Chanced upon in a culvert in Edmunds Township. Those feathers, by the way, are both protected by federal law and valued in Native American culture.
Tag: Wonder
How many ‘lasts’ of the season?
It’s been a month of “last” tomato sandwiches, each day a surprise blessing.
There have even been at least two “final” rounds with a lawn mower, not that I’m complaining.
And now I’m out on the last cruise of the schooner season.
Add to the list of missing in action
I’ve already mentioned telephone books.
And rotary telephones.
And now phonebooths and pay phones in general.
It’s largely gone over to donations, too, which typically prefer online credit card entries rather than paper checks. Try finding the address to send that check when you’re searching their website, perhaps on your smart phone.
For that matter, handling cash in general is overshadowed by those plastic cards.
Parking kiosks that demand credit cards do upset me, though.
I know I’m overlooking a lot more. Care to add to the list?
I hate to admit it now, but it’s true
When she said she wasn’t good enough for me, it turned out she was right.
Oh, my, the things I uncovered later.
I really was so green.
Others can say the same of me.
A quickly passing glow
Time the view right and you may see Campobello Island, New Brunswick, turn buttery in the late afternoon sun. As an added touch, a few house windows suddenly burst into bright reflections. Here they’re simply vivid white boxes.
Sorting through piles
Do I want to save it
or move ahead in my life?
I knew Christ before I met Jesus
An alternative way of knowing Christ. Not just about him – or it or they.
And definitely not just by the Book.
Miscellany, one way or another
Who am I, really? What do I want to be remembered for?
Raccoon as a Trickster, a local Native twist.
Why be clever?
“The distance I felt came not from the country or the people; it came from within me. I was as distant from myself as a hawk from the moon.”— narrator in James Welch’s Winter in the Blood set in Montana
A viral carousel.
Quaker by degrees. Turn up the heat?
Quaker vagabonds were Dharma bums, too. The itinerant ministry proffers its own humor.
Things I learned in two years of college French? Le is pronounced luh.
As a youth, I admired crystals grown from supersaturated solutions. Deep blue copper sulfate was my favorite.
I never expected a film literature course under Harry Geduld would influence my poetry as much as my college writing class under poet Dick Allen. But it did: the clash of thesis and antithesis producing an unanticipated synthesis in reaction, especially.
When I first began reading contemporary poetry (for pleasure, independent of classroom assignment), he sensed that often the poem existed as a single line or two, with the rest of the work as window dressing. Now I read the Psalms much the same way, for the poem within the poem, or at least the nugget your or I as the psalmist is to wrestle with on this occasion. Psalm 81, for instance, has both “voice in thunder” and “honey from rock.”
I’m past the bitterness, the years – all the lost potential.
Are they really vain expenditures?
Upon graduation from college, in my social-activist period, I wondered how American society could possibly afford High Art while so many went hungry and homeless – domestically as well as internationally. Then I began to see everywhere a desire for expressiveness – in every ghetto, the ghetto-blasters and Playboy, spreads, graffiti and blues bands. To say nothing of the influence of professional sport, to which nearly every ghetto youth seems to aspire. (And more than a few others.)
So opera and museums and other “Establishment” operations came to lose their exclusivity in my vision. Extravagant expenditures in those realms are overshadowed by big-league athletics sports for similar reasons and then by military budgets across much of the globe.
See how much each person needs to reach into the realms of thought and imagination – the spirit; anything less reduces our existence to nothing more than economics, impoverishing everyone in the society.
So I noted.
By the way, Versailles still offends me.
An air of a ghost town
Much of Way Downeast Maine stirs up echoes of the American Far West, at least in the eyes of some, and that includes impressions of ghost towns.
The downtown of Lubec has some prime examples, including this imposing waterfront emporium that was the headquarters for R.J. Peacock company’s wide-ranging sardine operations.
I think the structure has a slight resemblance to the long-gone steamship wharf that once welcomed passengers just below our house in Eastport. This one is still standing.
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Jnana's Red Barn 