Day to Night

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

Day to Night

Two Pileated Woodpeckers

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.

Two Pileated Woodpeckers


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


Still Life in Paris

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

Still Life in Paris

Lunch at Montrichard


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




Lunch at Montrichard

Creperie Ty Couz

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.

Creperie Ty Couz

The Sun of Pont Aven


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

The Sun of Pont Aven