She whispers my name... Only I can hear

Friday, April 21, 2006

For a Special Friend

Words on a page
Your thoughts
Make you real
To me

Some would say: not right…
Some would say: not possible…
Some would say: not real…

I pity those who fall so short
As to rely on the physical
And still do not connect

The physical side has its place
But without the connection
It has no meaning

Words on a page
Your thoughts
Have brought me to tears
Have brought me great joy
Have brought me peace
And given to me more than just a friend
They have given me a connection

Words on a page
Your thoughts
Have given me life
Helped me find myself
Reminded me of who I am, and why
Thank you for that my friend

Thank you For being YOU
Not as defined by your peers
Not as expected by social stereotypes
Yes I am very glad to know you

Thank you
For your courage
Your honesty
Your trust

Words on a page
Your thoughts
Expand my mind
Touch my heart
Make you real
To me

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Same Old...Same Old

No new thoughts for today
Just the same old same old
My mind is lost and far away
Only the river knows who I am inside
The river has accepted me
But she doesn't say much
Lately I have been wanting somthing more
But that human quality escapes me
I may have to wander far from this place
Before I find someone who understands
And so I am restless
The river holds my spirit and trys to comfort me
Only the river knows who I am inside
She will miss me when I'm gone

Friday, April 07, 2006

Excuse Me!

I must remember that being honest with other people about who I am and how I feel is so outside the norm of pretense and charade that most people will not accept it very graciously.

There was a time I would just prattle off the things I knew people wanted to hear - just to be loved and /or accepted
But not anymore…
I like who I am and I’m not changing
For anyone

If you are put off by such honesty that’s ok – just move along
Kindly keep your ridicule and displays of distaste to yourself
They are not necessary
They just make you look smaller than you already are

Thursday, April 06, 2006


Lately I have been feeling ghosts calling to me
This is not a new thing
I often feel them – and so I stay in touch with the past
They do not want me to forget – for some reason

Jack Kerouac and Woody are still out there somewhere
On the road...
A dusty road has a smell – yes a taste even
When you get a face full of it

It’s a good smell – like earth and clay – primal, basic ancient smell
An aroma that stays with you – even now I can recall its bouquet
And the way it made me feel as a child:

On hot August afternoons so still
The dust hangs practically motionless in the air,
Too lazy to settle – too stubborn to fly away
Long after the sound of the old truck has faded into the distance
And lost in the buzz of the cicadas

As you walk this road – the dust sticks to you
It coats your skin like fine French talc
This is the dust that I recall from my youth

Crisscrossing rural upstate New York
Roads which connect farms and places long gone
Some end badly, leaving you in some abandoned field –
Or woods with increasing density of trees and decreasing interest to travelers

My dad lives on such a road
It passes his home – the last home - before disappearing into obscurity
Built to connect large and prosperous farms – growing hops and barley
They dissapeared long ago collapsing into poverty, finally abandoned
While America played with the idea ofprohibition
Thinking that we would somehow be more … pure
Without beer and hard liquor

Trees are the crops now –
Red Pines, Spruce, Ash and Maple
They don’t need allot of care – only time to grow
The road patiently waits to be of service again
The loggers will come – they always do

Every so often a curious motorist will pass through
Often with regrets over haven taken this route
Regrets which hang in the air with the dust
While a loud sputtering tells the tail
Of a muffler left behind somewhere back there
Up on the hill or perhaps on that long low stretch
More swamp than road in the spring

I remember riding in the bed of the old ’49 Studebaker pick up
Somehow that truck and the dust it stirred are still a part of me
My dad would take us on endless expeditions down these roads
Pointing out landmarks from the homes long gone

One hot August afternoon we followed such a road –
Very much like the one dad lives on, And on the same hill
The old Studebaker made its way to the bitter end
And there we found the property and summer hide out
Of The poet, Allen Ginsburg

Dad had taken us there to meet him – perhaps as some kind of pilgrimage
We had tried this before – but the house is hard to find
But this day finds us on his lawn – covered in dust
Allen speaks a bit about Jack, Woody and the road
But mostly talks about the weather and the trees which surround us
Topics like these along with greetings and introductions are exchanged for a time

I didn’t pay much attention
I was eight or nine at the time
Poetry to me was simplistic
Politics were of little concern

The house is not much more than a shack
Typical of the homes around there

I remember he served us lemonade
I remember the dust
The road calls
Ghosts of Jack
And Woody...


Saturday, April 01, 2006

Notes from earlier this month

The story of a promise
The promise to return....

Last week my dreams were haunted by the sounds of migrating geese
Far off – flying high overhead

This week I have seen them – Sunday, Tuesday and again this morning
They spoke to me of news out of the south – and of open waters ahead
Today is for gathering – down along the Mohawk River
(Though that is not their name for it)

No flight is planned for today...

They discuss the weather – the route – the prospects of an early nesting season
They did not mention Dick Cheney, Exxon Mobil or Iraq
And I was glad for a short time to forget them as well

My mind was set free for a moment or two
To contemplate open water; and ice...
Green shoots of new grass impatiently pushing through the snow
looking for spring
Feathers oiled and preened with pride

What must it be like to be able to feel the earth’s power within you?
And know which direction to take, without need of maps or compass
How beautiful the earth must look as it passes by far below
Your wings carry you home – and the petty world of men & women is of little concern

My heart reaches out to them
Filled with love; and awe at their mere presence
They look at me with knowing eyes
As if to say they know me – a kindred spirit

For one brief moment we are one
Joined by common bonds
The genes we share as living beings
And our love of this place called earth
(Though that is not their name for it)

We part – and I am forced to leave reality
And return to this bizarre illusion we call society
Before I am late for work
But my heart does not forget
Tomorrow a part of me will take wing and journey far north with them

Once more – The promise is fulfilled – and spring cannot be far behind

(Inspired by Winged Migration - )