The Right Column

November

with a shivering wind

Nor'Easter a-commin`!

Off and on, on and off. There were giant floods two years ago. Giant floods before that. My neighbors had to have their houses pumped out two years ago! Floods and rain. Cold Snow and Wind. It never ends. And beaches washed over by the giant surge where cities would be if that didn't happen so much.

Down in New York, Long Island, and New Jersey (and especially right on the shore) they've had that major disaster last week with the big wind that blew over and took the ocean up with it and then barroled over the shore places, as it will from time to time, like it did down the South Coast in 1938, like it did from hurricane Bob, like it has done through out the ages. But it hadn't hit in the Mid Atlantic like it did. And we have this election. So it was all destroyed along the shore there.

I know that they will rebuild. And it will be better than before. I've never thought that Staten Island was a tourist destination. It is kind of like parts of Mass, it's nice if you know what is nice, like Quincy shore drive, or places on the North Shore. It's a family place, like Nahant or Hull. But it's in a big city. It's part of a really big city. It's a suburban place for hard working people, and they want to live by the sea shore. It didn't deserve what happened to it. Of course not. And it will all be rebuilt. I am sure of that. But in the meantime. . . they need some help.

Swans congregate this time of year. Here is from 2008.

 Geesh, I've flown far and away today,
       haven't I?

overlay the overlay.

I got nothing more

October 2, 2012

 



  See how a poet can make up
    things that don't matter
          spattering rain.

  The windsheild of this bus
       once was clean
     we thought we knew
      what the signs all said
       but the rain has made the colors run
    off and down and along
        the 
        spattering rain.

  And those people hypnotised by debate
    forget in their hearts how not to be mean.
     it's Saturday.
       with the rain
     And the end of an age.

 The great scism of hurt must end
     and free, now, wonder off
      into the tuckies of the temporary,
    states of mind through which you pass
    on through the night
    and into the coming day.