Page 22 of 23

The Long, Strange Trip Home

It will be a year in a week
That I watched my
March carrying a
State flag
Under the Naval Banner

The long distance between him
And home was filled with all the jewels
Of parenthood – the gems
We keep heart-close
The trials
For sturdier times
When the lens
Of hindsight is
Rosier with humor

THE DREAM SQUARED ——– January 17th

On this, the day of the DREAM

Wondering what He would say

About the cities bloodied

By derangement

In the name of…



Voices in nightmare   (gdf)


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

It’s a Winter Wonderland Alright! – January 8th

Outside the snow falls as I wonder why I moved to rural western New York  28 years ago

I wonder what life would have held for me if I hadn’t

I wonder where all the promise of humanity has been scattered

I wonder why the skies are no longer endless and why the captive heart no longer trembles

I wonder why I read headlines that make me weep in despair for all of us


January 3rd, In the Heart of Texas

Upon visiting Texas’s Alamo I am reminded of the many personal Alamo’s we endure every day; the few excuses that we stroke as talismans – reasons for our goodness perceived and real – holed up, ‘garrisoned’ against the forces of need and desire.

And it may be (as the real revolution) that the garrisoned are not that good and the forces of need and desire are not that bad. It may be simply that, between the two lies a barren drought-stricken stretch of heart meant to be fertile and supple with the daringness of  truth and wisdom.

And I wonder what happens to truth and wisdom when the heart – the vessel breaks or ceases to beat?