Sunday, February 20, 2005

Thoughts of Nell in the desert.

"As he rode across the desert, even though keen eyes searched for the moving black dots, the rising puffs of white dust that were warnings, he saw Nell's face in every cloud. The clean-cut mesas took on the shape of her straight profile, with its strong chin and lips, its fine nose and forehead. There was always a glint of gold or touch of red or graceful line or gleam of blue to remind him of her. Then at night her face shone warmand glowing, flushing and paling, in the campfire."

"To-night, as usual, with a keen ear to the wind, Gale listened as one on guard; yet he watched the changing phantom of a sweet face in the embers, and as he watched he thought. The desert developed and multiplied thought. A thousand sweet faces glowed in the pink and white ashes of his campfire, the faces of other sweethearts or wives that had gleamed for other men. Gale was happy in his thought of Nell, for Nell, for something, when he was alone this way in the wilderness, told him she was near him, she thought of him, she loved him. But there were many men alone on that vast southwestern plateau, and when they saw dream faces, surely for some it was a fleeting flash, a gleam soon gone, like the hope and the name and the happiness thathad been and was now no more."

[from Desert Gold by Zane Grey]

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Adirondack Subzero Dawn

The day dawned,
brightly lit and bitter cold.
Deathly still, bare branches
scratch a pale blue sky
ringed with gold.

Waiting . . .

. . . for a miracle.

Sub-zero night,
dog curled up at the foot of the bed, near the baseboard radiator.
I lay here awake, with the sounds of late night all around me --
the slow, rhythmic breathing of my partner;
my son talking in his sleep, bumping a knee into his wall;
the dog woofing mutedly,high-pitched, probably dreaming of chasing red squirells off the deck;
the banging & ticking of heat pipes as they expand and contract;
the loud popping of the deck, like gunshots & ice on a pond, as the frigid air swells the ice and shrinks the wood;
Nana's clock softly striking once for half past one;
the quiet fan-like whir of the boiler;
the tapping of my stylus & the gurgle of my digestive tract.
All this and so much more,
the miracle of sound.

Good night.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Happy Valentine's Day!

My dream -- hand in hand on the beach,
a life with you always in reach,
where I pull you closer to play
on a Happy Valentine's Day.

Hugging, we melt into one
in the warmth of an oceanside sun.
Close togetherly wandering away
on a Happy Valentine's Day.

My thoughts ever deeply of you.
I fathom all you have been through.
There is nothing more I need say
'cept "Happy Valentine's Day! "

a resonant quote

". . . the periods of rest in which he indulged were not taken because of fatigue. He rested to look, to listen, to feel. What the vast silent world meant to him had always been a mystical thing, which he felt in all its incalculable power, but never understood."

[Desert Gold by Zane Grey]

Monday, February 07, 2005


So nobody owes you anything,
but that doesn't stop time.
Like snow dripping off the roof,
time changes all,
leaves nothing behind.

shattered day

You race up the stairs,
mind popping & snapping like a live wire,
chest heaving to catch what feels like your last breath.
Ladders & eaves flash before you,
images from dreams that disturbed your early morning respite.
Wrong phones ringing in other rooms,
low voltage circuits gone haywire.
Suddenly, it is noon.
You wonder where the morning went
as you tune the set to Channel 5 News
as if anything could be newsworthy enough to crack your shattered day.

Sunday, February 06, 2005


Bob Dylan had it right.
He made his mark young, then left it behind to be a father.

I've been stupid all my life,
wasting time & pulling back,
and fear I need to leave my family to make my mark.

"My family was my light and I was going to protect that light at all cost. That was where my dedication was, first, last and everything in -between. What did I owe the rest of the world? Nothing. Not a damn thing. . . . In my real life I got to do the things that I loved the best and that was all that mattered -- the Little League games, birthday parties, taking my kids to school, camping trips, boating, rafting, canoeing, fishing. . . . "

Bob Dylan, Chronicles: Volume One.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Nana's clock, Adirondack Sunrise

5:50 A.M., Adirondack time.
Sitting in dim light, curled up in the corner of a warm leather couch.
Surounded by windows, black night,
crescent moon skipping across the mountaintops behind bare tree branches.
Nana's clock* keeps loud, synchopated time on top of great uncle Bill's oak side by side.

The clock chimes softly, six times, and patiently keeps its beat.
Azure blue and creamy orange seeps over the eastern horizon.
The mountain peaks call skyward to the new day.


*Ingraham black mantle clock, model NEMO, circa 1884 - 1915, Eight-Day (key wound) Hourly Strike Cathedral Gong, The E. Ingraham Company, Bristol, Conn.

Cedar Eden Sunrise

Feb 1 sun rises far to the south
and illuminates Whiteface from the side.
Hazel and blue horizon as the sun sneaks above the north side of McKenzie.
Aqua blue sky behind illuminated trees,
leafless shades of grey, east side brushed brightly with yellow,
branch tips lit like torches.
Gold hilighted hummocks of blue shadowed snow.