Credo 3h1u2r

CREDO

HERB WOLF

Copyright © 2019 Herb Wolf.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-8455-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8454-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917816

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/13/2019

To my best friend Lynne, brother Pete, partners in art, as well as the rest of my family

Contents

Introduction

I

Seasons

Train Voyage

Existence Is Reality

Tiny Drops

Haiku

Credo

26 December 1979

A Not-So-Forgotten Memory

Pervasion (Fabric)

Whaddya Gonna Do

II

Crepuscule

Awakenings

Poor Vision

The Lord’s Touch

Synergies of a Dream

Night Falls

May 8, 1998

Spring Dreams

Water

Laughsong—the Day

Lord of the Rocks

Banks of Beauchêne

Fishing Camp

Table Set on Granite

III

ReDiscovery

Filming Ideas

Lexington

Energy

Unworldly Sunset: Klamath Still Life

Twilight

Dear Emily

Chester Pooh Chi

Minnie’s Pond

Five Meals to Go

A Koi Tale

IV

McMaster Corner

Evelyn

Spirit

Lillian

Firedrake

Vibrant Life, Ode to Jack

V

Turning Fifty

Working the Earth

First Day of Spring

The Cottage

Faces and Names—NYC

Sanitz

P, R,F—R, M

Grand Ole River

Introduction

What to say about forty years gone by? CREDO is a collection of poems that evolved over that time. Challenged by a college poetry professor to create a verse came :

Stark Browns Precede green Hues erupting.

That won the day.

Saturated with Literature courses as an undergraduate in Juniata College and later at the University of Grenoble in , I began to write poetry and put them in a collection.

May 1998 is a vignette about ing my 40th year. The next decade milestone I wrote Turning Fifty. Working the Earth expresses the inexorable age of time while turning 60.

Considering time, 4 poems beginning with 6 December 1979, were poems composed in my late teens. The poems ; Laughsong - The Day through Table Set with Granite, are poems written in Canada on fishing trips usually during the

summer solstice.

Section IV- pages 48 – 56 are poems that express strong memories of close friends and family, which is why they are dated.

Spirit is a reflection of my father and our family. CREDO is my central work that encomes my beliefs. It exclaims or cries out ‘I believe’ as it is translated from Italian. It encomes my philosopy on life as does Tiny Drops and Exstence is Reality on time. Section III draws from from my life with my lover of 30 plus years and with our dogs.

There were many sparks that created the fire to put this work together. Teenage memories of long hikes to mountain tops created a sense of wonder about the natural world around us.

Living in gave me a new perspective. Their Writers and Poets, who I greatly ire are national heroes. Victor Hugo, my favorite French writer and poet, stood up for the French Revoution and returned to , a national hero after being exiled. This gave me a stronger sense of the importance of Literature.

Other influences include Wallace Stevens on his view of the omnipotence of Nature. The poem, Minnie’s Pond, is written in the style of Robert Frost’s poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

One could view this collection of poems as a series of ‘Slice of Life’ Vignettes that define my existance. It could equally be defined as a collection of works that reflect my life. I will let the viewer decide.

Please enjoy these poems.

Herb Wolf July 3, 2019

Ihaha

Seasons

Spring

Stark browns Precede Green hues Erupting.

Summer

Sunlight drenches cosmos. Golden viceroy perches. Summer flies away.

Autumn

Neither spring nor summer Hath such grace

As I have seen In one autumnal face.

Winter

North wind bellows cold. White pines bristle and shiver. Gold needles tumble.

The Good Life

The white-throated sparrow sings, You’re here. Me, I never leave. Fresh air caresses my skin. The sun slowly rises.

Calling back, Life is good. Thank you, little bird For being here.

Train Voyage

Sunrays stretch to the earth. Clouds define Yet allow radiance (Another station).

Sundays arrive on schedule And leave with fading memories.

Existence Is Reality

Days into weeks, Weeks into months, Months into years, Thus es another year, Indefinable time.

Measured against each grain of sand, One finds it immeasurable, Conceived of and spoken by each being, Animate and inanimate, Crying out.

Is it the ing or the place? The journey or the being there, The mortality or the immortality, The finity or the infinity?

The water laps on the shore

And the sands budge. The moments in whichever manner We choose to measure them.

Tiny Drops

ing time on a cruise, Dangling six miles high. Entangled time currents Chasing back and fro, Past and present, Lead me through a cylinder In which the past recedes With the distance traveled.

Alert to the magic Of this dangling moment, I gaze at space And watch my thoughts Tumble haphazardly On the page.

Measurements of gravity And the unconditional

Nature of the moment

Set in space To the light Of the sun, Its glimmer On the water And my eyes’ Absorption;

The tiny drops of our ing existence Move swiftly, Sometimes slowly, Always beyond our grasp.

Future is as future was. Leads to moments of growth And ideas and big dreams, And a very big sky.

The plane flies.

Billowy clouds stick like paste On the white misty veil That cloaks the earth below.

Haiku

(Entropy)

Indifferent world, Antiperipatetic Somnolific self.

A snake plant emerged, Shopping the jungles of WalMart, It jumped in my cart.

Y, dragonfly why? We ephemerality. See, dragonfly see.

Credo

P,p,p, pa paving the road, Forlorn gravel with potholes; Human intrusion, Where does it go?

Hereby and whereas today, Helas, A new poetry has emerged To speak the view of the sunken class, The dead birds and rhinos,

Even something Philie Mo¹ wouldn’t , Their sleek paint leaching Into the tiniest of genes Of crawling centipedes.

This poetic voice drunk, From the words of ancient heroes, And the splash of oils,

Mixed and splattered upon canvases With their own devices, proclaims:

The freedom of Twain² The tightness of Pound,³ The apoplectic vision of Munch,⁴ The serenity of Bonnard,⁵ The mundane Parisian street of Zola, And the ecstatic cries of Madame Liberté:⁷

“Liberté, egalité, fraternité. Mais, madame, qui font les regles de l’entrée?” “Personne,” elle respond.⁸

A voice emerges; the voice proclaims: Let us, each and one, Try to hear our whisperings and pleas.

Let us try to understand the beauty within. Let us try to sense the whisperings of The infinite

In the silence and blindness Of all that is around us.

Acceptance.

Let us grow from the smile of others, From the howl of the gull, From the sick baby bird.

Let us give to the infinite What is theirs and shall be.

Let us be thankful of our God, Whose image is the vast ocean On a cool day, with a constant roar, And the simple logic of a 1,500-foot rock Jutting above salty seas, Adorned in coniferous greens standing proud.

¹Philip Morris ²Mark Twain ³Ezra Pound ⁴Edward Munch

⁵Pierre Bonnard Emile Zola

⁷Madame Liberté, a figure in Les Misérables, by Victor Hugo, and painted by de Lacroix in a classical oil.

⁸ “Freedom, equality, brotherhood. But, madam, who sets the rules of entering?” “Nobody,” she answers.

26 December 1979

Quietude. Tucked away bus station— Early departure 8:55 a.m.

9:25 she’s gone. No, the spirit stays Or I’m gone. For we go together, Are together.

Late hours rising. Little reason to sleep. Possibilities of a lifetime so short.

Time was: A time to touch, One to feel, One to believe in, One to one.

One to listen, One to talk, One to see (be seen), One to one.

One to search, One to find, One to understand, One to one. Time is one.

The 70s—seven days left. Reflections of a timespan, A hundred and twenty six moons. Well, this is life.

This I found: Reasons to live, Reasons for an end, Pleasures of the earth,

Pains of existence. Solid rocks to believe in, Hollow rocks to be wary of.

Memories to keep intact, Memories to let go, Places to return, Places not to.

‘Twas a decade of days With different threads woven, Searching for pieces in the puzzle,

Trying to understand Where the chapters begin And the last one ends.

A span of time, Each to one’s own …

Reflections of a decade.

I know that I’ve grown.

A Not-So-Forgotten Memory

The trick is the denim, ‘neuve’, becomes a part of, Then stiffness gone,

Sensitized

A long wearing in grows To a confident knowing, Feeling, becoming A part of your body.

Threads begin to show, White threads with skin tones underneath. Crisis point. Yeah, one can easily replace denims.

The trick is the strength Of the feeling.

Yeah, one can also patch them; Any fabric matches denim.

For it is not the fabric But the feeling. The more patches, The more feeling.

Nevertheless, Threads tend to disrepair, Become a perilous struggle Of wear and tear.

Kind of reminds me of time And two people And the struggle to survive.

Pervasion (Fabric)

It’s a wonder: A thread Woven randomly, As randomly as life; A fabric, Then, a network.

The dye is cast Until it is washed, Another entropy potential. No dye is everlasting.

Semi-permanent existence. How can I make you feel That I am real?

When to touch Is to know,

To see Is to feel.

Whaddya Gonna Do

Wanna grow up An’ be a proletariat. Now I got my educashin I guess I cin.

I wanna grow up An’ live with the masses An’ get spat on from above.

‘Cause where I live, The floor’s too soft An’ the TV’s too loud, An’ I never know whin I’m hungry.

Yeah, ’cause now I don’t even know if there Is iny poor ‘Cause I never seen anybody

Dying o’ no food. I seen people flat on their face, But it wasn’t from no food.

Wanna grow up An’ be a proletariat, ‘Cause what I do Don’t make no sense.

II

Crepuscule

From the eyes of a Mockingbird—

Alight in a tree, On a branch, The big bird With the big tail Flashes those wings With big white, Knowingly and unknowingly, The preacher.

He purveys the green campus, Using his voice to reflect his own being And project the mockery Of all that he sees. He offers a silly tone to the day.

Twah, twah, to you,

He watches me as if in jest; Ha ha, he laughs as if to digress.

Ha ha, he watches the meaningless motions, Not knowing a big human word like behavior.

One night, he cries disgustedly, As if to reproach the whole human race, While the turtles copulate madly in the pond. He cries, Twah, twah.

The turtles sink, The weight of both and sheer exhaustion; Burping bubbles float up from the murky bottom.

Awakenings

Guiding whispers in the trees— Probing sounds push into my thoughts; New direction, new reality, Environment of a new day, Built on yesterday, And last October, And Wednesday a week ago.

The ferns lay huddled, And push up their spores, Hoping for enough moisture To take them to their homes.

The mockingbird has appeared And pronounced a new season. We know he jests Yet pivots in his own way.

Arcane thoughts this can last forever, And it hasn’t even started. Hyakutake is halfway across his journey.

The mockingbird laughs and points nowhere. Man clicks on his machine. The sky is riddled with secrets. Perky powerful pride of the gray-breast Declares the end of winter.

Poor Vision

Big white cones spot the countryside; Black animals with fat, white splotches Spot God’s green hillsides.

Trees are adorned with creamery-white milk. Summer solstice is the night When all verdure rejoices. Men reflect on the deep orange hues Of a fading day.

Life of soul and soul of men, Twilight gives to the summer air. All breathe the last spring breath And accept the onslaught of change.

Memories of a winter’s past, a cold dead night, When spirits reigned the haunting spectrum

Of another place, without life; A chilling wind, and then The prophecy.

Breath of each moment And the deep orange hues; Striking resemblance of a solstice gone by,

The body twinges With another layer of time. The earth basks With another layer of green.

The Lord’s Touch

Cirrus whites lace Into soft deep blues. Curious light Sifts through deep green hues. Gurgling waters grip slippery rocks, Then flow through.

Beginnings of a day, Sun creates its own line Across the mountain, Then presses down.

Humble trees stand and stretch In the cool morning air Toward their God and my God, Knowing deeply within This small moments’ Power of eternity.

The birds feed and perch In these towers of deep green, Singing of life simple, Possessing, albeit briefly, The wisdom of the forest.

A stand of alders Pronounces Thoreau’s thoughts; Rich white beckoning Of effervescent spot.

Unspoiled nature reveals my God; Fast water flows to salty seas. Shimmery surface speaks to a new day And new light which shines on all life.

Synergies of a Dream

Scope and perception of the huge green Sees through This radiant season of the renew.

Complacencies of Algonquin Dell,

Delusions of bright orange and white, Shimmer below the surface Against the mirror image Of the greens on the pond.

I gaze into the waters below; Soft newness of new friends. A certain new peace surfaces.

The fish, Orange, white, yellow, blue, Are happy and calm the spirit

Of a too-busy world.

Simple peace of paradise, Yet never quite there.

The push, powerful, Of ever-present nature Permeates within and without The effervescent green.

Our new fish huddle And sniff the ground.

Night Falls

The silence of fading light, Dogs bark, cars ; The world moves on, Casting deeper and deeper shadows Until all is shadow. Twisted trees dimly perceived, Soon to be suspended in darkness.

May 8, 1998

What an unusual morning it is: Frost on the clover, The last blades of a tulip Stretch to the sun, And I, ing the last days Of my fortieth year.

Spring Dreams

The morning began as a testimony to our God, To the scents that permeate this fresh spring air To the sight of white pear blossoms, exhilarating To the chirping of new life and peepers To the taste of good food.

All professed a real spring, a new beginning. The day ed in that manner. We manifested during dinner.

A new garden was turned, And the rain fell.

Water

O God, your simplicity of touch, The power of silence; River flows.

The vision given by water, Borders hard rock, Stretches into trees. Life, O life,

The greatest of gifts, Our tangent nature, The ultimate manifestation Of your love.

Laughsong—the Day

Listen to the wind; Sun shimmers on the water, Reflects into the banks Garrulous greens.

Bright light thaws, Enduring trees. Hard winter allows Summer ecstasies.

The breeze massages the skin; Rustling pines soften memories of a winter chill; Earthy fragrance arouse the spirit.

Getting in the mood,

All is silent In the constant breezes.

All is blind In the dazzling green verdure.

Pale plaque is mysterious; Inevitably, The ing of another day, Ashen yellow streaks fade Into pinkish shades. Sky radiates deeper and deeper blue.

Lord of the Rocks

On hard granite benches, Gulls with ivory chests Manifest their new breed. Fuzzy gray balls float Off the hard granite stone.

Ravens hover, watching As the great blue heron Nests with its chicks. Their woven nests lay strong On the branch above.

Thick radiant verdure Enlivens the heron nurseries Perched on the dead white pine.

The clear black water laps Layer upon layer.

The chop …

Mild presence yet heavy, Sixty feet deep and broad; Soft whisperings, the wind Pushes the water swirling, Creates a quiet In the eddy. We watched the winged animation.

The gulls fly overhead Screeching their hollow call. Deep blue sky with clouds forming, Reforming, effervescent, Live with motions from the east.

Banks of Beauchêne

Green wallpaper, Splashes of white With big splinters, Impermeable.

Along a wooden plank way Lay a series of big buckets, Adorned in red with machines behind, Fastened to the wooden walk by white rods, As if in a Van Gogh.

The red buckets are suspended By rods over water, Held from the big lake To attend to the fishermen.

We sit in the red buckets. Moon rises on Petit Beauchêne;

The green banks shimmer. The bright white birches glimmer.

Moon rises slowly. The lures sink and jig, Hoping to interest a wondering walleye.

Wind rises and falls, And the green banks quiver.

Fishing Camp

Stark contrasts of color. Flat lake reflects light of fading sun, Soft moon low to bring brightness.

Nature is alive with power. Swallows swoon under the porch. Cut wood reflects the cold winter.

Man harnesses worms and minnows To bring out of depths Fish of dark green amber.

Table Set on Granite

Table is set on granite Atop a rock face, Rippling water, Reflecting faces.

Le chef, orange flames, Prepares the grease. Seasoned bass sizzles, (Burping onions), Bud beer cans, le vin du jour.

The majestic power of the gaze, The green verdure, The mystifying beauty of birches, Beeches, and conifers Enlightens and overwhelms.

All is washed down

With a refreshing immersion In the deep cool lake.

III

ReDiscovery

Sleepin’ on the couch Stretchin’ the yarn, Awakening.

Saturday afternoon. Good to see you, my friend. Couldn’t have been too soon …

Quiet eve, dinner serene, Complacencies of the peignoir, Lost in the in between.

Laser escorts us To the lazy slopes. Skiing in the bright white snow, Day turns into Milky Way.

Laser drives us home;

Moody Blues playin’, Dancin’ on the road, Groovin’ into the evenin’.

Chatting, softly embracing, We looked at eternity, Spending the night Touching and playing, Lingering, luscious, lovely.

Heart and soul, Two spirits collide, Spontaneous and soaring, Eyes green like summer, Simply smiling, One to one. Touch, sing, laugh, bring Each to each joy. Monday morn, Making love, Was all I hoped it could be,

Two of us Watching, whispering.

To each note The wren sang his song By the window.

The weekend ed, A waking dream; I, rediscovering moods On the long-lost trail.

Filming Ideas

Top of the copper-crowned lune The sincerity, the simplicity The audacious, audacity: Allow the rough and uneven

Lens, idea, filter A clearer view.

The moon’s big day.

Bulbous bottom froths, Moon follows rambling earth In rhythmic patterns.

Lunar eclipse.

Mellow metamorphosis, Copperish stains from

Earth’s shadows,

Depicts An iron hold On the little lunar legacy That floats around the earth In its subservient manner. The moon looks like a crème brûlée, Cooked upon a wave Observed by an indifferent world.

Strained by the film Of a tainted idea, Not a prophecy moon.

The earth keeps spinning: Two people walking on a Cool afternoon Capture the vivid moments Of the late days’ sun rays Wrapped around the earth.

Walking and talking, Springers springing, The lovers take full advantage Of all this good earth Has to offer.

Two bald eagles Perch high on an aged branch Of a mature oak in the middle Of a field recently harvested.

Anniversary weekend.

Getting married again On the eastern shore. The two lovers walk In syncopated rapport Of the enduring notions of life.

The eagles brood over

Their field of brown. The moon rose, Creating a bright shimmery Path over the bay.

Lexington

Walking through Gratz, Upper, and Mills Flipping back and forth Through the emotional tunnel That holds the mind.

Looking up, a gingko stretches its Young leaves of July, Fresh, shiny, vibrant.

Long, wide avenue— Brick sidewalk of Antebellum age.

Homes hold secrets Of the hundreds of years That the New America Has made.

Chiseled stone lays silent, Not asking or giving. Richness of sun blazes On old Kentucky streets That cling to love and lost times.

Family roots endure In Crescent Hill. Loved one rests in Cave Hill As one feels the pain of ing, Watching it all go by.

Energy

All falls down to the water, Westsound’s surface: Serene, placid, still.

Pacific impulses arrive, Breeze whispers, Western winds breathe, Waves palpitate.

Bird islands, The kingfisher chatters. Pileated peckers climb, Bald eagle perches. Loons search, then dive.

Water, the ultimate surface. Islands in the rain shadow, A grand sensation.

Madrone sheds and cries, Gives up layers of skin, Exposing deep virile green.

Opulent radiance. Western red cedars adorn. Douglas fir sets the tone.

Ancestors wonder How it was Or shall have been With kin …

Two or three generations down, Really, do they really Act this way? That’s my kin …

ing amber ceilings, Variable grays,

Silver clouds. Pendulous.

Orcas Island endures In the shadow of the Olympics, As if time es in the centuries While grasping the present moment.

Unworldly Sunset: Klamath Still Life

Looking out direction west Sun, falling into the ocean; Huge expanse of pale plaque Holds the last rays Of this glorious day.

To the south stands a mountain range Falling into the salty seas, To the east flows the Klamath River, Meandering to its delta. The fading light shines Its shadowy rays On the fresh water, Slipping into the vast Pacific.

Deep in the river valley Carpets of enduring greens Blanket the verdant hills

That receive the obfuscated light, Now a fading crepuscule. Thus es another day.

The water is impartial. The trees can be seen no more; Just the eternal pounding Of the Pacific waves That reach our shore From Asian seas far away.

Twilight

Virgin swamp greens, Feelings of a toasting, To olive palms, To the blond manifestations Of sea oats; Wispy, wafty, lifting, lofty In the tropical breezes.

These airs sift through Sea palms softly, gently bemuse, Lift the gentleman On those breezes In the lofty air Through adulating crowds, In parade spirits.

Let the senses soar.

Placid whites of cirrocumulus Ribbons adorn the upper sky. Inner coastal waterway Absorbs, consumes, exudes An opaque white.

Distant barriers Of the vast Atlantic stand; A weary brown mixed with gray Just above the horizon.

Dark clouds above Fort Sumter, gray against the sky, Seam the endless Idea of infinity To the mundane greens and whites Of our days and our lives.

Dear Emily

A woman before your time; I gaze for hours upon hours At the vast gray sky.

Distant brown rock, hard and cold Over the water, s a white tower, An isolated lighthouse. It is as if your soul rests there.

Your voice is A part of you that’s gone forever. Your words remain In this literary room.

You were a poet before your time.

Silence accompanies the roar Of the ocean.

The lighthouse beckons To all who care to listen.

Sylvia’s Hotel Emily Dickinson Room Newport, Oregon

Chester Pooh Chi

Puppy skin wears liver and white. Makes me wild, Makes me crazy, Puppy life delight.

Chi Chi. Cha Cha. Che Che Chester Chi.

Moody eyes, soft, serene. Chi smug smile. Chi smug hound nose.

He gives a little nip. Puppy skin pulls tight. Makes me snippy. Makes me nippy.

Chi Chi. Cha Cha. Che Che Chester P Chi.

Part II

If I tell you You’re such a boy, Then you tell me, Yes, Whatta boy.

Walking the trail, Back end sashays, He trots along, ing the days.

Catching the scents, Burgundy nose, He chases the game, The dog we chose.

Minnie’s Pond

Whose pond this is, I think I know. His fish are very special though; He walks his dog near every day Through wind and rain and even snow.

The puppy trots proudly round here, Around the pond, another year. Burgundy coat to ivory toes, Our dog grows up, our dog grows dear.

He feeds the koi; they come with wake. Oh what a life; there’s no mistake. Their skins flash white, blue, calico. The pond’s alive, for heaven’s sake.

This time of year, the koi aren’t deep. Sky, water, earth, the banks aren’t steep. Our lovely dog we longed to keep.

Minnie walked in and fell asleep.

Five Meals to Go

Then, Bud was a saint; He was dreaming Of what he used to do.

He was leading the pack, Running, running, running, Back legs pivoting, One by one, Along the fence, He led the borzoi on.

One day, He awakened no more. I was a dog; am now a soul.

Five meals to go Before I .

Five meals to go, And then I , And then I go.

I can’t even see. Old age has blinded me Only the scents smell good. That’s all there’s left to be Five meals to go Before I .

I can’t even hear. Old age has left me deaf. Only my nose directs me Where I can still feel free.

I was a big hound. It was my ground, Where I frolicked, It was our ground. Five meals to go.

Bud, we want you to stay, To regain your zest. We want this to be different. Somehow, life is a package.

What we got with our Bud Was more Than we could have dreamt. Knowing what we now know Will help us through. Five meals to go.

The silky mug That made the Bud, The cashmere ears And downy coat.

The woozie woo, Woozie woo, Woozie woozie woo woo

Woozie woo, our Boo.

Those were his grounds Where he frolicked. Five meals to go. Everything is rust, Turning into gray.

I wake up with a whimper That leads to a whine For a while, And then, Ruff, ruff, ruff.

Angry at mother nature, Mad at glorious life!

Okay, Bud, ol’ buddy. Ol’ boo, okay, buddy, Ol’ woozie, ol’ woo,

Let’s go have some fun, Just like we’ve always done. Let’s go have some fun.

Hello, woozie, Truly, Bud, We hate to see you go.

Let’s go have some fun Just like we’ve always done. Let’s go have some fun.

Truly, Bud, We hate to see you go.

A Koi Tale

Blue is the color of my skin. Liberated is the feel Of cool water Brushing through my tail. Sunlight filters, permeates, Pierces the forbidden Surface above.

Life, so strange, like The infinite particles of earth that form the torrid bottom below.

My new friends of deep, orange, white, blue, Some resemble birds, like the Black crows that circle high above.

I am the keeper of the pond. They call me the great white shark.

They watch me meander, Counting infinite time As raindrops fall, Only to be absorbed in the billowy puffs Of moisture that define the sky above.

New friends with white wings And skins of coal brighten the orange scales, Dart like arrows through a setting sun Creating contrast, mixing new life into The existing order.

Manna from heaven drops, Frenzied motion shatter Shimmering surface. White flashes slashes orange,

Black tangents streak. The ghost sashays as if gliding Manifesting infinity Through the air of time.

IV

McMaster Corner

The koi rose near the surface. What an unusual morning. The green blades of iris Pierced the pond’s surface.

Water chilled by December’s melting ice.

Clear blue skies Like tsunami at Phuket¹ The week before. New Year began, Year of the rooster.

All seemed tranquil, Incipient beginnings of ’05.

Trowel turning warm earth

In the garden; I heard wailing; Lynne outside in a night coat, Shrill voice as if the earth shook. The gruesome words thud against her heart.

Peering out from our kitchen window, A hawk on the sycamore branch Spread his majestic freckled breast.

Focusing on him, Hey, Lynne, There’s Scott. She spotted him. He flew away.

Gone from this world. God is not a random idea. Nor is it a vengeful fate That will condemn.

Rather, it is destiny. With each act of natural Destruction Comes a new creation.

Out of the finity Into the infinity.

Sorrowful change that mourns what was. Moss grows over dirt.

A newness evolves, Embraces and submerges the misery.

January 1, 2005 Phuket, Thailand, where the tsunami hit the week before, 12/25/04.

Evelyn

ing of a lady, Nine decades replete With family, with giving, And with love.

Richness of spirit Ran through her life. She lived with humble chutzpah, A nurturing housewife.

Talking on the phone, Always welcoming. “How are you, your family?”

Watching the ing of the day, The sun, spreading its Pale orange rays On memorial grounds.

Fresh dirt was thrown Where she lay, A hint of chartreuse In the sky.

One last glimpse As if hearing One last time: Be well.

Spirit

The doves were Outside Dad’s window today. It seems they have Been lately.

Their songs were like Messages from above, Calling him home.

There were six deer In the field, Running together.

All of a sudden, They stopped, turned, Looked back at me And stared For the longest time.

And were gone.

I saw a red fox. In the field, A lone fox. He ran, then stopped, And stared, as if he knew the turf. He surveyed and leapt forward. Feeling that he had lost The weight of the world, He was home In the fields of the Lord.

February 13, 2003

Lillian

Golds arouse greens. Chartreuse reigns, verdure teems. Brown spots appear. Harvest follows.

Time flies away. Autumn sky, Falling leaves. Earth cycle flows.

Radiant spirit; Lillian’s gardens, Lilacs and azaleas, “Won’t you stay for a while?”

Bulbs planted by her hands, Spike through the earth, Shaking winter’s brittle grip.

Hundreds of moons ed. Furious nature; capricious, Boisterous summer solstice, Sensuous lilies.

Hold flowers life, Glimpse the daisy petal light. Breathe their scent, Feel the warmth.

Imbue the golden hues. Taste the currants and berries. Vireo warbles. The day lasts forever.

Her beauty absorbs flowers essence, Radiant spirit, Life es by. March 1,2014

Firedrake

Time was in the studio. Oils and turpentine Pervade the air; works abound, Crafted by his own design.

Chivalry on display Behind Dennis’s easel, Crossed swords and medals, Reflect rigors of war.

Bonsai stand proud, Trimmed with care. Koi glide gracefully. Firedrake creates culture here.

Being a kid in Ole Miss, Slingshots and stones used in battle. Hunting lizards with sis

And snakes that rattle.

‘Nam, soldiering became a life. Mississippi going away. ‘Nam, from the yin to the yang, Oriental light comes into play.

Words abound in the studio; Schrodinger’s cat, Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, Conjuring visions; ideas flow.

Watch the aube brighten On the canvas, dividing shadow and light, derived from a brilliant eye. Fading light, setting sun, Autumn sky, falling leaves Ichibai shiguri, Firedrake’s works for all to see.

Dragonfly beckons September day. Let’s fly away. Summer can’t stay.

Tribute to painter, artist, friend Dennis Blalock September 17, 2015

Vibrant Life, Ode to Jack

Knapps Narrows; Watching water flow Like the age of life.

Savoring the moments; Late-sun falling slow, Moonlight’s splendid glow.

For many a decade, Jack, an adept realtor, Plied the property trade In the urban terrain.

What if you Discovered a place And then found That you never Wanted to leave

Tilghman Island Inn. Jack and Dave bought the place, Settled in on the Chesapeake.

Jack’s mark on Tilghman, Cultivate, plant, Enhance, and enrich The gardens; Daffodils to mums.

Seasons . Greens turn to golds, Golds to rust. Rust fades into dark.

Geese fly south. Then return.

Isabelle arrived. Salty waters surged

Through the inn, Then faded, Receding back in the bay.

Many tides flowed. Many moons ed. Tilghman Island Inn was restored.

Jack spent many years there: A realtor, A gardener … Rich identity, Vibrant life.

In memory of Jack Redmon February 25, 2011

Vovo

Turning Fifty

The merry-go-round

Whirls ineluctably,

Springing through fifty,

Indubitably.

The puppies waltz

On the carousel,

Through life’s journey,

ionately.

Time es;

Good energy drives

The comic drama of life,

Inexorably.

Working the Earth

Spring comes at last, Goes by too fast. The ing days Become highways Through miles of time,

Become rivers That drift their course Along the way, Toward the sea.

Become the sky. Shooting stars fly by, Dream and search. Wondering why.

Become the love That we both share

throughout the years, a special pair.

Forever spring, Summer, autumn, winter.

Become the gardens, Becomes the day, Another step Along the way.

First Day of Spring

Easels on the pond, ‘Tis the first day of spring; Time is evanescent, That ephemeral thing.

Stratus clouds disguise, Ivory sheets hang On chalky skies, Incandescent.

Painters paint, Plein Air, Artists on the pond. Pigment splashes on canvas. Land, air, light respond.

Palettes iridescent; Platinums glimpse grays, Pond’s lustrous surface,

Skies, pearlish glaze.

Camaraderie, Milky, morning light, Springs effervescence, The feeling’s just right.

The Cottage

Counting the cows Along the way, A game families play, Cottage bound.

Cousins converge, Lots of small talk, Dinner on the patio With thirty kin.

Popsicles follow Leads to the card games; War, rummy, and bridge.

Tiger lilies talk, Their sunlit bud.

Porch view.

Muddy river flows. River birds fly. Days gone by.

Skipping stones Across the river, Counting the years With each skip.

Notion of family, Rich identity, Time at the cottage, Life’s reality.

Faces and Names—NYC

We walk uninhibited Toward nowhere.

Flakes of magic Appear and disappear.

Syncopated morsels Of desire melt, Flow through Luscious tendrils of time, Slipping through my fingers Like silver memories.

Musings turn into music, Then memories. Ointment drips through Another round. A hand stretches

To capture ephemerality, Closes And makes an empty fist.

Lips Defoesque Lapse into fits, falling, flapping— What does it matter? Fin flapping, grasping for breath.

O, to be immersed again; Waking in a cold sweat, The idea arrives; Like a fish in water.

The tale survives. Moments blow like bubbles In syncopated manner And fade.

Sanitz

The idea is that tomorrow will be yesterday, But not yet. Empty space in between that is the X, The grand intersection, And it’s, and it’s, and it’s, and it’s, and it’s, Anditsanditsanditzntznz.

Now and then, Through the little window, The new wind Of the cyclonic birth Begins a new day.

P, R,F—R, M

Piccadilly paradox, Paradigm of paradise, Or let relentless rummage run Fanciful flights of farce, Farcical fancies, flying Face down, hurtling, smashed. Sorry—let’s start In the beginning And then talk family or How it all began.

Rhetorical reason or rhyme, Reasonable rationalizations of right and wrong, mystifying meandering.

Grand Ole River

Magic surface stretches Across the river To the banks far away. The Grand Ole River Carries America’s burden Into the Gulf leaving Silt on the river floor.

Surface reflect moods Hostile, tranquil, Happy, sad, Glowing, dark, Murky, muddy.

Riverboat glides As if in paradise. Tugboat plies With each day’s stride.

Dreams and reality Mix in the muddy river That holds the age of time On the long march Toward the sea.