Guest Book

full-fox-print-color-corrected-reducedWelcome!  Please read some of my poetry while you’re here. Even if a post is two years old, they’re being read every day. They’re all current. Feel free to join the conversation. Lastly, treat this post as a Guest Book. Offer suggestions, improvements, requests or just say Hello! If you have a question concerning poetry or a poem, click read more at the end of this sentence and fill out the form. Continue reading

April 26th 2017

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tulips—
····flowering as if the garden were solely
········theirs
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Today I strolled and strolled. And I remember how deeply I love Berlin. I love that every building is a little different. One is never quite sure what sort of architectural opinion will be expressed around the corner. On Bleibtreu Strasse there is a kindergarten whose building is playful and inviting. Tomorrow I will attach a picture of it when my connection is better. There are buildings that are orderly and made with squares and rectangles. Next to them are flippant disagreements with rounded balconies, curves and disheveled windows. I’ve been to Paris and Paris is beautiful, but there’s something about Berlin’s endless novelties that pleases me more and that always makes me smile.
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The apartment buildings in Berlin are normally only five or six stories and in the middle of most are courtyards. Some are merely cobblestone with bicycles, but others have beautiful gardens and there is a place that is famous for having something like a little village hidden away. Walk through a tiled street level hallway, sometimes wide enough for a car, and you might forget that you’re in a city. You stand in a garden courtyard with trees, flowers, and playground surrounded by windows and balconies on all four sides—beautiful little islands with chirping wrens and visiting ravens. I used to play in them as a child. The toy stores are just as a I remember them, filled with little armies of medieval soldiers, hung with colorful lanterns, animal faces and paper stars. The women are beautiful, coming and going with children, with sleek black coats and fine linen scarves.
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Nothing though, is so vein as a Tulip. There is a row of them in the courtyard garden below my bedroom window. They must think this garden is a world and they are the most beautiful apparitions within it.
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116 April 26th 2017 | bottlecap in Berlin
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April 25th 2017

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house
····wrens—chattering as noisily as skate–
········boards
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Flying over Newfoundland at sunset stuck with me. The earth seemed very small. We flew over glaciers, breaking ice flows, snow laden mountains and a landscape that was still gray, dark and cold with snow and a smattering of lights. The distance between Vermont and that landscape seemed suddenly small.
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I had hoped to have pictures of Berlin, but my tablet can’t seem to connect reliably. The trees are surprisingly greener and leafier than the trees of Boston or Vermont. Look down some streets and you might think it’s mid summer rather than early spring. What I especially enjoy are all the children coming and going, riding bicycles, scooters and skateboards—which Berliners don’t seem to mind on sidewalks or before their storefronts. The children include Turkish, Russian, Spanish children all happy and too busy being children to be anything but playful and alive. I find Germany’s compassionate acceptance of immigrants, even at the risk of terrorism, a contrast to the fear and intolerance typifying America’s political discourse.
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115 April 25th 2017 | bottlecap
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April 24th 2017

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flying
····between skyscrapers—the seagull hardly
········notices
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I’ve just landed at the Dublin airport. Still dark, though during the descent the first yellows, blues and reds were breaking at the horizon. I’ve never been to Dublin, let alone Ireland, and am loving the Irish accent. I’ve looked for my beloved airplane—the 747—both here and at Logan. Not one. The airbus A330 is a lovely plane, but I’ll always love the spiral staircase in the Boeing. Behind me is as close as I’ll come to an Irish Pub, at least on this trip—a little pub in the terminal called the “The Gate Clock”. Sadly, as much an imitation as any Irish pub at any other airport, but at least can lay claim to being in Ireland. That must count for something.
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114 April 24th 2017 | bottlecap
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April 23rd 2017

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sun-
····rise—the crow stretching in the white
········mists
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Tomorrow I fly to Berlin, Germany—my childhood home. I haven’t seen the city in some 25 years. I plan to keep writing my haiku—me, the Vermont recluse, writing haiku at 36.000 feet. Not quite Basho’s narrow road to the north, but maybe I can make a little travel journal out of it?
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113 April 23rd 2017 | bottlecap
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April 22nd 2017

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cold
····as the snowmelt beside them—April’s
········daffodils
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With two of my daughters deeply interested in science and climate science, one studying marine biology on the coast of Maine, and being cognizant of the tremendous damage being done and ignorance being perpetuated by our current administration and the political party he leads, I donated to the NRDC today—the best I can do as others demonstrate in support of science and scientists.
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112 April 22nd 2017 | bottlecap
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April 18th 2017

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When I last drove from the west coast I had lived in Washington State. I could fit all my belongings in the back of my truck. Some twenty years since have cluttered my house with belongings. I look forward to divesting myself of them. I have beautiful furniture handed down and there’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t have it. I don’t like owning anything of value. I love my books and my collection of music, but they aren’t valuable. The most valuable book I own is a collection of Frost’s poetry signed by Robert Frost.
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As my teen-aged children begin living their own lives, I’m going to let go of the belongings, the house and so much else that matters less to me. I’d like to build a small house, not tiny, but small. I’d like to have a view of the western mountains so I can watch the weather come in and I’ll let the grass and wildflowers grow. Don’t want a yard, but a field.
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I have a minimalist bent.
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And my insight these past weeks is that it’s not just my house that’s cluttered; but also my mind. My first childhood poems and stories were written on a typewriter. What distractions are there? There’s only you, the typewriter, and the room you sit in. But distractions are manifold nowadays. For the last several years I’ve allowed my mind to become too cluttered. I’ve found it difficult to concentrate. My mind ceaselessly acquires the next novelty but is perpetually dissatisfied. The storehouse of my mind has been and is in disarray.
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My insight is to think of my mind as my house. The first thing I did returning from Burlington was to delete all the bookmarks in my browsers. I only have six sites bookmarked. Poemshape is one of them. Habits are hard to undo; but I’ve already noticed a difference. I’ve found myself excited at the thought of reading books or laboriously working out a poem by hand—pencil on paper. I look forward to regaining my ability to concentrate.
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When I close eyes, I imagine my mind as the cabin I’ve always wanted to build—a one room cottage with a desk, a chair, and a summer’s breeze blowing through.
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I’m trying to minimalize the clutter of a too connected world.
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I’m trying to get my typewriter back.
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collecting
····in April’s muddy trenches—the night’s early
········stars
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PaperWhites (b&w) (Block Print)
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108 April 18th 2017 | bottlecap
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