Inside Sheldon's Toy Box   Tuesday, August 30, 2016




A very short  post this week with a title, I expect will  be meaningless to anyone but us millions of fans of TV's The Big Bang Theory. Too bad  about the rest of you.

In my last post, I had excerpts from my last book, Peace in Our Time, a science fiction(ish) story told in short flash fiction pieces.This week I include  excerpts from my first fiction book,  Sonyador, the Dreamer. The book is about a boy growing up in South Texas in the 1950s, told through a series of 31 very short short stories. It is not  autobiography, but a biography instead of the time and place of my youth. It is a bit more  nuanced than the straight fiction of Peace  in Our Time and so a little harder to excerpt.

I am more proud of both my fiction books than of any of the poetry books, and that's especially true of this one. Sonyador seems like a real person to me and his story, ultimately sad as all our stories are bound to be, very true to the kind of life I knew growing up.

Also, as usual, my own new poems from last week's writing and poets from my library.


Me
the sacred language of our youth

Susan Holahan
The Park at Texas Falls
The Way the Truth

Me
from Sonyador, the Dreamer
"1. The Price of Freedom"      

Siegfried Sassoon
To His Dead Body
In an Underground Dressing Station
Supreme Sacrifice

Me
rationing

Lynn Crosbie
For  Jayne Mansfield


Me
from Sonyador, the Dreamer
"3. Playing War"
Me
from Sonyador, the Dreamer
"11. A Kiss"

Me
and again
so this is it


Me
from Sonyador, the Dreamer
"15. Onward Christian Soldiers"

Me
from Sonyador, the Dreamer
"26. Wishing Like Fishing"

Robert Pinsky
Banknote

Me
my simple-minded normal

Me
I'm okay - too bad about ol' floppy ears

Me
watch the horses run in their pasture   












Here's my first new poem for the week.











the sacred language of our youth

had
a taco for breakfast,
a breakfast taco to be specific,
an egg and bacon breakfast taco to be
even more specific

in days past
I would have said
I had  a taquito for breakfast,
an egg and bacon taquito

my spouse of Mexican persuasion
had an egg bacon and potato breakfast taco
(and a jalapeno on the side)

forty years ago
on the very day we married
she, also, would have said she had
a taquito...

here's what  happened, as I imagine it,
at some point over the past forty years -

purveyors of taquitos,
doing their business mostly in the
barrios and colonias of South Texas,
found of their lowly but delicious  taquitos 
to be spreading into the more gringoistic portions of the  populace,
leaving them concerned that
first, gringos not  being the most intelligent of  individuals,
would find it difficult to properly order a three syllable
Mexican food product, requiring, therefore,
for marketing purposes,
to shorten their product from a three-syllable
"taquito"
to an easier on the gringo tongue two-syllable
"taco"and, also, since a taco in the gringo lexicon
was a filled, crispy-fried tortilla lunch or dinner
consumable, the taco of the breakfast variety
had to be more clearly described as  a
"breakfast taco"

at the same time,
I think, 
those same purveyors of taquitos
became offended that their very fine breakfast treat
was cast in the diminutive and thus not properly
accorded the respect it deserved...

whether it was the one or the other
or both
of these factors, over the years
taquitos become breakfast tacos
and now, if I forget and order  a taquito,
in some places there is either look
of dumb  incomprehension or a response
as if I had disrespected their dog...

all this is an example of how passage of time erodes
everything from grand canyons to the sacred languages
of our youth 

and so it is,
but,
since this is just between you and me,
I will exercise my roots and tell you I had a taquito
for breakfast, an egg and bacon taquito
while my wife had an egg and bacon and potato taquito

and I'm sure she as well as I enjoyed or taquitos this morning
much more than we would a breakfast taco..












First from my library this week is poet Susan Holahan, from her book Sister Betty Reads the Whole You. The book was published in 1998 by Gibbs-Smith Publisher of Salt Lake City.












The Park at Texas Falls

on both sides of the dirt road, water
roils among boulders the way words run in your head all night

steep into forest under ochre haze that lies on clearings
you're inclined to say "beauty" roars

a darkness under old trees
you at a loss          the falling -

passages of sculpted rock  so strait  the water
squeezes through to mingle bottle-green and white

- fills your skull as though you'd left the porch light on
past 3 a.m. a nimbus filled the hall

there's "memory" and there's seeing it again
like finding late in history the very book you learned to read in


The Way the Truth

Nude weeping in door-
ways we don't normally
need much of. Time to stop flattering ourselves that
depression's metaphysical. Guilt we haul to every table
merely "resonates" like the Great Depression the way

the truth we plunge every
nickel we don't have into
only when  we're dumped all  the way down buys us
a blue-plate special maybe every Other day. Depressed
jumps like the kid we met  dragging a big,  crammed,

black-plastic garbage bag
down Grand Ave. sidewalk
between lumps  of used snow on an afternoon with
streetlights. Work made him warm, and his struggle
to leave a trail with the bag that we  couldn't read

if we'd wanted to. He  kept his
head so far down and his ears
so on-task that a casual word
with our (30) toes mere inches
apart  made him leap.  We might have pulled a gun.















This is the short piece that begins the story of the dreamer, little Sonyador.











1. The Price of Freedom

     Little Sonyador knew what freedom was.

     He knew it was is bike, his striped-down jalopy of a bike, a hand-me-down from his older brother, repainted bright red to be new, to be his.

     The tires not like the skinny tires on the new bikes his friends rode, but fat and wide, balloon tires, not so fancy as those of his friends, bu better for the dirt roads where he usually rode.

     That was part of freedom, too, the dusty roads, the grassy banks on either side of the canals where he learned how to swim, the paths around the settling basin, where thick, green water was brought in from the river, held until needed then sent by the big pumps (bolts with nuts as big as hubcaps),  pushed down canals throughout the irrigation district. And freedom also, the high levees along the arroyo, a diversion channel for the river for when hurricanes came and brought floods, and the freedom of trees and birds and ponds and frogs and water snakes, the turtles, the freedom of the monster garfish breaking the surface of the water in the settling basin, ugly, primordial  fish that grew and grew and grew until they died and these were old fish in the settling basin, fish that lived and grew for years and years, six, seven feet long with their great long-billed mouths, a foot-long row, teeth up one side and down the other, like a chain saw, and catfish,  too, older than the boy, years behind them of growing and growing and growing.

     All this was freedom for a ten year old, but sometimes a universe too far.

     Because freedom has no sense of time, except for a sense of certain doom when time caught up and he knew he was late.

     Freedom was sometimes late for dinner.

     Freedom has a price and, as he pedaled home,  the boy knew the price would be paid tonight.

    Little Sonyador knows what  freedom is. Tonight he will learn again it's cost.








Next from my library, Siegfried Sassoon, one of the best and brightest poets who survived The  Great War. The poems are from The War Poems, published by Faber and Faber in 1983.

Sassoon, born in 1886 in Kent, joined the Royal Welch Fusiliers in 1914 when the war broke out. Known as one of the great poets to come out (alive) from World War I, he with his contemporary soldiers told the true story of war, debunking the myths of glory with real blood and real death. He continued to write and publish until his death in 1967, aged eighty-one.







To His Dead Body

When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried,
Groping for friendly hands, and clutched, and died,
Like racing smoke, swift from your lolling head
Phantoms of thought  and memory thinned and fled.

Yet, though my dreams that throng the darkened stair
Can bring me no report of how you fare,
Safe quit of wars, I speed you on your way
Up lonely, glimmering fields to find new day,
Slow-rising, saintless, confident and kind -
Dear, red -faced father of God who lit your mind

July 1916

Poet's Note: Written in hospital at  Amiens at the end of July 1916. It refers to
Robert Graves, who had  been reported Died of Wounds. A fortnight
later Eddie Marsh wired to me at Oxford that R.G. was doing well and in
hospital at Highgate.


In an Underground Dressing Station

Quietly they set their burden down: he tried
To grin; moaned; moved his head from side to side.

"O put my leg down, doctor,do! (He'd got
A bullet in his ankle; and he'd been shot
Horribly though the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above the crying,
"You must keep still,  my lad." But he was dying.

2 June 1917 (begun in April)


Supreme Sacrifice

I told her our Battalion'd  got  a knock.
"Six officers were killed, a  hopeless show!"
Her tired eyes half-confessed she'd felt the shock
Of ugly war brought home. and then a slow
Spiritual brightness  stole across her face...
"But they are safe and happy now," she said.
     I thought "The world's a silly sort of place
     When people think it's pleasant to be dead."
     I  thought, "How  cheery the brave troops would be
     If Sergeant-Majors taught Theosophy!"

2 June 1917











It's been a tough couple of weeks for a number of reasons. This day, taking a bright moment and holding it for the dark sure to be coming.











rationing

the beginning of a dim, wet day

but for now,
first light shining through
condensation on wide windows
bejewels the day

rain yesterday,
rain last night, with more
certain for today

the beginning of a difficult
day,
unwelcome news
requiring hard decisions

these moments of bright
sparkle,
banked like silver dollars
to be rationed
as the day's long hours
pass








Next, from her book Miss  Pamela's Mercy, this poem is by Lynn Crosbie. The book was published by Coach House Press in 1992. Crosbie, born in 1963, is a Canadian poet and novelist who teaches at the University of Toronto.

For those of a more tender age. the  poem refers to the death of actress and sex symbol Jayne Mansfield (a kind of poor man's Monroe) decapitated in an accident in her Cadillac convertible.







For Jayne Mansfield

the boards of the stage groaned and were
spotted in a grey-blue light, our
throats tightened, when the backdrop
fell down,smeared, slats of  color
- a mansion like a stone in a fishbowl,
a torn car's shell, fire  and water
and she comes.

she carries her head in her hands,
its  jagged edges tucked awkwardly
under. her gown spreads like a puddle,
molded red on her cadaverous rounds.
her fingerbones clutch and tear it
from, a skeleton, in a dot shift.
and her wax mouth shudders and gapes.

she told us about the crash, that
metal flaps, an accordion,  cut her.
the radio was on when it, a girl's
mouth twisted into a ribbon in the
wheels, she also showed us pink
a terrible color, so bloodless and
chill, like the skin on the moon.
I give her a mural, done from memory.
she totters off, wall in her arms
leaves a sweet profusion of smiles.
clumps of alabaster,  drawn with a
brush of albino hair. the texture
of Formica, your  sanguine eyes, so  black
and  misplaced, olives lost in ice
cream. they look wetly on,  past your
bounce and cross,roots grazing at
your formidable brain.

she's walking an ocelot  up and down
my sidewalk when I'm trying to sleep.
her heels are thunderous, and my irises
ache from her tin-foil bikini, legs
bounding, dimpled,  then  pared to the
marrow. he said, the difference was
one of class and that you didn't have
any. how could he feel her, all
stuffed and dejected.look, when the
camera turns  her shoulders slump  and
her eyes  sink  like tar pits.
but your body won't  stay still.it
beats a platinum tattoo on the grave,
and shines, a wreath of rhinestones.
they buried you on a cold bleak day,
but you'd have wanted calypso music.
and dancers in tight pants, supposedly.
straining at the grey edges, on the
brink of glass resurrection. push
Plato aside. and  wear the robe, and
light the candles. a wind is screaming,
and inverted valentines have covered
the world.












Another from Sonyador, the Dreamer.














3.  Playing War

     Little Sonyador reads all the "Leatherneck" comics of his Korean War era, stories of square-jawed American soldiers firing machine guns and throwing grenades against  yellow, slant-eyed  Chinese invaders, their fanatic hatred of everything good  and American, screaming  rage of  their squinty eyes as they counter attack.

     And little Sonyador has nightmares about going to way, not by the killing and dying of war, frightened, even  as a  young boy, not by that, but by the extinguishing of self, giving  up of his self to
the generals and sergeants and the military  machineries of war.

     He is often a lonely boy, comfortable with going his own way in his head. He addresses the expectations of 1950s boyhood when it pleases him or when he must, reading Boy's Life, getting all his Cub Scout merit  badges but shunning the smothering  blanket of Boy Scout campfire camaraderie when he is old enough to transition as is expected of him. He hates the joining that is expected of him, the idea of being lost in a group. He has come to expect his aloneness, to prefer it, even, for the world  outside his head does not always welcome him on his own, not always clearly understood, terms.

     He is a peculiar  boy, little Sonyador, not always attuned to the cadences of most around him.

     "Go  find  someone to play with," his father says. But little Sonyador would rather play his own  games.

     He plays at war with little mud soldiers he makes  himself. In his  games, he is always the hero, standing apart, never one the mud soldiers.

     That is his nightmare - to be must another mud soldier.











Sonyador, not  Sonyador anymore, but, at thirteen now, he is Sonny to his friends.

This story introduces Sasha, first love, who then disappears until the very end of the book.










11. A Kiss

     Sonyador  (or Sonny, as his  friends call  him now) is thirteen-years-old and Sasha, who left town about five years ago, is back. Her father is some kind of union welder who travels all over the world for his work.

     She is  at the end of summer party, the first boy-girl party for Sonny, and everybody is dancing and horsing around  until Janie's parents leave the kids  alone and they start playing "spin the bottle."

     And when it come Sonny's turn to spin the bottle, it turns and turns and ends up pointing right at  Sasha, which means Sonny and Sasha are supposed to go outside and walk around the house in the dark and somewhere along the way, kiss each other.

     So  they go outside and start walking through the big trees that  are all around the yard, holding hands,  not saying anything until they come to a part of the yard  where it is very dark and Sonny was thinking they should do the kiss.

     Actually had thought they should do the kiss way before this but he wasn't sure how to get the kiss started.Should he just stop, turn her around and kiss her, or should he wait for her  to turn him around and kiss him, or what?

     And beside that, Sonny doesn't  know about the kiss. The only women he's ever kissed are his mom and his aunts and his grandmas before they died and he is pretty sure he shouldn't kiss Sasha like he kisses his mom and his aunts and his grandmas. He has heard from some of the older guys  about "French Kissing" but it sounded like French Kissing  meant he should stick his tongue in Sasha's mouth while she stuck her tongue in his mouth and that sounded pretty disgusting and besides that, what if Sasha doesn't want to be French Kissed, maybe even prefers a mom or aunt-type kiss the first time and then work up to a French Kiss after a year or so.

     So Sonny doesn't try to kiss Sasha until they get to the very dark part of the yard and then Sasha say, "I guess we should do the kiss so we can  go back in. They might be putting cake and the punch out for us now."

     So they kiss.And it is kind  of a mom, aunt, grandma kiss but doesn't feel at all like a mom, aunt or grandma kiss, at least not to Sonny. He can't tell what Sasha thought about the kiss, but he did seem to kiss him back, kinda, but mostly now she's talking about getting inside  before Johnny Buffomo eats all the cookies.

____

     Sasha lives a little further out in the country than Sonny does, but on the same road as his house is on.

     For two weeks after the party Sonny walks back and forth in front of her house, thinking maybe she might see him and come out on her porch to  talk to him.

     But she never does.

     And  a couple of months later her father got a job in Wyoming and they left town again.












Doing what needs doing.













and again

a week of poor sleep

a week-end facing truths
too  long denied

a funeral Monday morning
in Hondo, a small town a hundred miles
west of San Antonio

a Monday afternoon
mental and physical crash,
fatigue
demands payment past-due
and I sleep for 16 hours,
the sleep of my cave-dwelling
ancestor, deep in his cave, letting
the storm rage without him

Tuesday morning,
bright morning, relative cool
and the cave sleeper arises, shields his eyes
against the early sun,
ready to track the hairy mammoths
of him time once again,
takes his most  trusted spear
and sets out for the hunt for Tuesday
dinner, Tuesday's validation
of his  exalted position among
the panoply of  creation
once again


This,  several days after the above. My poem for the day, as angry as I've ever been. Happily,  resolution seems settled now.


so  this is it

I am
too angry
to write a poem today

too bound
in red knots of fury
to write anything today

so this is it











More about Sonyador/Sonny, in high school now.













15. Onward Christian Soldiers

     Sonny found Jesus at the baptist mid-summer tent revival, then lost him just about as fast when it turned out that the Jesus he found was very closely associated with the revival preacher, Billy Wayne Claxon, short and a tad tubby,with a $500 platinum-blond pompadour,  and who concluded his mid-summer soul-saving by running off with the First Methodist preacher's wife. When the tent folded and let town, it  went  east. Billy Wayne and the preacher's wife, Mildred Fitzhooley, went west,  taking all the love offerings with them (about $2,000 worth of soul-saving, as it turned out).

     Sonny had gone to the revival with a friend, Eddie Rassmuson, who got saved at every revival, the lost the faith a couple of weeks  later, until it was revived again at the next tent show. He testified hard and often, but it never seemed to stick.

     It was a whole new experience for Sonny, who grew up in a conservative Missouri Synod Lutheran church, no jumping, no stomping, no shouting, no testifying, and definitely no amening, after every third sentence of the sermon. Amening was the exclusive prerogative of the preacher, best, it was thought, that the congregation leave  him to it.

     The business of earning God's grace was a very serious business to these old German farmers, more Old Testament by their somber nature than New. They were serious people and they were pretty damn sure religion wasn't in any way about or conducive to having fun. They did sing during  their worship  services, with organ accompaniment, but only if voices were kept low, ever for soul stirrers like "A Mighty Fortress is Our  God" or "Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War," and the organist activity was confined to a fumble-fingered old woman  who couldn't keep time with a bass drum or recognize a melody when she stepped on it.

     When it came right down to it,  whichever way it might be, Sonny had some doubts about the whole God business, not seeing that it made a whole  lot of  difference in  the way most people lived, as even those who amened the loudest,jumped the highest, or testified with tears streaming down their face on  Sunday morning were just as likely to be out on Saturday  night with the biggest sinners in town (and there was never any doubt who they were), doing the same things as the biggest sinners, treating other people on Monday morning even worse than the sinners did. (They, the sinners, being no yet clued into the cleansing power of confession and therefore were more cautious in their moral dealings with others.)

     Sonny was pretty much ready to set  aside the whole thing, belief being  not particularly comforting or  reassuring to him. He had tried, but revelations that came to him were mostly on the negative, Doubting Thomas side and he,  being by this time relatively comfortable with trusting the clearness of his mind, began to  see the whole thing  as mainly abut people who didn't share his comfort and clarity when it came to their own mental self.

     But, of course, he didn't share any of this with anyone, that not being, in his time and place, a smart thing to  do. He was much too young to leave this town and strike out on his own, so best it was to keep his mouth and his opinions to himself.

     "Some day," he'd say to himself, "I'll find someone to talk  to about this."

     Of course he had no  way of knowing that there were a lot of people in his little town who, if induced somehow into honesty thought  exactly as he did, but who, like him, were smart  enough not to talk about it.

     It's the way of very small towns. Everyone has secrets they are sure are theirs alone.








This is the last piece this week from Sonyador, the Dreamer, nearing the end of the book.

As  Sonny get older, his story gets darker and the kind of man he will become begins to emerge.

Since they were not introduced in any of the excerpts, Tug is Sonny's older brother and Conch is his brother several years younger.Uncle Otto was the best  friend and mentor of his very early years.









26. Wishing  Like Fishing

     A years after his dad died,  it seemed to Sonny that he was on a hard road, with nothing he could see in the future to make it smoother and easier.

     His mother was still working at  the school cafeteria, full time now, where it had only been a couple hours a day before Dad died.  Tug's whereabouts still a mystery,  having heard nothing from him now in nearly two years. His  wife and daughter, Sonny's sister-in-law and his niece, moved to California, to San Diego. The word had it that she found another man and was just waiting for her divorce to come through so she could marry him. And Conch, though only twelve, was beginning to show the same kind of wildness  and defiance that always got Tug in trouble.

     And Sonny's best friend, pretty much his only friend, Bangie, had moved  back East with his mother after his  parents got  divorced.

     Sonny was sad sometimes,  thinking of fishing with Dad, going on trips with Uncle Otto (oh how he still missed Uncle Otto and, oh, how he wished he was there to talk to.)

     But Sonny remembered what Uncle Otto told him once;wishing is like fishing without bait, just a waste of time for people who didn't want to do  what  needed to be done.









Last from my library this week, a poem by Robert Pinsky, from his book, Gulf Music. The book was published in 2007 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

Born in 1940, Pinsky, poet, literary critic and translator, served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1997 to 2000.











Banknote

Behind city walls, calm rituals of exile.
The Brazilian cleaner hums and sponges the table.
A civil  quiet between us I will not break.

By chanting my gratitude in broken Polish.
She has the courage t be my great-grandfather Ike.
Thanks to his passage a century ahead of hers

I get to  sit at the table, I write the check.
To recite this to him through her would be foolish.
Her only language for now is Portuguese,

Though every week she knows more English words.
On the Brazilian equivalent of a dollar bill,
Not only a portrait of Drummond de Andrade

But an entire poem by him: nineteen lines.
It makes the dollar look - Philistine. The poem
I about  a poem he intends to write about

The single diamond made of all our lives.
From gluts,  dearths. From markets, forced migrations.
 Nossas vidas formam un so diamante.

Sicilian  Archimedes could move this adamant
Prism that we form, if he could stand out of it.
Locked blind in the diamond,  its billion cuts and facets,

Molecules in an obdurate  equilibrium
Of  pressures, we cannot see the shifting fire.
Words on the banknote; the banknote tints the words.

From Ruth the Moabite,  her great-grandson David.
And from Ruth's sister Orpah, Goliath the gentile.
Signature graffiti sprayed on security shutters

In characters the corrugations disable:
In the unpeace, the breaking of the wards?
The pyramid eye envisions networks of cable,

Gulfs arched, wilderness paved. In the system
Of privilege and deprivation, the employed, the avid:
Fraught in the works, turning the gear of custom.











The difficult week continued.















my simple-minded normal

complications
upon complications
upon  complications again

a challenging
couple  of days
for he who seeks  the simplicity
of  a life on a green hill,
high enough to  see the many paths not taken,
low enough  to avoid the complication
of birds  and clouds,
fire falling
stars

tonight 
I will sleep

tomorrow
I will wake and all will be  back
to my simple-minded normal















A little humor (sorry the best I can do this week).













I'm  okay - too  bad about ol' floppy ears

I  seek to find
a brighter, better
light
than the one that shone
on me for the past days, but
how to find that since these days
I'm so clearly predisposed to walk
on the dim and shadowed sides of the street

like the small  gray bunny
I found in my lawn
when I returned home yesterday
afternoon from my morning's
questionable labors,
a soft-furred bunny
with giant, frightened eyes
wounded,
injured in some  serious bunny
mishap, left leg dangling useless,
scrapes and missing fur attesting
to its difficulty...

aha!
I  thought, surely a mission
of mercy assisting a poor wounded and
presumably distraught bunny would be
a way to find that brighter,  better day...

all I have to do I thought,
is capture the bunny
and take it to a vet for medical
attention

but the bunny, it turned out
even with a dangling useless leg  was
a quick and evasive beast, leaving
me, figuratively, in the dust

so,
I thought, if I can't chase the critter down,
perhaps I can capture it...

looking to the techniques
perfected by the long-ago natives of this area,
I  got a cardboard box out of the wash room and
set it up on the  front porch with several sticks
of celery as bait...

but,
alas,
the beast was too smart  for me
and would not be trapped,
leaving me to  watch the creature
hobbling,  piteously, across my neighbor's
yard and into the sunset

and
truth be told,
I was glad the damn varmint got away
because, up  to my nostrils in my own drama,
I really didn't want to get involved in wounded rabbit
issues, no matter how soft-furred and big-eyed,
because
hell
it's just a rabbit, anyway,
and even though I did feel  bad last night,
trying to fall off into  over-due sleep, thinking
about those big, soft eyes, in the end,
I did finally sleep well and for that
I'm pleased to be rid of ol' floppy ears,
especially having done just enough
(never mind the lack fruitful consequence)
to massage my frequently abused
conscience...

~~~~~

thinking today
that while the experience
may not have spun the brighter, better day
I was hoping for, I did at  least come to appreciate
that, with all my troubles, I'm better off
than a cripple rabbit lost
in high grass












A little dose of humility to close the week.













watch the horses run in their pasture

watch
the horses run in their pasture

do they remember
the races run?
the races won?

do they miss the races?
do they miss the winner's circle,
the roar of the crowd
as they push, every muscle,
every fiber of their powerful bodies?

as they run
in their pasture,
so graceful and beautiful,
long tail and mane flying in the wind 
or their own running, do they recapture
their moments of glory?

or do they run
through soft pastures
in the fresh mornings of spring
just for the joy of muscles and done and grace
of their great bodies?

maybe they just run 
just
for the joy of running...

~~~~~

I could try to bend this poem
into some kind of relevant observation
by saying something like

so does the fortunate poet run,
just for the joy of
the running

but I'd rather just watch the beautiful horses
run in their pasture...

so much deeper the relevance of such natural grace
than any self-absorbed jabbering of a 
Saturday morning
poet







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Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second





Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer







                                                            

  Peace in Our Time
 

3 Comments:
at 5:27 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

1,9,10, 11 and a cupla others + the last one- you!!! you do not realize what you have- congratz (at least i do)-dme

now let me go look at the poetry (do i have to?)

at 5:29 PM Blogger davideberhardt said...

the photos are almost all magnificent- i will comment on the one poem by pinsky- it's prose- as is so much of modern "poe et tree"

at 2:12 PM Blogger Here and Now said...

thank you, david

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