in just

and its spring

puddle-wonderful

mud-luscious

[in Just-]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

in Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee

poem

I think that I shall never see

A billboard lovely as a tree.

Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,

I'll never see a tree at all.

-Ogden Nash

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Grandest Nephews in Portland!

the power of the pen

Poetry as an Insurgent Art

(I am signaling you through the flames)

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am signaling you through the flames.

The North Pole is not where it used to be.

Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.

Civilization self destructs

Nemesis is knocking at the door.

What are poets for, in such an age?

What is the use of poetry?

The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.

If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the

challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic.

You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and

Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an

American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words.

---------------------------- --------------------------- ---------------- ------------------- -----------

HI All,

National Poetry Month approaches (April) time to start getting ready.

I have never had a good grasp of poetry. Of course Mary Oliver strikes a chord every time

but what of others? I studied Ferlinghetti in college. He wrote in the 1960's and his words

resonate today.

I think I will instruct my students to take a stab at it with their pens. But first I have to learn a little more.

In Ashland, Oregon in April there is an event called Poets On the Loose. Poets roam the streets,

schools, libraries and cafes offering to read a poem by a well known poet and then hand a written

copy to the listener to take home. I love this idea.

(and if you don't want to hear a poem you can say no!)

It was on their web site that I found the above poem. Thought I'd share it with all of you.

I may be one of those Poets on the Loose, but reaching my audience on the blog.

Look out! More are coming!

B

California Dreamin'

An update from David and Barbara's visit to California!

View from our ferry facing towards the Bay Bridge and San Francisco on a foggy, rainy afternoon

David and Barbara outside of Ghiradelli Square

Boats! Smells like Maine...

On the ferry from Oakland to Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco

A lovely walk in Redwood Park, just minutes from Eliza's house

Next stop: Big Sur, Monterey, and Carmel. Hoping for fewer clouds down south! More to come...

Place #2

Warning: these photos are misleading. Massachusetts is under a thick layer of snow and ice at the moment. Photos taken at a kinder and gentler time.

Whatever chaos I may feel in my own life....the lists with nothing crossed off, plans to be made, phone calls unanswered, dog woes, ice under foot, computer with color whirl spinning all night, it all drops away when I step into the Concord Public Library.

Order reigns here. Everything works. Books are checked in and checked out. I overhear that someone has a fine of 25 cents for an overdue book. The librarian is apologetic as if it was her fault. The climate is controlled, it is a relief to walk through the door and get away from winter's stabbing cold. The bathroom is clean and well lit. The handicap stall has room for the bags I carry around full of books to return and notebooks for the writing class I teach here. There is even a hook for my coat. I could live here. I wash my hands as I leave. In the hall are two water fountains. Two! One for small people and one for tall people.

Why is this building here? Largely to hold tales of love, murder, death, jealousy, war, suicide, gunshots, travel, raising children, a barn fire that kills horses, a good night story as gentle as a mother's voice. Wild imaginings, gods bursting out of the heads of other gods. A one eyed monster. Odysseus who longs to go home.

The drama of my own life is contained and tamed here as I walk into the building that manages to hold everything.

Back to the "dog woes." Calley is fine but she has an incessant itch all over her body and is pretty uncomfortable. We have tried everything! Finally the person at the pet supply store said that allergies to wheat and chicken are very common in dogs. The dried food she eats is just that, so are her "treats!" So we're on a new regime of wheat free non chicken food. She loves it luckily. Hoping for the best.

Place #1

I am already missing solid ground as I step into the dinghy and sit down with a canvas bag wedged between my knees. The bag is filled with my treasures; pens, books, journal, notebook, camera. My luck they'll all fall overboard when I heave the bag up on deck.

David rows efficiently, he's good at it, looking over his shoulder occasionally to keep us on course heading straight for his beloved sailboat, Labrador. When I row this little boat, it goes zig zagging one way and then the other, oars splash water as one skims the surface and the other goes too deep. Too many things to think about at once.

Which is another problem. Being an early riser, I like a morning walk. Once on the boat, it is hard to get away. To row ashore alone means untying the dinghy, stepping gingerly into it, putting oars in oar locks, and looking over my shoulder, heading to shore. If we are in a harbor, I aim for the dock. If we are in a cove I aim for the rocks which are slippery with sea weed or covered with razor sharp barnacles. And then there is the tide. Better tie the boat up well or it could float away on the rising tide. Busy riding horses, I never mastered knot tying at summer camp.

So I stay put. In the morning, I climb the steep ladder and arrive on deck groggy from lack of sleep. I pride myself for my ability to sleep anywhere. In a tent, on the ground I can eventually get comfortable stretching in one direction and then the other. Not so on the hard bench, which doubles as the seat at the table (boats are so efficient, many uses for everything.) I lie awake listening to the fog horn. The seagulls.

As for the books, they go unread. Queasy from the gentle rocking of the boat, I am unable to read. I tried taking drugs. Bonine is said to work wonders. I didn't really take to being drugged. Blurry and for once, quiet, I stared into the distance. Not until we were well on our way home did my brain kick in. As we passed Moody's Diner on Rt. 1 heading south, I started talking non-stop, giddy to be on land.