC pipes. Painted them and did a performance with them. This was my first experience working with African Music. Eventually, I would meet him again and the drum would change my life. I got my first west African Djembe in 1994. I still have it now.

My first paying gig was playing drum for an African storyteller. Her name was amazing. Oyo Fumilayo M’fundishi, something like that. What a name. I went on to study with Baba Olatunji and several of the Drum players who have worked with the Guinea National Ballets and other West African groups. Bolocada Conde, Famidou Konate to name a few.

How does this make you a Griot?

Well it doesn’t really, because I am a Kentucky boy, not African born into a caste system, however I was doing the work that folks like Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie were doing. They were storytellers, poets and musicians. Most of my work, when I was working at the railroad and in the democratic reform labor organizations, was done innocently, doing what a griot in Africa would have done. My goal was to document the working conditions of the American railroads using the old myths and stories of the people as my guide.

What do you mean, “old myths and stories?”

I recently met a banjo player who has been working with Rhiannon Giddens. She was playing a folk festival here in Louisville. She has written a song that deals with the ever changing and being added to song John Henry. She wrote a song about John’s wife, Polly Anne. John Henry was a real person. To me, he was a moral to the story. The moral to the story was all about automation and pride. Moreover, to me that song is very triggering, because I worked very closely with families who were dealing with the tragic effects of automation. John Henry, lives in the memory of every worker who was killed on the railroad. To have her adding to the body of folk tradition, and adding to the what happened to Polly Anne question to me was absolutely fascinating. Not to mention this woman was a powerful young black woman playing the banjo. We certainly could use as many of those as we can get!

What have you been reading lately?

I have recently devoured all I can find in audiobooks. Joseph Campbell has been a recent study. I have also been reading tons of Idries Shah and other Sufi works. As of late, I am reading the Harlan Hubbard Payne Hollow Journal. Wendell Berry is a poet and essay writer I enjoy reading. I am finding also that Alan Bates is an excellent Kentucky author.

Who was Allen Bates?

He was a river worker who designed and worked on several steamboats. His books are written in a very easy to read way. Technical, but also capturing the human elements of what goes on out on the river.

What music have you been listening to?

The Grateful Dead, once a deadhead, always a deadhead. Sun Ra, I love Sun Ra. I listen to lots of West African Djembe groups and as of late, I have been listening to the birds mostly. I pulled out some Bill Monroe a couple of weeks ago, but mostly I have been listening to John Hartford’s steamboat stuff. Kinda goes with the territory.


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photo by Greg Acker