One Day at a Time

museum in Turkey, stone weapons, stone tools, museum tools–By: RS Jacobs (c) 2012

Every night I get to thinking

Of what my life has become.

I think I grew up while blinking,

And I still feel just as dumb.

Maybe he and I switched bodies,

Wishing on a magic lamp.

This college-age guy still thought he’s

Way back there in summer camp.


Think what you know me by.

That’s how I will stay.

See the real me through the grime.

We don’t see eye to eye,

Because your “one day”

Is my “one day at a time.”


Yesterday when I was a kid,

They asked me what I would be.

But twenty years, who would have bid

On that kid still being me?

I wanted to join the force,

And now I live to protect.

I’d have killed to ride a horse,

And I’m not giving up yet.


People think dreams are distant,

If they happen at all.

But asked to name mine, I can’t,

’cause I’m living them all.

They all think nightmares don’t end,

That they’ll last forever.

But I see around the bend.

That chain is severed.


Think what you know me by.

That’s how I will stay.


See the real me through the grime.

We don’t see eye to eye,

Because your “one day”

Is my “one day at a time.”


Every day I start up thinking

Of what my life can become.

I see all my problems shrinking,

Count my friends, and see the sum.

I wish you could see through my eyes

In the dread darkest of days,

See all the struggle yet realize

Cheese at the end of the maze.


You think you know – you think I don’t see;

You fear what is staying – you wish I could be

More than I am, more than this grime,

More than the me that I am all the time.

There’s something to say of the man I’d become,

But you’re wrong if you think I’m twiddling my thumbs,


Because your “one day”…

…is my “one day at a time.



Wielding the Wand

[You have to hang on till the end!  Here is a shortened version of yesterday’s post…to get you to the punch line more quickly.]

by: RS Jacobs

He sat there ensconced in polished brown safety; he stared straight ahead. There before him, glowing in brilliant light, was everything he cared to know about, and so much more. Looking ahead as he did, he took on the power of the Fates themselves. He could peer into the past, study the present world, and even discover the future. He could observe, in a distant fashion, the private lives of his fellow man. Struggles, victories, sorrows; all were laid bare to his all-seeing eye. In mere moments, he could journey from forest, tcourage, courageous girl, girl in hoodie, girl with light sabre, girl with sword, light sabre, wando desert, to the depths of space. This was his telescope and grabbing claw to every universe — all in one.

At his left hand sat a sampling of the fountain of youth, seemingly seething with the energies of life itself. At his right, manna from Heaven. With the world before him, and life on either side, this was no man who graced this place with his presence, but a king.

Without diverting his gaze from the wonders that darted about his eyes, this king closed a meaty hand around the weapon of his choice: black in color, smoother than river stones, and studded with glory, but no larger than a wizard’s wand. Despite the size of the thing, the incalculable power of this weapon could end whole worlds, then bring them back as if they had never left. This rod of power could seize the reins of time, and seize them it did.

Taking on a countenance most pensive, he stroked his grizzled chin and sat in deep thought. Reactions to what he had seen raced through his head like hunting falcons. But this pondering only brought him to realize the gravity of his findings, and his hand rose to his face, as if to keep it from falling off.  He contemplated the power of the black rod, and when he could take no more, the black rod was brought up again. The flashing lights and echoing sounds were dismissed. He closed his eyes, exhaled a slow, deep breath, and said,

           wand, remote control, watching TV, watching television “Five hundred channels, and nothing on.”

(Now that you know the punch line, go back and read Tiresome Visions for the full story.)

What is it?

What is it
That drives and halts the soul?
What is it
That mends and breaks the heart?
What is it
That draws the winds of change
And brings them as but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others?

Is it Literature? The written word?
That sprawling, scrawling, inky text unheard?
Shakespeare, Elliot, Browning, Poe, Doyle?
Is the written word the mortal coil?
It could be argued by the greater men
Of our time, that a word can do you in.
But a word bears no power of its own.
It needs man’s mind to become fully grown.

Is it Culture? Is it politicians?
That inspires the called to their missions?
Churchill, Washington, Hitler, Gandhi, no.
The ebbing waves of culture come and go.
But if not culture, well, what is it then?
What drives the most essential life of men?
It cannot be found in the written word,
And it was not by man that man occurred.

What makes the blood boil?
For what does man toil?
What mends and breaks the heart?
Not math, science, or art.
What destroys the past without fail,
And makes the future just a tale?
The winds of change, the sands of time,
A word of reason or of rhyme.

Man does not
Drive or halt the soul.
Man does not
Mend or break the heart.
Man does not
Draw the winds of change.
He can’t make them but a breeze to some,
And yet a storm to others.
Gilded in armor of light,
Our answer is just in sight.
Do you know the Answer?