Slanting and slowing down the exit ramp
From the insane freeway, I am submerged
In the quiet past midnight, a lone lamp
In dark eyes of passing cottages; streets purged
Of traffic; summer leaves nesting streetlights;
The only sound my own tires on tar.

Suddenly I’m recalling other nights,
When children slept in the back of my car
Sandy and sunburned after a long day’s joy.

My window’s open, but the silent night warms.
Time itself now rolls as God’s rounded toy.
A stray cat stretches streetlight shadow-forms
Heading out, as I head home through monotones,
Surprised to see me in lanes that it owns.


NOT LOCAL –The Witless Grin–


I determined I’d count and contemplate
The silver spangles on the cobalt sea,
Fathom silence between surf, sagely rate
Each seagull’s song, gauge with tong each skipping flea
Upon strewn seaweeds in the drifting sand
Whose grains I’d number. But, instead, I dozed
With open eyes, and all the things I planned
Proved not to be so smart as I supposed.
Some things are best seen without thought, and some
Thoughts spring from things unseen. So speaks the hush
Of waves along the shore, as breezes strum
A steady huff in heeding ears, and the blush
Of sunburn spreads massaging warmth on skin,
And the thoughtful frown as the witless grin.


NOT LOCAL –Over The Dune–


Over the dune a blue ocean awaits
As it once awaited when, as a boy,
My eager eyes yearned east, past the grim gates
Of schoolboy disciplines, past duty to joy.

Crammed in the back of a packed station wagon,
Across baking traffic-jamming highways
I yearned east over miraging macadam
To the first cool breeze, to spoken dismays
At the first whiffed stench of the fallen tide,
To the first cries of the crazed gulls soaring
As my mood soared. Something laughing inside
My heart could hear the surf’s thump and snoring,
And now I find that laughter never abates
For just over the dune a blue ocean awaits.





My wife and I felt we needed a break from our routine, and wound up at a beautiful farmhouse in a small town, inland and away from all the traffic and hubbub of the coast of Maine.  The house was surrounded by tall black locust trees at the height of their bloom, and the perfume in the air was enchanting.  I felt we had escaped pettiness.

In the evening twilight I did a bit of lazy research about black locusts, as it is one of the most valuable types of lumber, if only you can find wood that hasn’t been drilled into Swiss cheese by a annoying beetle.  Not only is the wood one of the hardest, it also burns hotter than all other firewoods, nearly matching the BTU power of coal.  Americans felt the tree was so valuable they transplanted it beyond its natural range, perhaps greedily gloating over the future supply of excellent lumber they’d harvest,  but then around the year 1900 the beetles spread like a plague, and rather than prime lumber people had wormy and worthless wood, and trees that tended to snap off in strong winds and then send up thorny shoots from roots and stumps.  The tree became more of a weed than anything else.

On the bright side, black locust does stabilize unstable hillsides prone to erosion, and does fertilize the soil with nitrogen, but….there is also a not-so-bright side: Black locust is invasive, in landscapes that are naturally prairies.

Black locust seems one of those “if only” plants, a tree with great expectations, but a disillusioning  reality.  The blooms are so profuse and sweet they are a bee-keeper’s delight, and result in a rare and delicious honey, but…..(and there is that word “but” again)…it only blooms for ten days.

If only. If only you could line up all the positives without all the negatives you could have tall trees producing honey in the spring and firewood in the fall, excellent lumber, and even the tree’s pods can produce food if the poison is removed…..but….the negative is part of life, on this sad planet, and you wind up with a thorny, runty invasive species with wormy wood. The only way to get any good involves lots of hard work….but….I’m on vacation.  Who needs hard work on a vacation?

It is very nice that I get to see black locust at their best, as tall trees untroubled by beetles, because the beetles don’t like the extreme cold of Maine’s winters (or the high mountains of Black Locust’s original range.)  I can breathe deeply of the perfume filling the twilight, because I lucked into the brief period when they are in full bloom. And lastly, I can just lazily browse my way through the internet, rambling without ever working (because research is not work, but rather is fun, for me).

Because this tall, beautiful tree can become a scrubby invasive species out on the prairie, it occurred to me that locusts can be like locusts of the grasshopper sort. If you want to raise wheat on the treeless prairie, you want neither sort of locust, and have to go through all the work of using insecticides or herbicides,  and facing all the environmental hazards of using chemicals,  and who wants to contemplate a problem as complicated as that, when goofing off on vacation?

Instead I decided to wander off into the topic of what sort of locust John the Baptist ate, when he was out in the wilderness, subsisting on “locusts and honey”.  Was he eating the pods of a locust tree? Or was he eating grasshoppers?  Surely, when you go back to the original Greek the two words are not the same.

Somewhat amazingly, it turns out the two words are similar even in the original Greek. The Greek word “akris” means “grasshopper” and the Greek word “enkris” means “honey cake”. And wouldn’t you just know it? This similarity got a fuss going between vegans and non-vegans, way back in the early days of Christianity.

Apparently Saint James was vegan, and at some point a certain sect insisted that all Christians had to be vegan, which created a hubbub, because other Christians stated Christians were freed from dietary restrictions and could even eat pork.

Well, well, well!  The more things change the more they stay the same.  But I will say this: One thing I am not about to do, when on vacation, is enter the squabble between vegans and non-vegans. That sounds too much like work, to me.

In running a Childcare I spend far too much time breaking up fights. Small children can rage and declare war over absurd things, such as the ownership of a certain stick, in a forest holding hundreds and hundreds of sticks.  And to be quite honest, adults aren’t all that  different, with their devious power-struggles involving elaborately crafted and silly schisms. (It is not merely in “Gulliver’s Travels” that people war over whether to open boiled eggs at the pointed side or the rounded side.)

Such nonsense is tiresome to the mortal soul.  Sometimes we need to take a break, to just walk away from all the silliness, and just fill our eyes with the vision of white blossoms billowing against a blue, blue sky, and fill our lungs with the ambrosia of black locust perfume.


Like a soul walking up and out of hell
I once waltzed away, last day of school,
From ostracism, from a principle
Who was mindless, from teachers who were cruel,
From wicked classmates prone to snickering
At my tears, and entered into landscapes
That knew mercy, with night skies flickering
With God’s lightning, and sunrises all escapes
From bullying routine. My barefooted skin
Felt dew between toes rather than hot shoes,
And rather than a sergeant’s discipline
My orders were to rest. I’d paid my dues
And wandered through green landscapes of healing,
Astounded at what Kindness is revealing.


LOCAL VIEW –Late Planting–

Bean Patch 1 FullSizeRender

Should I plant? Or go fishing?

So here we are again. Another June;
Another tune sung happy-go-lucky
Down a country road; and another swoon
Into the arms of kindness. I was plucky
And stubborn and strong to endure so much,
Surviving the cold, but now all that strength
Just melts. Mighty men flop at the soft touch
Of a damsel. They’d go to any length
But now can’t budge an inch. Without much shame
Men surrender to mercy, where they stand
Strong against meanness. A candle’s small flame
Defeats much darkness. Look here. This same hand
Can fist or caress. Which fires will burn
When we again look north to winter’s return?

LOCAL VIEW –A Cold Day In June–

Cold June rtma_tmp2m_neus(35)

“If I’m so brilliant, why am I so stupid?”

I asked my wife that question yesterday, as I shivered. I’d practically frozen myself in pursuit of an idea that awoke me at 4:30 A.M.  I’d started typing in the predawn darkness and had to wrench myself away to work at 7:00. It was then I noticed I seemed shaky. Wondered it I was coming down with a fever. Felt pretty weak. My son is just getting over Lyme Disease he got from a tick bite. Wondered if I had it too, remembering I had a tick bite a couple weeks ago. Stopped in at the doctor’s. He took a blood sample to test. My blood pressure was very low, I was four pounds underweight,  and my temperature was…95.6°??? That’s not a fever; that’s practically hypothermia!

What a dingbat I am! Of course my metabolism is going to be at low ebb if I attempt to live on coffee alone, and just sit at a typewriter without getting any exercise, and lack even the brains turn up the heat, or wear a sweater, or start a fire in the wood-stove.

Start a fire in the wood-stove? But it’s June! I checked the dashboard thermometer as I drove through the blustery drizzle of day with a purplish-gray overcast. It read 48°. (9° Celsius). At 11:00 A.M. ? In June?

Oh well. Splitting wood is a good way to warm up. Then I bothered feed myself some hot soup. Eventually I stopped shivering, and walking about all clenched up, but it takes a while when you have foolishly allowed yourself to be chilled to the core.

You’d think I’d be old enough to know better. I blame the writing. It is when you think you are most brilliant, that you become most air-headed,  most absent-minded, and downright dumb.

So will I stop writing?

No way. But perhaps writers need to be cut down to size on a regular basis. Otherwise they’ll think their brilliant, and become all puffed up. (It’s not they who are brilliant; it’s what they are looking at.)

It’s a cold day in June, but that is how
God made it. Who am I to say it’s wrong?
The newly-leafed boughs are drenched, and they bow
And get in my way. Nasty mist rides strong
East winds from a gray sea that still recalls
Winter’s sea-ice, but who am I to say
This isn’t right? My old teeth split; gray hair falls
Like withered sepals. Lilacs fade away
And tulips look stupid without petals
And I glance up to God. He knows my thought.
There’s no fooling Him. He won’t give medals
For lies. I can only give what I’ve got,
And I think He smiles at my eye-rolling,
Preferring a chat to always controlling.


I’m a lawn-mowing man.
I make the noise pollution.
I just do what I can
As I await the Revolution.

Noisy hours pass
As I live from day to day
Cutting all this grass
And never making hay.
Hay could feed some sheep
Which could feed and clothe the poor.
It makes me want to weep.
Just what am I mowing for?


As a poet my responsibility was not to make a lot of money. In fact I got points for being poor. Perhaps I took things a little too far, but it is proof the ego can fasten onto absurd things when I look back and realize I used to brag about my poverty. My friends would brag about making more than they made the year before, while I bragged about getting by on less.

Some stated money was a measure of how effective my poetry was, and the fact I made no money was proof my poetry was no good. I said that writing poetry for money was like having sex for money, and that bought-and-paid-for poets were basically gigolos. A true poet wrote about whatever came to mind, free from the demands of people who wanted them to crank out a poem praising Chocolate Sugar Bombs Breakfast Cereal. Not that I might not occasionally crank out a poem about some mundane thing, such as Aunt Mable’s birthday, but it would be because I loved Aunt Mable.

Others stated that if my poetry was any good I should seek fame, because this would allow a greater number of people to benefit from it. I confess this did grab my attention, for I did feel the world would be far better off, if only it saw the beauty I saw. However I also saw that all too often people who actually gained fame were in some ways perverted by it: A sort of rot set in and often they experienced horrendous downfalls into depravity, which was very sad and also seemed to make them even more famous. Lastly, I couldn’t stand the pushing and shoving involved among people who craved fame. They reminding me of little children screeching for attention and all wanting to come first in line. I tended to stand back and watch. I was very unassuming, for a raving egotist.

You have to be an audacious, raving egotist to be a poet, for you think you are important even when all the evidence states you are not. There have been times when all I needed to say was, “I have written a poem”, and it would cause a jam in the doorways as people tried to flee the room. You have to own a special sort of arrogance to not quit, after experiences like that.

Eventually all the evidence that I should quit resulted in a transformation of my ego which I can’t claim I fully understand. Poetry ceased to be about me anymore. Why? Because I really wasn’t getting anything out of writing it. Or nothing ordinary people use, to measure “gain” with. I wasn’t gaining money or popularity or power or sex or drugs or anything other than the beauty I witnessed. At times I didn’t really even have a person to talk to, who agreed the beauty was beautiful. It was like getting a joke absolutely no one thinks is funny, but you cannot stop laughing at, even when people demand you stop laughing and get angry about your laughter. All I got out of my poetry was trouble, and I could not call trouble a gain. But still I couldn’t quit.

I had to resort to a sort of mental trickery to keep myself from falling apart. I’ll share the tricks, because I think young poets might find the trickery handy.

First, I adopted a faux humbleness wherein I stated my poetry sucked. In actual fact I felt it was great, and everyone else in the world was stupid and blind, but for the sake of argument I stated it sucked. Then I had to say it didn’t matter that it sucked. I was like a small and tone-deaf child singing his heart out in church. It wouldn’t matter to God that the singing was awful; it was the heart that mattered. This enabled me to continue writing poems even if no one wanted to read them. I was doing it for my own good. It allowed me the happiness that was so obvious (to me) when I wrote. It accepted the reality spoken by the old song, “The doctor says: ‘Give him jug-band music; it seems to make him feel so fine.’”

Second, I established (for myself) the reality of the beauty I was attempting to copy with my poems. The poem might suck, but the beauty itself did not suck. I might be like an artist attempting to copy a crimson sunset using charcoal, but the sunset was untouched by my ineptitude. This enabled me to elude the doubt fostered by critics who derive a perverse joy from crushing young artists with sneering skepticism. It was the admission that God does not need me to prove He exists, to go on existing.

Third, I accepted the fact beauty does not have to be in the center. In fact beauty often occurs not in the center of cities, but in out-of-the-way places. People know this, when seeking the beauty of nature in wildness areas, but they don’t know that the same principles apply concerning the beauty of humans. The best music may not be heard in a stadium in front of throngs, but in a rural church before a congregation of thirty. This enabled me to feel I might be among the best, even though not famous.

Fourth, there may very well be media besides the mass media, a “grapevine” that publishes ideas without needing an editor or publisher, and without involving a “gatekeeper” who censors ideas that are not politically correct. This idea involves a good tale:

In the mid-1980’s I was living midst sagebrush next to a truck stop in Arizona, because it was free, and truckers would walk over to visit me, because I was an interesting character and driving trucks out west can be boring. One night a few fellows found me fuming, because my mother was worried about me and had written me a letter I found offensive.

At that time my mother was a EMT in Maine, and among other things dealt with car crashes caused by drunk drivers, and she also knew I drove after drinking. I’d never had an accident, but she had recently joined MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving), and was sending me all sorts of literature insinuating I was going to kill someone. Did I not know 39% of all traffic fatalities were alcohol-related? As I drank beer by my campfire with the truckers I composed a letter back to my mother, and they found it hilarious. (I’m not sure I ever actually sent the first draft. But she did chuckle at a later version.)

I informed her I was forming DAMM (Drunks Against Mad Mothers). Did she not know 61% of all traffic fatalities involved no alcohol whatsoever? What were we going to do about all this sobriety? Furthermore, at least some of the traffic fatalities involved men intimidated by MADD, who were not in the safety of a car, but rather staggering home on foot, or wobbling on a bicycle. (I later discovered 12% of alcohol-related traffic fatalities involve such people).

We all had a good laugh and then switched the subject to other topics, and I assumed that was that, however around a week later one of the truckers was passing through the area again, and he handed me a baseball cap with DAMM on it, that he had made up, and a month later I saw another trucker I’d never met wearing a DAMM t-shirt. Now it is thirty years later and I see DAMM hats and t-shirts and coffee-cups all the time.

I don’t claim to be the first who had the idea of DAMM as an acronym; it does seem a rather obvious response to the MADD acronym; but I “might” have been. And it does show how an idea can “go viral”. A little pebble can start a mighty avalanche. As long as one doesn’t want to make a profit and collect royalties and residuals, (greed), there is no telling the influence one might have, even when sitting by an obscure campfire midst sagebrush.

Fifth and lastly, there is something other-worldly about poetry, and it defies the material-minded. When one struggles late at night with their writing they are battling within a dimension the media cannot control, and in many cases does not even admit exists. Rather than using examples from my own life, I’ll turn to Mark Twain.

The first use of the word “telepathy” wasn’t until 1883, and apparently Mark Twain didn’t hear it, for he coined the phrase “Mental Telegraphy” to describe the uncanny coincidences he noticed, involving writing. He would write a letter to someone who was writing him at the exact same moment, a phenomenon he called “crossing letters”, and on some occasions it involved people he had not written to in a long time. He also noted examples of people who lived far apart, and didn’t know each other, publishing the identical idea at the same time. He had no control over such telepathy, but admitted it, as a reality.

When I chanced across and read Mark Twain’s “Mental Telegraphy” and “Mental Telegraphy Revisited” it was like having a secret idea I had never dared share affirmed by someone I respected. It also made me feel better about spending months battling to write something which even I myself couldn’t stomach rereading, when it was finished.

Often such writing was a rave, decrying any number of societal stupidities, unreadable because it answered objections no one but I myself would make, involving off-the-point side-tracks to further objections only I myself would make, and seemed a long argument with myself, or with echoes of critics buried in my dead past. In some cases such blathering can perhaps be justified, because the hundred-pages indicate all the thought that evolved and refined and incubated into something which is now well-thought-out and succinct, but in other cases the hundred-pages is seemingly senseless, involving things I no longer care a hoot about.

But there is no telling what was going on, deep in the darkness of those late nights long ago, within the mental landscapes of telepathy. Battles were waged and I survived. Foes were defeated and I strode onwards triumphant. All that the world sees is a hundred-pages thrown into the trash, but the young poet knows (without knowing the what or the why) that he feels great, and is walking down the street with his chest out and his heart singing.

Surely one must smile at the idea of a young poet seeing himself as a mighty warrior, when he may in fact be a ninety-eight-pound weakling, living in his mother’s basement. (I told you audacious egotism is involved). However danger is involved, and I advise young poets to avoid the dangers of living in a mother’s basement, not because I never did it, but because I did do it and know the dangers. For the same reason, I advise against smoking marijuana. When one speaks of the dangers of the mental battlefields one admits the possibility not all will come out of it alive, or sane.

Some poets do die young, but the power of poetry is the power of life, and of rejuvenation. It always seemed to me that John Keats packed more living into his twenty-six years than bankers do in a hundred, but then, that involves your definition of “living”.

This brings me back to where I started, which is, in case you forgot, what the responsibility of a poet is. I think a poet’s responcibility is to show what makes a poor man richer than a banker, but what is that?

Some call it “God”, but others prefer I not use that word. So let us call it “Truth”, (though some don’t like that word either.) Whatever it is, it is something worthy of a poet rhapsodizing about, though I admit some poets rhapsodize about unworthy things. In fact, unless a poet is perfect, they all will tend to attempt to portray a crimson sunset with charcoal, and fail, but here’s the amazing thing: If they escape bitterness and cynicism and really reach out to Truth, Truth reaches back to them, like the Michelangelo painting of God creating Adam.

God Creating Adam 300px-Creación_de_Adán_(Miguel_Ángel)

Perhaps this is what makes many poets so giddy. One definition of “touched” is “mad”, but poets have been touched in a wonderful way. I honestly believe this is what hauls them out of the preposterous predicaments they often land themselves in. Because they stand by Truth, Truth stands by them. Because they reach out to Truth from their mother’s basement, a hand reaches down and hauls them out. Often they look like they have come to a bad end, and then you meet them a week later and they’ve started a whole new and surprising chapter.

This often takes guts, guts people didn’t suspect they had, but they gain those guts from outside of themselves. A hand doesn’t usually reach into their mother’s basement and pluck them up, but something gives them the courage everyone thought they utterly lacked, and they dare step out into the dawning of a new day. What gave them the guts? They simply saw the dawning.

An example of this from my own life involved my getting married at age thirty-seven. Absolutely no one saw it coming, including myself. But with incredible speed I went from being a confirmed bachelor (June 30, 1990) to being the father-of-three (July 9, 1990). How could such a thing happen?

One thing was that, when you have gone decades without understanding, you recognize understanding when you see and hear it. Upon meeting, my wife and I talked non-stop, quite literally, all the time we were together, without awkward pauses, for days. What is odd is that there was a lot we didn’t agree about. However there was a respectfulness in the disagreeing that I knew, in theory, was possible, but had never met face to face. It was an ability to harmonize, which also showed in the fact neither of knew how to dance very well, but, when we gave it a try, it was great fun, and people asked us where we had learned the dances we invented on the spot.

A humorous decision we agreed upon was that even though we felt instantly married we felt we couldn’t tell anyone, because we were quite certain they would tell us we were crazy. So we waited what seemed a long time, twenty-three days, before announcing we were getting married, and people still told us we were crazy. We were married in September, and here it is twenty-eight years later and we’re still crazy.

Abruptly becoming a father-of-three involved some radical adjustments in my life. For one thing, I’d have to stop sleeping in my car. Also I’d have to stop bragging about making less than I made the year before. I had to hustle more. However it wasn’t as hard as some felt it would be for me, and soon I was bragging how little a family of five (and then six, and then seven) could happily live on. The only thing I really didn’t like was working indoors, in factories, during the winters. As soon as the snow melted in the spring I went back to mowing lawns. However I never stopped the poetry.

Unlike most landscapers I didn’t invest in heavy equipment. I was dirt poor, and a rake cost less than a leaf-blower, and a shovel less than a backhoe. I took small jobs that required neatness; I could dig a ditch through a garden to lay a drain pipe without crushing the roses. The only noisy tool I owned was a lawn-mower, and I didn’t like the noise of it, as can be seen by the lyrics that begins this essay. That poem was part of a song I made up and sung as I pushed the mower, and is part of the reason I met my wife. A customer heard me singing and asked me if I’d like to join a church choir, and my future wife attended that church.

Even then I had no thought of dating her. I saw she had three children, and assumed there was a husband who didn’t go to church. A second customer had to serve as a matchmaker, and talk me into going on a blind date.

My wife later referred to these customers as “my harem”. I cultivated a collection of old clients who liked me (and my low prices), and I also liked them and enjoyed talking with them. Some were men but most were woman; (hence the “harem”). Often, when I stopped for lunch I was invited onto porches, and rather than “chowing-down” I “dined”, and rather than “shooting the bull” I “conversed”. They had seen some amazing things in their long lives, and were gratified that I was so interested, and also they were curious about me. They found it peculiar that a person who knew so much about English literature should be such a bum. I’d joke no one should study literature without a strong back, for they’d wind up digging ditches, and they seemed puzzled I was so happy about it. However it was a fact: I was happy, even before I met my wife. All those elders are gone now, but they were a wonderful bunch, and I knew there are a lot of rougher jobs to have than to potter about rose gardens, and harsher characters to deal with than old-timers retired from the stress and strain of battling for money.

Someday I hope to write a short book about those lovely summers, but there is one customer I recall who springs to mind, because our interactions pertain to something I think poets need to be wary of.

She was a very old woman, and her character held a strange mix of generosity and fierce suspicion. She’d seen some cruelty in her life, and kept her guard up, and never seemed entirely sure whether or not I might rip her off, as soon as her back was turned. Yet she paid me more per hour than I asked. We had long discussions during lunch about literature and history, and sometimes she’d follow me out after lunch and the discussions would continue as I went back to weeding. I took special care to always be trustworthy and honest, for example confessing if I broke a low branch of a shrub by mistake, or accidentally pulled up a petunia while weeding. As time passed I assumed I was included into her odd and interesting circle of friends. She knew she could call on me in minor emergencies.

However then a fellow entered from stage left, a nemesis. He was about my age and I think he was jealous, in some unspoken way. He whispered she should not trust me, because I was poor. I suppose the assumption was that poor people are driven to be unethical. It wasn’t true, but it preyed on the old woman’s mind, and finally she told me exactly what he had said, looking at me in the saddest manner. By that time I no longer worked for her, so it wasn’t like I was being fired. It was simply a withdrawal, the closing of a window. I hadn’t done anything, so there was nothing to defend. All I could do was shrug and say, “Well, that’s his opinion.”

After that I was quietly excluded from her life. It was the oddest thing, to feel a twinge of jealousy when I noticed the other fellow’s car in her driveway. It made me laugh at myself. After all, the woman was over ninety!

In the end I decided they deserved each other. Sometimes it is best to allow people to draw their own circles, and live in them. In fact, it is their right, and may be for the best, for some small experiments require small test-tubes.

Poetry, however, is anything but small. So look away, young poets, and look up, and look out.