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ANOTHER WASTED HOUR |
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That hour you lost in the spring
and bitched about all summer is back, so sleep in. Today is St. Crispin’s day. He is
the patron saint of shoemakers and shoe salesmen at Nordstrom’s. By the way his
remains and those of his brother Chrispinian (his mom liked the name) were said to be
washed up on the shores of Kent after their martyrdom in France.
It’s 1760 and George III becomes King of England. 1854: Charge of the Light Brigade
at Balakava, Russia. In 1874 Britain annexes the Figi Islands. Who’s Where: 1895:
Little Egypt is taking it off in Chicago and in 1905 The Stanton Island Ferry runs (or
floats) for the first time.
In 1946 because so many returning veterans have no place to live, President Harry Truman
declares a housing emergency and lifts all embargo’s on lumber imports. The shortage
only manages to end when developers develop tract housing. 1960: The first electronic
wristwatch (The Acutron) goes on sale by the Bulova Watch Company. Instead of those little
moving things, it has a precision tuning fork, electronic circuitry, and a miniature power
cell (in other words, little moving things.) 1963: In principle, the Vatican council
approves immovable Easter.
Up and at 'em tomorrow. No-sire-Bob the weekends are never long enough.
- RM 10/15/98 |
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George Bizet o
Richard Byrd o Leo G. Carroll o Barbara Cook o Anthony Franciosa o Minnie Pearl o
Pablo Picasso o Helen Reddy o Johann Strauss |
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Luck lies in bed
waiting for the postman to bring news of a legacy. Success is up at six a.m. and off to
work..
Genius seldom meets deadlines. Success nearly always does.
To conquer the fear of failing you need only remain open and
willing to succeed.
In choosing a path in life always select the most challenging.
The easy road is crowded and boring in the bargain. |
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MORNING COLLECTION |
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In the half-light
we saw the swimmers
coming from the darkness
carrying the boy’s body low,
as though its weight
was bending all of them
into the same submission.
As though the boy
was pulling them down now
the way the sea had pulled him
to herself.
He was of course
just one more lover
of the gray-blue water.
A muscled boy who swam
a few yards farther out
each day.
But so young.
I wonder what he said
as he went down
that final time,
here I am or let me go ?
I know the sea eats up
the men who love her most,
the way a killer queen
must finally one day
reject the troops
who fought for her on battlefields
and fought with her in bedrooms.
I am not afraid.
I’d go down gladly in a whirlpool
if I had ridden all day
on a
friendly wave.
But one so young
colorless, not even gasping,
too dead for even lonely.
A conscience cannot even wonder
why.
For the sea
it was a little murder
done with might and yet no malice.
But with a poor repayment
for a man whose only crime
was to love the wild blue water
that in a single swallow
tore and took him.
The ocean has a lesson
for our own lives
and those we take responsibility
toward.
Push forward she keeps saying
till your life is bare upon the shore
until you’re naked to yourself
and God.
Yet the Christian and the Godless
are often washed together
and broken on the rocks.
To wade the water is to learn.
You’ll gain a guideline,
a seamark telling you
how far to travel.
If the sea were not
a woman
we’d have little luck
at concentration
and communication
and still come home in certainty
and safety.
Morning people
tracking down the shore
retrieve the best
and see the very worst
the sea sheds on the beach.
Hold on to me
and I’ll become your enemy,
let me go and I’m your friend.
The ocean says that every day
a thousand and a thousand times.
And every evening,
her words having pounded
in our heads all day,
we repeat them
to each other
as our own.
So it is
that we confuse her speech
her language spoken
wave to wave
and tide incoming
with those sentences
complex and simple
we spit out
as dialogue invented.
The sea invents,
we rearrange.
The sea takes out a patent,
we infringe.
The sea holds all the rights
to all the most important works,
speaking tongues that even time
won’t modify
or use.
To those of us who’ve listened
the sea’s the only teacher
teaching, and without a copybook.
Often she demands a bitter prize,
a head to batter on the rocks
limbs to wash upon the shore
and though we wonder why,
is it the only question
that she leaves unanswered?
Some of us are only
treading water, hiking sand
beach to beach
and not beyond,
pretending we’re the sea’s
extension
hoping we can pass it off.
Though we seldom do
we go on trying.
Riding out the rainstorms
when we can.
Fighting off the fog
with friendship,
sailing through each storm
with all the confidence
of those who reel in sails
nightly and for ever,
we tread the water
like mosquitoes.
- from "The Sea Around Me" 1976, 1977 |
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