for the rest of the world
that thinks it can find
us, this love, our twine
wrapped around branches
grown together so
I can't imagine not
being able to hug you
and kiss you, the music
starts, sax wailing
and we end every night
together like the moon
in the dawn; rising pale
eclipsing the sun.
Northern Avenue Bridge I
I walked across the old bridge,
turn of the century steel rusted,
rain slanted, driven by the wind
dripping off the red iron bands.
They built her to stop the fires,
the old ones were made of wood
and soaked by oil
and worn by the carts
and taking the insult of
the occasional cigar,
belching orange flame.
They were students from across the river,
working hard in metal and theory,
pushing their minds beyond now,
building for forever when a nickel was
enough to get you through the day.
I walked across the old bridge,
on the new boards laid over
metal grates so we can tread
the old girl that costs too much
to put away, cars now taking the highway.
I wonder if the rain will stop
letting October get on,
crossing from fall to fallow
from new to rust as it always
has across this old bridge.
Behind the Barking Crab i
Behind the Barking Crab ii
This week is a week of training - I can't say training without thinking of dog training, as in I'm learning to do it "on the paper!" I wish they would stop rubbing my nose in it.
The morning commute is via auto, not my usual train and the jamming of cars and fraying of nerves as I jostle into the school is not the best way to start the day; do people really do this every workday?
And now I am in the semi-dark room, slides projected on the white partition in the front of the room, flat-screen monitors adding a pale glow to our faces, glazed eyes reflecting the net images and our boredom.
And I am not one to be told theory and practice but one who needs to play with the subject, roll it around in my mouth a bit. The instructor just used the phrase "a little vague and theoretical!"
I think I'm going to read some Emerson tonight or Whitman just to re-hydrate my brain.
It was as a famished soul I come to read the latest
book from Mary Oliver. And just so I found myself
ripping through the meat of the book, gulping the
dripping billowing clouds, half swallowing
the sweet nectar of the Lilly. It was not long before
I was stabbing the flank of the Pond with the terribly beautiful beak
of a King Fisher, my eye on dessert; a gliding
owl in a barn in Indiana. Even the "opening and closing
doors of the waves upon the shore" couldn't slow me
down.
But then I stopped. I put the fork made of paper down
and took a pondering sip of time to feel what she had
said. I rolled the phrases around in my tongue and let
a small trickle of thought, the nose of reason, to slide
down into my center.
And I realized a great thing. Down the Merrimak river that I
overlook, past the Lowell dam and on through the
gritty mill town of Lawrence and on to the sea by
Beverly the fresh water turns briny and then to salt.
We are in the Bay and down past the Harbor Islands
is Providence light. Somewhere that beacon sweeps
over the head of the Author, the Poet as she sleeps.
What I realize is she isn't writing the poems, she is
living them. Oh, I'm sure there is a desk and a time
that would be called "working." But there isn't a
construct called poetry - or better perhaps muse -
that drives these words to the page. I am convinced
of it. She has brought the life she wants to her and
has found a beautiful way to tell us about it.
And as the peepers croak off to my right and the
wind hushes the trees I slowly pick up her book knowing
I have forked, taken a slightly different tack. I raise my
wine glass, sip, and begin to read. My life is to be savored:;
I know what she is trying to say ...
We are the unit on the far left and after last weekend the brush has been cleared ...
The view from our deck at sunset.
Then immediately after packing we were off to the White Mountains for a
week of hiking and paddeling (pictures to be inserted). Then a
week later we jetted off to Switzerland to bike the paths and canals of
this beautiful country ...
Carol and I conquer the corn field. And then the wedding of Carol's brother
... and THEN we unpacked from the move two months before ... now a well deserved (???) rest 
You see I'm having a problem; I am trying to remember my days in that boat, those times with Dad and my brother.
It always starts at sunrise, a dew covered metal boat and some sluggish
worms. A stringer is hung expectantly off the side, to its chain
is attached so many metal clasps that look like two dimensional
versions of the fish we will try to catch, all clamped shut; not biting
today.
My brother and I dressed in hoods and life vests, the old orange puffy
kind with our hands plunged inside our coats headed to the soggy seat
cushions that waited for us. Dad yanked the outboard to a choked
oily blue smoked start; I always loved looking at the rainbows off of
the oil haze that gathered around the motor housing. Before this
day was done he'd be up to his chest in the icy water with the lower
unit called things it couldn't possibly be.
As far as I know fish don't bite at four AM, never have but heading out
to the same old place always felt new. What sounds would the
river drum against the aluminum hull, chitter or boom? Would one
of those enormous lakers give us a monster wake, waves to roll and
pitch, and the old coffee can bail the spray out of our small boat.
I cursed those chilly dawn raids and I would give anything to have them back.
I will always try to
remember those chilly clear dew frost northern June mornings. The
cove a mirror, flat, steam rises and hides the reflected blue of the
sky. Wisps finger our damp aluminum boat. Those seat
cushions always wet our jeans ...
... and here I end as I am TRYING to remember more of my fishing trips some thirty plus years ago.
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