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page #54 back nextThe Left Column Ruby Heart
The Left Column
What could be
more perfect
than your tiny
ruby?
Its beauty,
its perfection,
is but surpassed by
you
who see its beauty.
You are the quality
that is the beauty,
seer of the beauty.
It is more of you
than the ruby.
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page #138 back next
Season
of
Orange
October is a month for graves on account of Halloween.
Anyone who has regularly visited this site has noticed
photos of various graves, especially the poet's grave
of M. JL Kerouac.
So why didn't I have photos of any of the 'easy'
graves of famous local philosophers, poets, or authors?
that when I went to Concord in the past it didn't
occur to me to visit the poet's ridge. Why? Well,
usually I am on some long commute back from work
in the evening and I end up going through Concord
on account of grid lock from Lawrence to Walpole.
There are all kinds of 'back' roads.
They are long and winding. They snake through the
various vales in the land where town
centers have impossible intersections.
You soon find the 'worst' intersections
and you avoid them. Number one worst intersection near
my house: the south bound of 126 drops off into
Wayland center. Typically the back up on a weekday
(circa 5 PM) involves a 20 minute wait. The cars
go all the way back to Lincoln. Also,
in the mornings, the north bound merge onto
route 20 is a crawl. It doesn't matter if
you try to circumvent it with clever turns,
you will get stalled for at least three
or four light cycles.
There are secret ways through all of
this but I'm not telling. Go buy a map.
In any case these last few days have
been awesome and bright with vibrant
October light. And thus here we are
in the season of orange. Orange and red
and yellow and sunlight and
New England stone wall cliches.
Rivers with leaves swirling in them.
Courtyards with whirlwinds of fallen
maples leaves. The shuttering rain
of same colored leaves which all
seem to shed from the tree in
the same orientation, like little
boats adrift upon the seas of Autumn winds.
What a wondrous day.
And so today I went up to the hill.

And then I went to the ridge

You see some famous names on the graves at the ridge.
Emerson

Thoreau

Hawthorne

Alcott

Next I went to the bridge.

You see a place of battle at the bridge.
26 October 2009
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| Sat, November 7, 2009 |
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page #63 back next
The Right Column Ghost Bridge
I kept thinkin' you'd
be learning
those hard truths
that you always ignore
lazy as you are.
relativism
in fallen angels
means you get
tied to them
and dragged
down with them
it is like
an anchor that
you imagine
in your mind
that pulls you
down below
into the junky sea
of what and who
she is that pulls
you down.
I thought
that you would
know but you drove
all of your friends
away 'cept for me.
All of this,
this poem,
drags me too
into the junky sea
won't you please
lite an incense for her?
She will be a good person,
good soul that
she wants to be
accusing guys of things
that she makes up.
Ask her if she's born again
then why won't they drop the
charges?
She could recant,
before the court
what she said that he did.
He didn't do those things she
said he did.
We all know this but the court
must do what courts must do.
Will you cross the bridge
to safety or will
she drag you down
again into her webs
of sinking dispair?
Won't you please burn
the incense for her
as nobody else seems
to want to?
BP
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