Don Beaudreau has lived at Lakeside with his husband Juan Rivera for 10 years. They share their home with 7 dogs, 2 cats, and a white lab mouse. He is a retired Unitarian Universalist minister, and a retired English and music teacher. A professional jazz and ragtime pianist, Don has raised money for numerous social justice causes. He has two daughters and 3 granddaughters.
A Randy Death
Science lies to the sacred,
But it is dying we’re about
In this room of medical machinations:
The morphine drip clings to the lie,
The monitor’s bleep disguises the demise —
His accomplished, mine in process.
A randy guy
Self-alienated,
He went to the other side,
To the land of easy
And just as easy
Disappointment.
He toughened,
The jester in him weakening,
The punch-lines slamming through
Before the lead-ins —
Making no sense,
Drowning in chaos.
Then I showed up,
Needy in my own way:
To care, to guide,
To control,
To be pulled into his vortex,
To lose myself.
Co-addiction
Leading me to this room of machinations:
The drip,
The bleep,
The disintegration of self —
Created from false love, and insincere charity.
He waits for me now
On that other side of chaos,
His eyes see through mine
Beseeching,
Imploring:
“It is time.”
Crashing Through Moonbeams
Mind, so raw
Gobbles me up,
Spits me out,
Declares:
Who’s the boss?
I forget
That I am the mind
The self that talks me
Into self-effacement,
The self that loses me
In the primitive place,
The self that informs me
I am not in charge,
The self that invokes the roar
From antiquity’s mist,
The self that arouses the Bacchanalian brain
To unleash the satyr’s blood,
The self that sets this man-equine of mine
On fire…
A creature now beyond self,
Ablaze with power —
Who rips off his chains,
Mounts the night-time sky,
And crashes through moonbeams
After his prey.
******
Remembering The Gay Night I Died
It was festive!
When I was finally free
To continue the dance
Beyond fleshy limitations —
Where, earthbound by creative fiat,
The best I did was to question
And then create my own answers —
Lest I go mad with futility
While waiting for someone to give them to me.
A hard lesson to learn:
That with pursuit of reason
Comes mere rationalization
For those of us who wear the cloak of the discontent:
The village atheist,
The cynic,
The naysayer,
The outlier.
The heretic.
We learn, too, through our suffering the smug absurdities of others —
Those who desire to share their easy answers with us:
Who proclaim their rightness
While lighting the blaze to destroy us,
That what we fear: suffering and perishing
Is ultimately our liberation
Our ticket to the eternal dance.
*****
South Florida, Gulf Side
Part One: Gay
The descendant roars his lionized self.
No one hears,
No one cares.
De Leon looking for youth eternal in a bottle
On this gay island of flowers.
Hidden in cloistered, smoke-filled rooms.
A gyration of souls, cloak themselves in fleshy jeans
While the room swirls and our savior breathes fire.
Are we lost then?
Hopelessly adrift on a darkening sea?
Do we do for naught?
No youth here!
But ghosts seeking ghosts;
Eternity capsized by chaos.
Part Two: Old
All the while
Whitened bones brittling
On the golf green;
On the beach;
In the mall.
Battle the inevitable with shields of pills, potions, and preachers;
Therapy, talk shows, and tabloids…
The good life in the warmth — at last!
Freshly squeezed octogenarians dancing Latino rhythms on Sanibel,
Computing stock options in their heads;
The oldsters attempting to ward “it” off
With treasure hunts to Goodwill,
Bargaining on dead folk clothes.
Believing they’ll never die.
Part Three: Young
The South Florida spring break:
Up with college romance!
Blitzed on booze and white powder;
Young hormones riding Harleys
Like fucking machines
Into the night of lost memories;
Trashing whatever and themselves in the process.
Covering up their future fears,
Staying young; hopeful —
If only for a moment more.
They strut in tight next-to-nothing —
A hunt of animal for animal
Shameless, unabashed,
Denying oblivion.
Part Four: Mesh
Gay and Old and Young
Meshing in miraculous avoidance
Rushing toward survival,
We Ponce de Leons of the millennium’s closure
Still seek the elixir, wanting it yesterday.
This life eternal in our hip pockets —
More real than face peels
And pharmaceutical heaven;
More kick than bathhouse quick fix
And mid-week senior travelogues.
Not these! What we really seek is the fountain
Pure and fresh and lasting,
The panacea for all sorrow;
The revered potion to make us young forever.
******
At The White Horse Inn
Lost in my twenties,
In the veldt of wicked weed and barrelhouse beer
Somewhere
Lost
Just-over-the-edge of “Beserkley” riding a white horse
Among the barstools…
Summer, I remember it was summer,
Hotter, and more humid that year: 1973.
In me, too,
Heat…
On that white horse
Dripping my need in a gallop
Aided by blow and brew
Looking for a guy to ride into the sunset with…
And there, among the cowpoke waiting to be lassoed
Sat a guy
Kinda shy,
No drama, but mystery in that:
Newcomer to the corral.
“Howdy!” I whinnied.
Nothing in response.
Or had there been a flicker?
A final display of DNA before rigor mortis?
My hoofs went on strike,
Bringing me to a halt
At the dead man’s stirrups…
Later, back at the ranch,
Smelling of raw hide,
Kinda Shy Guy,
15 years my senior explained:
“First time…”
“Why?” said I.
“Religious stuff.”
As if that explained the mystery of creation…
“Huh?”
“Excommunication.”
“I won’t snitch.”
******
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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