Ghost Trees Wailing At the Wind

 

A picture couldn’t do justice to

Arctic wind’s ferocity

blowing across the

great lake thirty or forty m.p.h.

white caps rushing toward shore

water, trees, sand and leaves …

combined

Shhsssshing relentlessly,

my hoody inflated into

a reverse parachute

pushing my head and

body backward.

Dots of rain prick

my face

the occasional

snow flake spirals by.

 I’m forced to retreat

to calmer climes

along the road where

not so long ago it seemed

cold before cresting

the hill at the shoreline

facing Arctic wind’s

ferocity.

I make my way up the hill to 23

turn left onto the bike path for

a mile or so, past

the alabaster pipeline then 

return 

the way I came

to 

the top of

the hill.

Descending the hill I hear

the SNAP CRACK! of dead fir trees

breaking like sticks

the bottom half still attached 

to the ground

The top looking like a snarling beast, suddenly 

Escaped from 

Inside the tree 

patches of bleached wood where bark had fallen 

with jagged, pointed, dagger teeth 

An angry beast released from its confinement within the tree 

Splintered teeth pointing skyward

still attached to

roots rotten and brittle below ground

(the only force keeping it 

from tipping over)

the broken trees are pointing skyward

with snarling fury

the soul of each tree’s pent up frustration

raging at nature’s forces

finally allowed to express

their furiosity at

the plague of beetles who caused their

demise, long gone now

off to greener pastures.

The fir tree’s plaintive wails,

their pent up frustration,

their solitary ghost sounds

their howls of pain

unheard

in their after lives!

The fir trees wail with silent fury now,  they’ve become

ghost trees wailing at

the wind!

Their pain punctuated by

SNAP! CRACK!! SNAP!! SNAP!!! CRACK!!!!!

the initial sound

of ultimate

rot …

Nature’s Life

dsc_0363

She looked with cold indifference 

at His efforts to teach us 

the connection between

our lives and

nature.

Bridge parties, the daily routines of life and of course 

her afternoon naps,

were the essential

components of Her

life.

He gave us the freedom to

explore the sandy beaches, 

the dunes, trout streams and 

The Great Lake where

I spent my days

submerged in glacial ice 

melted to

65 degree water for

hours at a time, running through

the woods exploring, or 

camped out alongside windbreaker trees  

stretched 3/4 of a mile along the shoreline 

in sleeping bags next to camp fire embers 

staring at the stars

through crystal clear skies blown clean by 

on shore winds  cold or

chili at times even during the summer.

fishing off the end of 

the Coast Guard dock 

stretched a hundred or so yards into 

the bay where

the “Amphibian” and smaller 

rescue boats hung inside the boat house at

the same place where

he learned to fish as a boy.

He taught us how to

fend for ourselves, to

catch food, to

make fire, cook outside, provide shelter 

if necessary.

He gave us opportunities for unique forms of thought patterns deeper sorts of problem solving more essential the world around shown wider in scope made more real; how to live impeccably in the natural world parallel to and inclusive of the confines of life in the everyday “real” world.  

One day,

temperatures in the ‘20s

the ground covered by

light wings drifting 

like feather’s down 

falling,

I followed his tracks

through

two feet of freshly fallen snow to 

a row of scrub pines bordering

the back side of sand

dunes running parallel to 

the lake where

left alone with

shelter, warmth and

food

in a world of 

muted silence 

wrapped inside a black and white shell

the ground rising

upward before me

I pondered without 

words or thought 

the timeless mystery surrounding me 

in a world of

liberation …

They Call It Turtle Cove

IMG_1083.jpg

..  They Call It Turtle Cove ..

What I’ve been doing?

I’ve been

working on my dock 

terracing slopeland for

boxed steps made from

two by fours carved and set

into canal soil with

aloe plants showcased ’round 

boxed, steps, leading down to 

shoreline dock I built 

at water’s edge where

looking into 

canal water  

through water’s window from

where we stand see

tiny fish and 

many turtles, a baby gator one day!

The fishing line with 

rod and reel 

stands over there 

waiting for the time

when young hands learn

to use it. 

..  Sight Breaker Heart Breaker ..

I built a 

‘sight breaker’ to 

hide natures pile of debris 

I add to constantly at the 

back corner of the 

yard 

the fronds of palm and banana, slash pine 

needles, fair size limbs, nice looking pine cones from 

fifty feet pines , 

(squirrels who feed on 

pine nuts hardly ever seen), 

I either burn just for fun or use to 

fuel more s’mores for Becky.   

I mulch the needles with the mower and 

spread them fine 

among the aloes, ferocious foes appearing yet 

most beautiful healing plant in fearsome disguise  

a helpful friend 

that I adore.    

I put them around the pines  

along the paths aligned 

designed with rip rap in mind

the best way to hold the soil

you’ll find them where 

sandy soil needs support, holding it in place 

by various means from many sizes 

calcified shells of limestone each piece heavy with  

Its own density at work within 

whatever space it occupies, steady and

strong but

not very 

Pretty.  

..  I Tried To Make Soil One Day ..

I tried to make soil one day at the 

corner of the yard that 

leads on down to the 

canal where there’s debris  I 

I call it my compost heap

which, is a lie.

One day I carved out an eight by eight plot,

threw down some black dirt and cow manure 

staked it out with four by fours and repurposed two by fours thinking I’ll 

make my own soil from scratch, with 

lots of organic materials, I’ll gather and choose from this 

jungle in disguise I live in and 

make it located exactly where  

 I discard all my 

yard debris.  (killing two birds with 

one stone?!)

I try to make it look nice and 

generally succeed.

(I don’t think you can even see it!)

So I don’t think anybody really 

gives a shit.   

Except those who are bothered by the 

Word and nothing more since 

no matter how you look at it 

it’s still called 

Yard waste!   

..  On the Dock/Arctic Winds ..

On the dock at times I find the 

peace I’m looking for the 

wind and trees joined as one 

a gift I feel from 

 Arctic winds blown in from

Arctic north

where I come from (and

would rather be)

up there in that north country

where those air filled Arctic winds come

nicely heated along the way

their freezing gusts tempered by their

rush to blow all the way down here.

How often I feel them?  Not nearly enough.

I wish I’d feel those air filled breezes  

down here more often.

… Summer …

In Summer air most often down here dockside

I see

canal water standing still,

reflecting white light from above

I see

heat air water rising steaming upward

reflecting white sun above,

canal water raining upward all day!

then,

 coming down again and

again

day after day after

day …

We call it Turtle Cove … 

Ultimate Rot

A picture couldn’t do justice to  

Arctic wind’s ferocity 

blowing across the 

great lake thirty or forty m.p.h. 

white caps rushing toward shore 

water, trees, sand and leaves … 

combined 

Shhsssshing relentlessly,

my hoody inflated into 

a reverse parachute 

pushing my head and 

body backward.

Dots of rain prick

my face 

the occasional 

snow flake spirals by.

 I’m forced to retreat 

to calmer climes 

along the road where 

not so long ago it seemed

cold before cresting 

the hill at the shoreline 

to face Arctic wind’s 

ferocity.

I made my way up the hill to 23 

turned left onto the bike path for 

a mile or so, past

the alabaster pipeline.

I turned around, for no reason

walked back

the way I came to the end of 

the bike path at the top of

the hill. 

Descending the hill I heard

the SNAP CRACK! of dead firs

breaking like sticks 

the broken half still attached to the ground 

looking like a beast, patches of bleached wood where bark had fallen with jagged, pointed, dagger teeth an angry beast thrust up from the earth

pointed skyward

still attached to   

roots rotten and brittle below ground

the only force keeping  

the trees pointing skyward

with snarling fury 

the soul of each tree’s pent up frustration 

raging at nature’s forces  

finally allowed to express 

their furiosity at

the plague of beetles who caused their

demise, long gone now

off to greener pastures. 

The fir tree’s plaintive wails,

their pent up frustration,

their solitary ghost sounds 

their howls of pain

unheard

in their after lives they had become

ghost trees wailing 

at the wind!

their pain punctuated by 

SNAP! CRACK!! SNAP!! SNAP!!! CRACK!!!!!

the initial sound 

of ultimate 

rot … 

Hideous Nature, Life

Hideous nature,

life …

Ghastly in its death bed/its beseiging compass

run its course.

Bewildering with its struggles/

writhing in its pain/

desire seeking fire/rifting 

terrorism’s claim.  

Severed thinking/

thoughts of creepy crawlies/

struggling through fright’s night  

against

all reasoning.

There’ll be no full moon tonight to guide

the single masted ship 

sailing saw tooth tiger’s biting cold/

forces wrought by ghastly winds

likely to prevail.

Tossed about by night time breezes blowing/

dark clouds racing toward

every horizon filling every void

every which way/all shades of gray/

lashing tempest breezes 

blowing light’s deepest freezes into

nascent; sadness into dreamer’s hearts

with misery’s delight …………

Hideous nature,

life.

He Gave Us the Freedom

She looked with cold indifference at 

his efforts to teach 

the connection between

our lives and

nature.  

Bridge parties, 

the daily routines of life and 

an afternoon nap, were 

the essential components of 

her life. 

He gave us freedom to

explore the sandy beaches, dunes, trout

streams and 

the Great Lake where

he had fished and camped as a

boy.

We spent our days

swimming

for hours at a time,

we ran thorough 

the woods like wild 

Indians.

We fished in the bay 

off the end of 

the old Coast Guard dock 

at the end of 

the limerock road 

where he fished at 

the same 

age.

He gave opportunity for

unique forms of

thought patterns taken from

the world around;

deeper sorts of problem solving

made more essential

more real

  in a world parallel to but 

inclusive of 

the confines of

our ‘’everyday’’ lives. 

One day,

temperatures in the ‘20s

walking in his tracks through

three feet of snow

 the ground white 

light as feathers rising while passing by

quarter sized light wings 

drifting

slowly downward

 soft and mesmerizing.

We traveled past

the scrub oaks

a century or more

old

gnarly and twisted from

Arctic winds 

their rise and fall,

deadly cold fronts, biting winds,

great lake storms 

blown onshore,

adapted to biting cold

surviving.  

We walked to

a line of scrub pines

behind dunes running parallel to 

the lake where .,..

with food and shelter and warmth 

he left us for 

some indeterminable 

length of time

in a world of silence

to contemplate a world 

stripped of all conveniences 

wrapped in black or white

the ground softly falling through 

air 

from 

upwards.  

For tribalmysticstories: A Tribal Mystic Story; Poem For My Father

  • – Poem For My Father –

One day he took me to a copse of trees 

where we sat under a canopy of 

newly formed leaves  

above us a clear blue sky 

where he gave perspectives to me

different from anything I had 

learned.  

Thoughts from the other side of

what we think we know.

How wind and leaves 

are not separate forces rather 

part of one single entity

connected to an infinity 

of larger and larger wholeness

stretching outward from 

the air we breathe,

beyond heat and light 

from the sun then, 

further into space and time until  

I saw myself in a world 

quite different than my own,

a world I’d never seen before, 

of single limitless form.  

He drew my attention to 

the random movements of 

the leaves

rising and falling, relentlessly 

shooting ‘round and ‘round,

limbs branches leaves and needles 

the grasses and saplings below 

touching one another 

sharing unique thought patterns 

not unlike the synapses 

of our brains though 

infinitely more complex,

not confined by 

the craniums of our skulls,

gathering awareness,

from earth and sky,

the mysteries of the world 

above and below spoken to them

content to accept all that is true

without conscious reflection.  

“Trees are the supreme creation of life along the continuum of awareness, free from all bonds, able to gather all knowledge from earth and sky and share with one another.”

I listened and within 

the silence of my mind 

heard leaves and limbs 

whispering to one another,

their voices rising and falling 

in concert with 

the wind, 

it seemed I was watching  

a playground of laughing children. 

He told me all root bound life 

the trees and even the grasses reach 

the tendrils of their minds, their 

roots, 

into the planet where they feel 

the living vibrations of the earth and glimpse 

the secrets of life

“They know the stuff we struggle to understand.” he said.  “From the smallest particles outward, one long strip of awareness from where they are rooted, to the edge of the horizon and beyond, while we scurry about like ants grabbing pieces of sticks or crumbs of knowledge thinking how clever we are.’’

A Time For Sleeping

A Time For Sleeping

Saturday was a cold, gray day.

I lit the fireplace for a quick warm up.

Before leaving the warmth of
the cottage

I wrote a little more,
donned my hoody and coat

turned off the gas
grabbed my camera and

entered the cold but
beautifully pure, refreshing

northern air.

I walked up the hill,
along 23 to

the alabaster pipeline then
backtracked toward where

my journey began.

At the bottom of the hill
frozen water looked like a small stream

or a miniature river system or
what a large river basin would look like

from high above.

Two sets of raccoon tracks lead to
a fork along

the frozen highway dusted white with snow
where they parted ways.

My frozen world had become
suspended in time,

fully sleep within
the ground of shadows,

all things living
framed in shades of gray

naked, dead or
alive and

waiting.

But, for what?

For summer’s light to return
life’s burning ember,

for warmth to come again,
a time to grow

from liquid water sugar fed
the leaves and buds of trees absorbed

from sunlight stored
a hundred differing shades of green

their roots reaching deeper
seeking … seeking …

seeking to remember …

But for now?…

a time for

sleeping .,..

London Broil: Butter or Parquay?

continued … when he doubled over she called him a doofey unemployed jake ass.  He laughed to himself.  ”What the hell is a ‘jake ass?”  he wondered.  continued …

Most nights after cleaning the kitchen he joined her in the t.v. room even though he hated that goddamned western channel …

He usually curled up with a book by his favorite author Louis L’Amor.

That one night she told him she wanted popcorn.

He took great pride in his popcorn making skills but that night they ran out of margarine!

(It was a mystery to him why she didn’t like butter on her popcorn.  He loved buttered popcorn!)

Maybe that’s why.   

“Wull,” he told her, ”There isn’t any margarine.”

But she insisted,

”The car’s got plenty of gas,” she said, “And i could use some quiet time.  So why don’t you just leave?” 

So, he drove 8 miles to the Piggly Wiggly in town but it was closed for the annual inventory.

So he drove around the corner to Charly’s Convenience Store but it must have burned down; the walls were charred black and the roof was missing.  

‘’I’ll be damed if I’ll drive another three miles over to Plank City for a tub of frickin’ Parkay,” he said to himself, out loud..

“She’ll just have to eat her goddamned popcorn with butter tonight!”

(He wondered if she’d know the difference but, he knew better.)

continued … 

Maple Sap

 

Maple Sap

Something Discovered I Thought I Had Forgotten

We took turns gathering sap
from the big maple trees

along the street
perpendicular to my house

before sunrise/during late winter and
early spring.

What’s the world like at 4 a.m.?

Not a sound
in the world

but for my felt lined boots,
scrunching over school kids foot prints

quick frozen in slush during
a brief span

winter allowed spring to
show itself before

pulling us back into
the deep freeze

one more time.

Three street lamps
at each end and middle of

the block threw yellow halos
onto the snow; sparking

frozen crystals flashing
bright from cold moon’s

night time light echoing

points of light shimmering
bright against

the clear blue-black
sky.

Between each light
shadows momentarily

snuffed me into darkness,then
back into the halo three times

in succession to
the end of the block where

turning, with brief visit

with each tree began the

one block journey home but for

brief visits
at the trunk of each tree

collecting drops of sap
slowly collected in

little tin pails from copper tubing

tapped

into each tree.

It’s early Spring/the trees still half asleep/these early spring time nights with winter’s lingering cold,
some beating heart within/in tune with spring time light pumping upward /sap from fingers reaching deep.

Synthesized energy!

stored in caskets of root below ground
aged five months the finest wine.

The taste?

Clean and cold,

faintly sweet, maple wood flavored,
the perfect essence of each tree,

as refreshingly cool to drink
on coldest mornings

as cold water is
on a hot summer

day.

 

Excerpt: Strange World

Excerpt

After the nurse left his room
he thought about what had occurred and
in a drug and pain induced brain fog,
pulled the tubes from his left arm and,

using the food cart as a walker
made a half assed attempt to escape
the hospital for
some unknown
reason.

From that point forward
the “real” world was
rearranged, reconstructed and
put back together again

when

the strange specter of a man appeared
moving down a darkened hallway at
two a.m. looking very determined,
pushing a food cart, (wearing
black shorts and t-shirt
a pair of white TED hose),
where he was seen
telling two nurses, a CNA, and a security guy

that, “I have every right to leave
the hospital if I want to.’

A short while later, after
some ridiculous displays of yelling

he returned to
his room and fell asleep
on a comfortable lounge chair
after the charge nurse downstairs
(an Air Force Academy graduate)
convinced him that it would be better if
he DID return to his room.

And so, he did.

“When unexpected events occur,” he said,
“Unusual forces come together

making sparks of
different colors never seen

ricocheting light in
all directions; mirrors reflecting light from

other mirrors making new connections
striking colors never seen

briefly explode
startling into higher awareness
thought, reason, intuition,

even dreams

crossing paths
with different paths

of thinking
fleeting thoughts of consequence and

reason

to people
normally grazing grass
turned brown,
bored and

lonely.”

I loved the way he described it.

Purple Words

Purple Words –

One late Spring day, my students and I
walked to the Dairy Queen with

the thought in mind that we would
capture unique experiences and

write about them when we returned to
the class room.

After lunch, we formed a single file line
crossed Monroe Road to the sidewalk,

walked west for two blocks, past
the house I grew up in (at the end off Mackinaw Street) then,

along the north side of
the fence surrounding

the big athletic field where all
the games were played on Friday night and

past the town park where
I played and

ice skated
as a
boy.

While we walked I roamed from
the front to the back of

the line pointing out details that
their eight year old minds

might not
notice.

I told them to listen to
the sound of car tires rolling over
the blacktop.

While stopped, we heard
the distant moan of a diesel engine.

They thought that
the groaning engine was probably

working hard to push boxcars to
different places at the ‘’rail yard’’.

One girl said, maybe
the engine was pulling a

quarter mile long
train of

boxcars.

I pointed to the diverse shades of
green and the different shapes of

leaves on maple or elm trees.

When a breeze gusted past,
i asked them how

the breeze felt and
what words they would use to

describe the sound as it passed over
their ears.

After a while they began to
glimpse the world between

the lines

pointing  out things
I never would have noticed.

Five blocks from school
at a red and yellow blinking light,

we crossed over Monroe Road and
walked two blocks north to

the Dairy Queen where I bought
each student a chocolate or vanilla cone.

We ate our cones sitting under a
huge oak tree.

Leaned against the tree I looked around,

marveling at
the sweet innocence of

my eight year old students.

At the right moment
I spoke about some of

the unique objects, sounds and
thoughts we experienced

during our seven block journey.

I asked them to describe
what they saw, felt and heard.

Once they began sharing stories,
their experiences flowed out of them

like bright streams of light.

And so I watched and listened as
the sun born from winter into spring

shone through the budding leaves
dappling their faces with

ever changing patterns of light as they
spoke of discoveries taken from

the world around them.

Their thoughts were fluid and
bright; sunlight streaming through

the leaves  knitted them together into
a tapestry of sorts.

As the sun rose higher so did
the details of their remembrances.

The tapestry grew more complex and
beautiful as the light arched higher.

When it was time to
return to school,

I told them they were to walk silently so that
their story or poem, would be

different than everyone else’s.

Later, with pencils, brown school paper and
their visions I watched them silently write.

One by one, they brought their their
papers to me and as they did,

I read each story.

Every story was beautiful in
its own way.

Unique reflections of each student’s personality.

Their words were like beautiful
uncut gems, some

the color of rubies or emeralds.

Others vibrated with sound, were simple with quiet emotion or
restless, anxious to please,

listing every impression.

One piece stood out from
the rest.

Written in purple ink by
the shiest girl in class,

her ten line poem captured
the essence of

the entire journey.

At the end of the day I
looked back at the experience with

a clarity of detail I had
never experienced before.

That night when I had dinner with
my Dad he told me that

a lot of people in town saw me walking with
my students and many of them commented that

I looked like the Pied Piper … but of course
the gentle side of the Piper …

There Was His Face

There was his face …

A mixture of youthful mirth, his right eyebrow a calligraphy flare at the end of a sentence, his mouth twisted into a half smile, his head cocked to the side, mischievousness written all over the place; a question mark at the end of his eyes that said, you don’t know what I’m thinking do you?

He looked into her.  He saw the color and its dark circle corona and the black pool.

She stared back .  Her benign smile said, “What’s on your mind?”

Waiting …..

Tell me about your excellent day,” she said.

“I spoke softly and the vibrations went into people and made them feel good.”

Waiting …

“There were plenty of smiles and laughter.  It felt like I was spreading something around.  It seemed like people were flowers that hadn’t been watered for a week.  I gave them a drink of Miracle Grow and they perked up for a bit… took in a little more sunshine.”

Thoughtful pause …

“It seems strange that I can pass all this positivity around but I can’t spread it to myself.  Fear still lurks. Fear can pounce without warning.  A crystal vase that  can fall and shatter in a heart beat.”

 I know his states of mind the way he thinks … his moods,  both bright AND dark but I only see his light.   Only HE  knows and sees the dark.  

Waiting …..

So you were fearful a lot of the time?

“Fear!!… that common concoction that mixes so well with just about any occasion?”

“You have nothing to fear. This I’ve never understood.”

What’s it like when things are really good? Explain it to me in words I’ll understand.

“O.k. My feelings,  my thoughts are a river that carries a river boat.  The boat is my physical self.  It and I float along on the river of feelings that are beneath. They are the feelings you have at that moment  …….. but, no matter what you think you feel it’s bigger … It’s the river and then … well you know.  There’s so much more.  There are forces that control the river!  The river is a constant force … a powerful force but there are many other forces to contend with as well.”

Waiting …

And, when you have a day like today what’s it like?  

“The guys in the engine room had that engine running smooth.  The fuel injectors were working perfectly.  I was at the helm of the ship.  I took it to different places and I was in complete control although, I only thought I was.”

“The engine was still in control  but the river controlled the engine. Even the boat thought it was  in control but it wasn’t.  Still … everything ran smooth for a change.”

“But, it was so great!  I could steer into little coves and inlets.  I explored little communities along this journey …
I could stop for a while, and even get out of myself for a change.”

Waiting .…. Thinking …..

“Oh, you know … that’s when you stand back … apart from  your ‘ME’ …  you SEE the world …. not ‘ME’  … for what it is. That damn ”Me” … it’s always getting in the way things …

I can watch the river flow by and I understand it better.”

“I see logs out there on swirly sub currents.  Murky water, whirlpools for crying out loud!  I don’t even want to go there!”

“I don’t know where the source of that fucking river is.  I ask myself, what is the source of that raging river?  A little stream like the mighty Mississippi?”

“Or, does it bubble to the earth from some dark, black place within the planet?  Maybe I was born in that black place and bubbled up with the black water?

Waiting … Both Smiling ….

N. rests his head back against the palms of his knitted fingers. He squints his eyes and stares into space.

“Although, there are times most often when the river is clear and runs smooth and it’s a pleasure to coast along at a slow enough pace that the world looks beautiful and you have time to see it  as

a wonderful

montage.”

The Third Epoch

Did you hear about them coming?
yes i did. they said, ‘in droves’ but, what does that mean and where will they be coming from?
they’re already here! they’re INSIDE MY HOUSE!  they won’t leave me alone.  they keep sucking my blood.   good God, face facts.  it’s what we’ve ALL been suffering from for so long!
but, where … ? what are we gonna DO? We don’t even know what they look like!
people are setting up perimeters around their homes.
has there been any mention about flame throwers?
flame throwers are against the law dummy! you know that!
why did they said there’ll be so many?
Lucas’ science teacher told me he thought it had to do with global warming.
you hippy dippy assholes blame everything on global warming don’t you? Pastor Clint says it’s God’s punishment on the liberals in Congress.
that’s a bold faced lie you asshole!
and so it went ….
The next day as missiles from the thermal nuclear powers crossed each other half way to their respective mainlands, the ground opened and the infestation began … with numbers far beyond what anyone had expected.
Ironically … humans who weren’t consumed by the infestation were instantly vaporized.
Once again, the earth had been saved!
And The Third Epoch began.

 

Voyage

My tasks complete
i rose before
the early dawn,

gave one last listen to
the great lake and
the wrangling sound of
ten thousand migrating geese and
mallard ducks

closed my eyes and
breathed the last
purest air i’d breathe
for months to come,

turned away from
the tree i’d lived within
and walked away

from the planet
i’d been living on for
two lunar cycles

into the surrounding universe i’d soon
be moving through inside my
rolling ship

The Explorer …

My destination 2000
light years
from this my
home away from
home back to

the land of the midday sun
its torpid heat
south of the border that
defines my

heart …

I dared not turn
and face that planet
and my tree
one more time.

Better to leave
well enough alone than
take the chance its
gravity

would capture my mind,
drag me back and swirl me down
another rabbit hole inside
some left over task … an
inevitability since

there’s ALWAYS something more to do … !

Much too easy it would be
to seek and find further excuse

to stay and find
another destination away from
where i knew i
had to go …

I needed to break
free(!) of the freedom
i had known!

My life of duty
would guide me
home …

all good things
most often end
and after all …

the other world I lived within?

i called it

home ….

continued; Past Arborland into the Flatlands

The Day the Month the Hour the Minute the Second the Time That I Was Born

That summer hot and sultry
mid month mid year mid way past midnight
bright lights shining blinding
hands grasping fingers smashing
through the air

i did not really care
it was not my problem

i was their’s for the taking …

i heard the pain that wasn’t mine
explode into my space,
the air, the rush of light that came before the crack of dawn
exposed the ship that i’d been riding on
between the worlds where i once lived
when i was born …

with great surprise i threw away my aqua lungs,
I sucked in air while water flooded,
breathing synapses firing new born pistons,
283 horses blowing streams of light
in all directions!!

so this is what it’s like to live in the land of milk and honey … !!!

Come time to leave for home
i looked into the sky i’d never seen,
acorns falling through the air,
cool harmonies on the breeze singing memories
from where it all began
wrapped around light
that fueled the seeds of future’s flight

while tightly woven earthly patterns
leading everywhere in sight
gave great brilliance
and such

delight .. !!

Each night I see the world inside my dreams

wrapped inside the morning dew;

Each morning my life begins anew,
never sure of all that i have seen
until i return

and do it all again and again and again and again and again and again … until i think …

therefore
i am …..

For the Love of Coney

th

If you’re from Michigan you’ll understand
the thirst and lust we share
for coney island hotdogs
a part of our
collective
DNA …

They come in two varieties from
two geographies I like to call the
Motor City and the
Fisher Body variety but
you might know them as the
Flint or Detroit coney … OR

wet or dry …

I prefer the wet from Flint but

I can eat them either way …

There’s good natured rivalry between the two clans

defined by either:
Fisher Body, Buick; the Audubon or GMI

vs
Ford, Cadillac, Gross Point or dare I mention
River Rouge

(where someone said that
Robo Cop was born? hmmm … )

The Rouge River !!

Filled with the blood of our forefathers
sliced from their veins by their great God
Henry …

Ours is the friendliness of rivalries;
each group tends to look down their noses at the other
but after all …

our fruit of kind
and our passion for them, both share the same

NAME …!

(upstate they’re pronounced “Coeneez”)

Besides, there’s WAY too much in common
for either ‘clan’ to really care …

our shared differences are just a good natured excuse to
banter about something we both agree on …

Like two Detroit Tiger fans arguing which was better
the ’68 World Series team with;

Kaline, Cash, Gates Brown,
Hank Aguirre, Denny McClain and the others ..

(every one of them bright, unique stars
in their own rights!)

or
that other bunch brought to fame by our dearly beloved

Sparky

(Whose name will ALWAYS stand alone … )

A delightful sense of argument considering everything in common;
the total love for Sparky, our nostalgia simply for the names Briggs or
Tiger Stadium, (both names interchangeable like ‘crik or creek’)

Sweet feelings shared by both clans
from an age gone by we thought we’d live in forever
while

above, or below or surrounding it all we heard the voices of
George (Kell) and Ernie (Harrell)

giving us the spoken words of our
love

it was
through their eyes and minds
and voices … !

(… like a favorite song you could
listen to forever … played countless times all summer long
year after year after year …)

that we watched
our athletic Gods of strength and character play

SIGHT UNSEEN ….!

Just the mention of their names
brings tears to my eyes …

If you’re a Michigander
I’ll bet it does to your eyes
too …

continued … The World Series