The Right Column

Oak Leaves Orange above bob in the spitting rain

Blizzard in the mountains up North.

Don't you love the rich weather? Oh to be of those rich with healthy mountain forests

Some might argue that there isn't anything better to be rich about. Oh, ya, a nice river, clean with the fresh water that flows from those forested mountains. But then they'll be some other person who is off in his own dream who wants to be rich with coastal island visions and hang-gliding ex-presidents over a distant Kennibunk shoreline.

"It's George Bush the senior." my friend says with his Yarlsboro Island droll (not drawl, but this guy might pronounce drawl 'droll' with two sylibles). The speck on the sky, washed out on account of having been taken with a small one-use camera, looks like it might just be a smushed bug or a piece of dark lint. But, no, it really is George the senior.

"No, I believe you, John." I tell him. I'd heard that Dubbya had done this.

My fondest memory of The Senior Bush is when he was sitting on the bed in his shanty on the famous point. It was him, in a news service photo, in his bedroom, taking a call from the head of another large nation. The Soviet Union had collapsed. The Cold War was possibly over.

The next day that house was flooded out by Hurricane Bob. An empire seems to fall. The head of another empire has his castle by the sea flooded by the gods of havoc. Neptune's wrath is laid upon the powerful.

But they've got that place back in shape. A storm like that, while unexpected, does happen sometimes. Those who love the sea will just rebuild. Those who aren't as committed may move away.

  Those who are killed
     might just wash in the tide
  get eaten by sharks
     and never be found.

like in the Hurricane of Sept 1938.

for those who love the sea there is no choice but to rebuild

  The Seven Main Aspects of
    God:
  Life
  Love
  Truth
  Spirit
  Principle
  Intelligence 
  Soul
 according to Emmet Fox 
in his book Alter Your Life

I got nothing more

Nov 23, 2011

Lost in
Boston
   

 

   Sharmer, while on vacation
   wanted to be where the rich people were
  not knowing
    that there weren't any at all left
  in Buggy Whip Heights
  on account of the factories all being
                shut down
      and the wind having blown
    even colder 
      neigh these last few (Jezzidaeia) years.
    As it were in 1911 Sharmer
           imagines.

     He falls into a poem dream, not
       really a dream at all but
 a spontaneious waking dream
      all in a days sleep 
 waiting for spirits to talk to him.