Somewhere in the world
it is the next day
traveling to Africa from DC
window seat and looking out
the daylight fades
I pass the point where day becomes night
or night becomes day
whichever way you are going
it is there
luminous fading fleeting moment
then a vast ocean of blackness
until the light settles again
on the housetops in Senegal
Two pileated woodpeckers chip away on a dead fir. Where I stand
it is raining bits and pieces of the old tree as long sharp beaks
hammer with precise repetition in the solitude of the forest.
These two with their red-crested heads continue the hard knocks and
go on to climb higher, the noise of beaks and feet and falling
wood chips still heard in the distance as I go on towards Gazzam Lake.
no more Greek gods and goddesses
give up my Socratic thought
Platonic beginning middle end
architectural style of parthenons
plantations and capitols
Texas Goddess of Liberty
Ceres Goddess of Agriculture
tops the art deco skyscraper
Chicago Board of Trade Building
1930 once the tallest in the city
“People will endeavor to forecast
the future and to make agreements
according to their prophecy.”
Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes
Chicago Board of Trade versus
Christie Grain and Stock Company
ruling May 8, 1905
My God is a jealous God
Dust Bowl 1931-1939
the crops die under clouds of dirt
by 1934 affecting 27 states
People pray for their children
leave their land
until rain comes
and the wheat is golden again
“Ceres” 31’6″ x 8′ oil on fabric 1930 by John W. Norton
There is a wasp in the house
the kind the Internet sites say
if you get stung you might as well
fall down and start screaming
cuz it will hurt like hell
i close all the doors
don’t want surprise attack in the night
I keep my eye on it
as it looks up at me
content in some crumpled paper
If it moves I will hear it
when it claws at the paper
a rustling sound to let me know
it is on the move
For days it has been on the front porch
menacing flight to keep us from opening the door
I should have let Anna kill it with the hose
Now it found a way inside
when our guard was down
Is it starting a nest
laying eggs or coming here to die
I could trap it suck it up in the vacuum
throw the big dictionary on it
or get the bug spray
Or do nothing and hope for the best
The only book bigger than our dictionary
is Constitutional Law
I could drop both on it
but first I will bake an apple pie
We leave a few things behind
but take much away
Not material items
or memory of the best places to go
A red sunset along the Seine
that lights the buttresses
of the Notre Dame Cathedral
the walls turned crimson
Small boats pushed with long sticks
by boys at the fountain
Somber look of statues in the Louvre
seen only from the outside looking in
People wait by the glass pyramid
formations of people heavy buildings
flowing water brought together
in a still life in Paris
Cafe de Paris a quaint little space
under the shadow of the ruined fort
in Montrichard
moules and frites
in such a tasty creme
of onion and garlic
chives sprinkled over the sauce
which lies at the bottom of the bowl
salt and pepper too
sauce is trapped among the shells
some have fallen out and bathe
in the richness of this simple broth
served with baguette tre bien
In a village outside of Pont Aven we are greeted at the creperie
by the family Valmes. Mother and father, sister and her husband,
their daughter and her husband Faberce, and Danielle and Fabion.
It is a surprise to see all of the family together.
The mother and father do not speak English. The brother-in-law
is retired Royal Navy officer and he has been to New York, Los
Angeles and New Orleans. He knows some English. We talk using a
small dictionary Francais Anglais English French. He shows me
his hand that once held a lance in a war in North Africa.
I want to know more of this French war he speaks of but I do not
know the language and the little dictionary we hold will not contain
all the words needed to talk of wars and ships, the economy of
governments or imperialism in Africa.
Monsieur of Brest sits next to me eating his crepes with lanced
hands holding the knife and fork. He shows me how to eat the crepe
and recommends the saucisson campagne, the sausage of the farmer who
makes it in the countryside. He translates the phrase as sausage
of the farmer. I look to the book for a word to word translation
sausage of the countryside. With his healed hands he demonstrates
the act of the farmer stuffing sausage. We drink the cider that was
also made by a farmer from this countryside.
Here the daughter of Angeles carries on the traditional business
of her mother as her mother before her did. The batter is poured
on large flat heated plates and spread with long spatula in a circular
motion until it is amazingly thin. At just the right time it is
flipped and the egg, if an agg was ordered “crepes oeuf”, is opened
over the crepe and the egg falls in the middle. The white is spread
over the crepe until it too is very thin and the heat permeates the
crepe and cooks the egg. Cheese is sprinkled over it and then folded
from all four corners. Served fresh from this woman of the countryside.
The sun of Pont Aven brightens the sailboat to a blue
deeper than the Van Gogh sky of Champs de ble
Blue sailboat moves along the river L’Aven
the light presses it on and on
like wind in sails its loft making shadow
that leans further into the movement of the day
Here in Port Manech can you see
day ride on into its own demise
with acceptual strength
and boldness only to disappear into the sea
slowly into the blackest shadow
of night
Here in Canay everyone has the baguette
a small boy carries bundles of fresh sticks
followed by little girls who hold baskets
Old men stand in the doorways
women pass by with baskets of yaourt and creme
one baguette or two balanced on top
There is a poem here
moving along the street of Canay
going this way and that
carrying the baguette
wordshophop 