She whispers my name... Only I can hear

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


A quiet compromise
Less opulence
More substance

There is a vast range
Of living conditions
Here on Earth
All are closely connected to the very planet itself
Though most never become aware of this

From the most basic hunter gatherers
To the tech world of space travel
To economics
Vast wealth
To devastating poverty

So why live a simpler life?
Why Bandingo?

The spectrum of human existence
A bell curve
Of have and have not
History will show
That in the long term
We will all
Sooner or later
Be moving toward the middle



Thursday, November 24, 2011


Willows whispering

Rustling rushing

Wind racing ringing

The wind chimes singing

The song of November


Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Mosse Road

For years it was simply
The Road
Like most roads around here
There were no names
Folks navigated by neighbor
And common knowledge

As for this place
That was easy
If you knew where the old schoolhouse was
Or where Jack Geyer lived
You could find this place

Everyone knew Jack Geyer
And some folks
Including my own father
Had attended the little one room schoolhouse
On the corner

Up the hill
The last and only home on the road
Before it ceases to be maintained
In winter

The last utility pole on the line
Stands on my front lawn

Two and a half miles
And two thousand acres
Of both state and privately owned
Lay between here
And where the snowplow
Again dares to venture

Not towns only
Can disappear
When economics, politics
Clash with our existence

Ghost farms
Inhabit these hills
Ghost roads connect them
Casualties of prohibition
And the great depression

The farms the roads
The people
All but forgotten

Sometime in the early seventies
A man came and assigned a number
To this house
The numbers were pinned
To a big topographic map
Down at the fire station

A fire number
For the first time in over fifty years
This house had something like an address
1440 Roseboom Township

And so it remained
Until sometime in the early nineties
“911 emergency services” was implemented
This required everyone to have a street address
Which meant the roads
Needed to have names

A survey of town
County and state records
Revealed that some of the roads
Did indeed not have names
But also that many

Some roads
Like the one across the hilltop
Escaped the attention
Of the new 911 order
They now remain nameless
And do not appear on any map

Mosse Road
Was our road known
Of old
A ghost name
So it remains
A reminder
We are not newcomers here

Names were found
For those roads in need
A new number found
To designate this place

On Mosse Road

Friday, November 11, 2011

11/11/11 – 11:11:11

Moment of silence
I can feel the silence
When I go outside today

It is oppressive
Surrounding me
Like a crowd of nothing
Pressing close like the cold air itself

The kind of silence that comes with snowflakes
And memories
Big ones

The tall trees sway
The green grass whitens; silently
A day of high contrasts
And of low ones
Snow in November can do that

I think of that day here in the silence
Back in 1918
What it meant to my Grandfathers
What it meant to the world
For a moment the sun shines out
High contrast

The armistice, World War One
Two generations ago, so far from me…

The sun fails
Snow falls
Harder then ever
Low contrast

Outside my window
Stand maple trees
That stood there on that day
Not so long ago
Now it seems

I am connected

Saturday, November 05, 2011

Road Less Traveled

Decommissioned by it’s own neglect
Going nowhere
Servicing none

This old road
Relic of a time past
Winds its way
Across the top of the hill

Finding gates
Through walls of stone
Now decrepit

Marking boundaries unseen
Unknown to all
But a secret past
Ghosts of pasture lay between

Tree roots crowd now
The rumor of plow
And of furrow
Hard wood in place
Of grain and silo

All now woods
Where the farmhouse once stood
Barn, stable and the rest
Here now hawks nest

The old road silently passes
Without judgment or complaint
Knowing full well, for the time
The farms made their stand
That the wind
And the rain were always in command

So now the old road steers
By my need for wood, kept clear
Having escaped mapmakers and historians
The memories of what once was here
Fading as am I

Into obscurity

Thursday, November 03, 2011

The Leaves Are Falling

Rusted rustling brown and yellow
Russet ruby twisting curling parchment
Newsletters proclaiming seasonal procession
Front row tickets to summer’s ending

The leaves are falling
The geese calling
Summer stalling

Blue sky
Grey sky
Somber stillness

The leaves are falling
As I am recalling
Birch, Elm
Maple and Ash
Walnut, Cherry
Locust, Beach
Butternut, Elder, Oak
Tamarack, Apple, Ironwood, Dogwood

The leaves are falling
I listen to the soft sound
As I find my pillow

Sleep calling
Evening takes me
Winter awaits