As I would have said at the time: Note to folks living below the Mason-Dixon Line: It’s time to remove the Confederate monuments. They look too much like a sore loser.

Let’s remember, those shafts (at least the ones I’ve seen) have to be offensive to every descendant of every slave in America.

Think of all the German-Americans who never erected Kaiser monuments in honor of their dead kin. Japanese-Americans who could have placed Hiroshima/Nagasaki reminders. Italian-Americans, with Mussolini railroad efficiency. Vietnamese, Native-Americans, French?

It’s one thing to respect the dead, but this has felt defiant. From my view of history, it was a rich man’s war fought by the poor who continued to suffer poverty long after. Including many of my ancestors.

Now, what do I make of the statues of Civil War soldiers found on every town green in New England?

The wounds linger, don’t they.


How can you not appreciate the way the word flows on the teeth and tongue and along the lips?

Given its name, Oyster River, in the Lenape tongue for the profusion at its mouth in Chesapeake Bay, the word ripples and sings.

Upstream, where I lived, a different name would have been fitting but, I’ll presume, no more beautiful.

Susquehanna 1~*~

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reopening for midweek worship in passing homeward from extended travel meeting in the old house in the center of the cemetery extending my circle of acquaintance in brotherhood, deepening illuminated by the urgent breath of kerosene lanterns at Fawn Grove through summer and fall holding its past silence gliding past volunteer firefighters and Amish neighbors […]


undercover, then as it were to strangle that endless syllable in its insolent childishness, stretch outward of course, pigeons are messy birds and slow-witted, in all their cooing the fan absorbs the room the wind, a jet roar caught in place the inheritance of my own discomfort if it rains tonight, I’ll remember you between […]