Ashanti Came From Nowhere

Ashanti came from nowhere
      To be the center of his life

A friend of a friend of a friend
      Who was the last minute substitute guest
At the professional directors' workshop luncheon
      That Ledo almost didn't show up for

Then he got caught in traffic
      Nearly bailed to start a long weekend early
Noontime on Friday of memorial Day weekend

But he hung tough
      Finally showed up
And there at the table for lunch
            Ashanti smiled
      And everything changed

They got lost in convereation about not much at all
      They strolled through the park across the street
They found a bench and lingered some more

Before they knew it
      It was dinner
And the cafe he suggested downtown
      Was a natural nightcap for both
For the first day of the rest of their lives

Ashanti came from out of nowhere
      To be the center of his life

A friend of a friend of a friend
      Who was a last minute substitute guest
At the professional directors' workshop lunchen
            That Ledo almost didn't show up for


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
December 1, 2011

Hover With Me Now

Hover with me now
      Woman of my dreams
Six inches off the water

Taking flight like
      A couple of honking geese
Separated from the Vee

Off on our own
      Flying parallel to the river surface
Fog and mist

Glee and giddy
      Rushing unfettered toward an obscure corner
            Cozy and quiet
Private and pure delight

Hover with me now
      Woman of my dreams
Six inches off the water



For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
December 1, 2011

Down By The Water's Edge

Down by the water's edge
      Down where the land's shed
Runs headlong into the sea
      At the mouth of the Manasquan

Down where Neptune's pawns
      Rise up to be checkpoint sentries
            Supervise
      As brackish forces
Penetrate and integrate
      Becoming sea swill as fast as
A human might breathe in the harbor's fog
      Forever now belonging to the vast
The wide Sargasso Sea
      Stretchung from here thousands of miles
To the mouth of the Mediterranean
      Where civilizations as we knew them
Once began their march across time

And we stand here at the Contental ledge
      Able to contemplate our fate
            Our place in the world
      Our past
Our future

Down by the water's edge
      Down where the land's shed
Runs headlong into the sea
            At the mouth of the Manasquan


Fir Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
December 1, 2011

Modern Day Jo

Modern Day Jo
      Middle sister
Family of five girls and their parents
      Got on the Seattle bus in Minneapolis
Modern Day Jo
      Middle sister
Trying hard to be the son
      Her parents never had
To be the brother
      Her siblings never realized
            They missed

Baseball cap turned around
      To obscure the shoulder length pony tail
Colorful oversized football jersey
      Touting some big time team back home
            Acting as tunic so big
                  Over cargo pants
Garments billowing as if conceal the figure
Mannerisms with a video game
      Acting more like one of the guys
All obscuring her about-to-emerge age
      As if to hold off the day

Soon she'll be in eighth grade
      Already you can tell
She'll be distinctive stunning fetching confident
      Blonde hair bright face intelligent carriage easy smile
Her entire life ahead of her
      Full of potential
Could end up doing anything
      Self-guided
            Instinct-informed
Preparing herself with everything she's learned

Modern Day Jo
      Middle sister
Family of five girls and their parents
      Got on the Seattle bus in Minneapolis
Modern Day Jo
      Middle sister
Trying hard to be the son
      Her parents never had
To be the brother
      Her siblings never realized
            They missed


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
November 30, 2011

What James Joyce Was Getting At

This is what Joyce was getting at
Streams of consciousness
Associations rich with texture from a variety of places
Renaissance romantic
Good wine great books intriguing music funny combinations
Afternoon seminar around a huge old wooden conference table
Carved initials
Discussions about Lowell and Baudelaire and Chaucer and Dickenson
Washington Square Park on a crisp January sunny Saturday afternoon,
Breaths from conversations and laughter appearing pre-frozen in mid air
Like conversation balloons for a sketch cartoonist
"On what a beautiful morning/
Everything's going my way"
Courtesy of Robert Goulet booming mellow like fine aged scotch
Robert Goulet knew what James Joyce was getting at

Continuing into the late afternoon in a large old mansion
With ceiling to floor windows
Looking out on topiaries laden with food for birds and beasts
With the sun making a reflective statement on the water
Before darkening into the later day with huge fireplaces on all four walls blazing
And a table set for tea as the chamber music quartet begins
To play Mozart and The Beatles,
And the Shakespearean readers take their place on a rise near the table
For readings more discussions 
Dinner is cooking in the kitchen,
Roast chicken, baked apples, potaoes, carrots, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Mozart The Beatles Simon and Garfunkel knew what James Joyce was getting at

 Eleanor Rigby and Father Mackenzie and Mother Nature's Son
And the Sisters of the Sun are gonna rock me on the water/
Rock me on the water/ Sister, won't you soothe my fevered brow/
On so the sampling goes thank you so much Jackson Browne
Ah Jacksone Brown you know
You know what James Joyce was getting at

After tea, alone time in the topiary gardens
Beside the ponds
Grateful for the warm sun
A special gift on a November day
Geese, ducks, gulls, squirrels, little birds,
Breezes rustling the drying hydrangeas,
And making tiny ripples in the ponds that make a lovely little splashing sound
Voices music the smell of drying flowers and sweet herbs
And the roasting dinner in the great kitchen
Intoxication of being warm in the sun
Resting and journaling in a quiet room before dinner
Contentment found in solitude
Vintage gowns in the wardrobe too
Choose one for dinner
Choose a high-necked  ong-sleeved  purple satin
With a fitted bodice and straight skirt and slight train.
Also a purple shawl and small purple hat
Dinner partner approaches down the Oak lined path
Riding the stallion right up to the door
Buckskins leathers for the road and the hunt
Dust and caked mud dried from deep in the woods
Bearing a fresh catch for tomorrow's meal
Ah but for today a fresh poem for this day's dinner
A poem for dinner yes
Two words yes
My love
Another word
Thanksgiving
Thank you for makers of Thanksgiving dinner tables laden with all the fixins
Mounds of textures colors aromas tending to mix together
They knew yes
The makers of Thanksgiving dinners knew
They knew they know what James Joyce was getting at

So much texture
Incredible
So many colors shades smells
All the senses all sensibilities all the means of expression
Nourishing nurturing
Warren Beatty, himself, quoting someone
Delivering a line
"Give me character I'll give you plot"
We say here's the corollary
"Give me stream of consciousness it'll give you character"
Or some such thing
It's story-telling the gift of the Gods to we mere mortals
Who act as conduits to explore
What the heck we are doing in this thing called life, time, and space
Warren Beatty knew what James Joyce was getting at

Yes and don't forget
Warm luscious incredible banana bread right out of the oven
And the parsley and rosemary cut fresh from the garden so fragrant
For the carriage ride back home
To remember to savor to fold into feelings
Given by one to another
Generosity enriched by textures colors in hearts minds and senses
Streams of consciousness
Becoming manifest washed down by tea laughter smiles
Thanks and thanks and more thanks
For days after

Ah what James Joyce was getting at


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
Nov. 6, 2011

Samantha Ashland Smiled

Samantha Ashland smiled
      Camping out in line
Waiting for the bus out of Chicago
      To Madison Wisconsin

She wore pigtails newly braided
      While she sat waiting for her chariot to come in
Other clothing too hinted
      At a by-gone era the time of the hippies
But nothing ostentatious
      Nothing obvious
            Nothing dirty ratty or rag-like
Worn sure and faded from use
      But clean and subtle the prints
The tie-dyes the back pack
            Authentic
                  Believed in

A wrap clung to the stick she carried
      "Fragile" sticker adhered
Not a hint of what was inside
      Lacrosse stick nah
            Field hockey nah
Ceremonial totem maybe
      Missionary's peace pipe oh yeah

She sat cross-legged on the floor
      Made her own space in the bus station
Patiently waiting for her carpet to arrive

Samantha Ashland smiled
      Camping out in line
Waiting for the bus out of Chicago
      To lead her to Madison Wisconsin


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
Nov. 1, 2011

Bleary-Eyed And Punch Drunk

Bleary-eyed and punch drunk
      Stunned

There comes a time
      When a body
Just needs to get some sleep
      Give in to the battle
Quiet the voices
      Back behind the inner ear
Recurring verses from
      Some pop song of a few years ago
Relax against the unusual posture
      Of sitting upright in a seat
            Rocking chair
                And a 2 a.m. movie
Coaxing sleep to overcome
            Why won't it come

Just let it happen
      Snooze
Anything other than
      Bleary-eyed and punch drunk
            Stunned
      There comes a time
            When a body
Just needs to get some sleep


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
Nov. 1, 2011

Wax Paper Sunset

Wax paper sunset limits the light
      Over Western Pennsylvania
Gray skies are the order of the day
      Fast setting orb brings on a premature dusk

The topography conspires to propogate this crime, too
      Only occasionally does the landscape open up
From the steady stream of tall timbers lining the two-lane
      Pennsylvania's own version of highway sound barriers
Plus the distant summits on the rolling hills
      Block the sun first here, and then there
These hills in profile, silhouettes almost
      Fade into an ever-lightening progression
Of milky gray green smudged wax papery shades
      Putting a darkened pallor over the vistas
As if the state was mourning
      Our departure into neighboring Ohio
In sympathy we soothe saddened Pennsylvania
      Poor sister, sack-cloth-clad sibling
For the loss of our company

Still we cheer "Hurry Buckeye State"
      Your arrival means we make progress
Pushing toward Cleveland, on through the night to Chicago
      Tomorrow's chore will take us
Up through Wisconsin, to Minnesota and North Dakota.
      Then the next day through Montana and Idaho to Washington
Areas brand new except as pages in an atlas
      Oh such opportunities we know not yet awaits us tomorrow
To act as subjects sitting in a rolling thunder studio
      Lending our eyes our emotions as brushes 
Our memories our sensibilities as canvas
      For this art class devouring at 65 miles per hour
             Subjects fit for masterpieces
Oh hurry Ohio farewell Pennsylvania

Yes, alas, it's already gone now the day's light
      Fast setting orb brings a premature dusk
Fare thee well wax paper sunset
Over Western Pennsylvania this night


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
Oct. 26, 2011

Lonely Work It Must Be

Lonely work it must be
      Seems so anyway from afar
Hauling jumbo rigs all over the country

Sitting alone in a cab
      Radio and CB the constant companions
Having so much power and responsibility
      Handling the controls, constant reminders
To push it, use "do-the-limit" speeds
      Through all kinds of weather year-round
Checking in at intervals at truck stops
      Times to catch up with old buddies
            Or folks who look like buddies
Feeling the pressure, trying to make a living
      Put meat and potatoes on the table for a family
Finally making it home, a good job done
      With little time to rest though
Having to head out to the highways
      Deliver the merchandise three, four, maybe eight states away

Could be exciting, too, get to see so much
      Move about this vast country, meet all kinds
Lay claim to having driven in all the Lower 48
     Know a sense of accomplishment
Over coffee in the diner, driver says
      "Feel like you are your own boss, mister
At least for those hours with the wheel in your bare hands
      Boss man doesn't get to see all this, no sir
Feel the power, the surge, the drive
      Mix it up with brother truckers at the stops"
He says looking up and down the counter, 7 a.m., Tuesday
            Smiling his eyes now gaze at some vision vivid behind his glasses
      "Climb those passes, cross those desserts
Plow through those storms, arrive triumphantly
      In the biggest cities in the world
            Or in every little heartbeat hamlet in America
                  Don't matter, all across the country
                        God, I love it...
Sure, sometimes hate it, too"

       Lonely work, it must be,
Seems so anyway from afar
      Hauling jumbo rigs all over the country


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
Oct. 26, 2011

Bronco Bub

Bronco Bub aimed his four-wheel drive,
      Aimed it west, aimed it home,
Headed back out to where he was born,
      Back out to the wide-open great plains of Kansas

He daydreamed of home
      Dust kicking up all around
Whenever he drove down that long stretch
      Between the grain-silo and the four lane
Stones and pebbles flying behind him in the kick-up

Jersey had been profitable for him,
      Had made the difference
Between keeping the old family farm
      Even for a little while longer
And being forced to sell

His guitar, banjo, harmonica and singing voice
      Had just earned him in four months
What it might take him
      Years to earn
Just waiting for that fickle old harvest
      To turn a big-enough profit

He'd come out after the crops were in,
      Even left Cissy behind
And now he was headed back with a new head of confidence
      Couldn't wait
With new skills
       New contracts signed
            New portfolio built
      New demo tapes, recording equipment, everything he'd need
To fix that old barn out beyond the Elm, down near to lazy crick
      Create some semblance of a studio
Open mikes, waiting for Bronco Bub
      To pump out music, lay down tracks
The airwaves of America still don't know they've never heard yet

He was grateful to Jersey
      These four months
Could mean the world
      To Bronco Bub and Cissy,
And God-willing, Junior and Sis some day
      Might even have a whisker of a chance to suceed
"That's all I need, Mister," he told his skeptical agent,
      "This country's gonna know a lot more about Bronco Bub
'Afore I get through
            You wait a see"

So Bronco Bub aimed his four-wheel drive,
      Aimed it west,
            Aimed it home
                  Aimed it proud
            Aimed it confident
Headed back to where he was from
      To where folks are waiting for him
Back on the wide-open great plains of Kansas


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J, Kelly
Oct. 25, 2011

Crossing Under The Hudson

Crossing under the Hudson
      Goodbye New York

Welcome Lincoln Tunnel
      Pathway, portal, gateway
To discoveries outward
            Past the land of Lincoln
                  Past the land of T.R.
      Past the land even of Lewis & Clark

Out where the broad breezes blow
      Out where the sky never ends
            Out where the mountains
      Reach higher even
Than the skyscrapers of Manhattan

Crossing under the Hudson
      Hello New York

Welcome Lincoln Tunnel
      Pathway, portal, gateway
To discoveries inward
            Back from the land Lincoln
                  Back from the land of T.R.
      Back from the land of Lewis & Clark

Back from the where the broad breezes blow
      Back from where the sky never ends
            Back from where the mountains
      Reach higher even
Than the skyscrapers of Manhattan

But back home
            Hello
      Back home
                  Welcome
            Back home
                        Missed you


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 17, 2011

Frumpy Smith Drove The Scow

Frumpy Smith drove the scow
      Through the quiet suburban neighborhood
            Beat up old truck
                  Snarling gears
            Exhaust pipes smoking
      Bald tires, sides dented
Gargling sounds from under the hood

Picking up newspapers
      Tossing the recycling into the hopper
            Swaying back and forth
      Across narrow manicured streets

Late afternoon sun
      Streaking through leaf-engorged trees
            Unreasonably hot mid-summer's day's swelter
                  Getting to the recycling
            After homeowners put it out
      But before the town picks it up
Hey, finder's keeper's losers miss out

Frumpy Smith drove the scow
      Through the quiet suburban neighborhood
            Beat up old truck
                  Snarling gears
            Exhaust pipes smoking
      Bald tires, sides dented
Gargling sounds from under the hood


For Conversationa With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 15, 2011

Ah, Athletes

Ah, athletes
      Getting out
            Walking
In the world-outside

Breathing
      Feeling blood surging
            Flowing
Getting warm

Stretching muscles
      Looking around
            Noticing
Nature in abundance

Squirrels, birds
      Dogs unleashed in a field
            Running
                  Playing
            Retrieving
      Herding

Seeing other humans in pursuits
      Bikes
            Blades
                  Scooters
            Pushing carriages
      Pushing swings

Rolling down the window
      Drop the top
Drive around the park

Soccer
      Softball
            Football
                  Frisbee
            Kites
      Whatever

Ah, athletes
      Getting out
            Walking
In the world-outside


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 15, 2011

Standing On 42nd And Eighth

Standing on 42nd and Eighth
      Catching one last long look
Before ducking into Port Authority
      Before heading out to destinatons west

There's a place where you can look
      Down 42nd to see the Chrysler Building
And also through the building tops several clicks to the right
      To see the Empire State Building
Best friend spires from another era
      Points on top of stacks of floors

The shorter building looking like right out of
      A Superman or Dick Tracy comic strip
The Metropolis legend, its lofty corners
      Curved, melted, smelted into shapes
That caress the sky with slippery steel
      Shining bright and clean whenever the sunlight hits

The other the venerable old general
      Like George Washington standing square shouldered
Not the fancy shapes of the Chrysler
      And having been dethroned for a quarter century
By the dear departed twins
      For whom this building of concrete and windows
            Still seems to weep, its burden heavier now
      That the job, "tallest in the city,"
            Has once again fallen across its back
Like the yoke holding the farmer's plow oxen

Slowly, gradually, dutifully it has returned
      To claim the mantle, its former stature as tallest
            But only reluctantly, gladly it would relinquish the title
      If only its younger step-siblings
Could once-again be raised

Standing on 42nd and Eighth
      Catching one last long look
Before ducking into Port Authority
            Before heading out to destiantions west


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 6, 2011

Two Trains Chasing Schedules

Two trains chasing schedules
      Elizabeth to Newark

This commuter six-car
      And the multi-car freight alongside
Hulking boxcars blocking out the sunrise
      The trains moving up and back
            As if their respective motormen
      Were frustrated race car drivers
            Dragging like in a scene from rural teen mythology
                  See who will chicken first
      See who will reach the sweetheart's multicolored kerchief

            The rails split
      The freight's path bends right
Commuter six-car speeds straight ahead
      Playtime is over
The race is done
      Or at least this heat
This wake-up call

Come back and play tomorrow

Two trains chasing schedules
      Elizabeth to Newark


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 6, 2011

Heading Out The Door

9:40 a.m. heading out the door
      Heading out to see what's in store
            Heading out to peel back the core
Heading out and it's no chore
      Heading out and I want more
            Heading out and I'm drawn to the lure
      As if circumnavigating the dance floor
                  With my darling Le Fleur
9:40 a.m. heading out the door


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
July 6, 2011

Robin Rounded The Bend

Robin rounded the bend
      Fearful that if she looked back
Some one, some thing
      Would be gaining on her

Some force following her
      There, just over her shoulder
Residue from previous failure
      Left over, from yesterday
One she never wanted to revisit

And she was hopeful
      Optimistic, bright, cheery
Wide open to possibilities
      Ready, willing and able
To meet and best new challenges
      Learn new tricks

Still the doubts, the fears
      Real, palpable
Threatened at any moment
      To shake her fragile confidence

Robin rounded the bend
      Fearful that if she looked back
Some one, some thing
      Would be gaining on her


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011

Sapphire Sky

      Sitting on the Brant Beach bulkhead
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay
      An auburn sunset too early in the day

      Drew to a close a cold January afternoon
That once had seen, several hours earlier
      The deep azure of a sapphire sky

      Stretched like a sail full of breeze
Crisp across the expanse from bay to ocean
As far as the eye of the imagination could wander
      And wonder

      Mid-morning, the color was closer to the fruit of sassafras
With island vegetation acting as the laurel for the planet
And just before sun-up, anticipation for the center of the universe
Produced memories of the stigma of the saffron
      Bright orange against the petals of purple.

      Ah, the many shades of sky
Removed each nighttime to reveal the translucent onyx behind it
As deep as any thought that might have escaped
      From a philosopher lost in space

      Oh, the many shades of sky
Each paralleled on the ground by the many blues
That occupy as many samplings of emotions
From predatory beasts and hunted species
      And human frailities alike

      Yes, the many shades of sky
With a thousand other variations of cotton, watercolor, ink, mud and blood
Generated by passing storm fronts
      In various stages of battle with disintegrating high-pressure systems

      Indeed, the many shades of the sky
While sitting on the Brant beach bulkhead
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay,
      An auburn sunset too early in the day


For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011

He Said

He said:
      I come out here, 
            To experience life, ma'am,
      Big, bold, undistilled
            American life,

The rough, uninhibited,
            Unscripted color of life,
Folks from out the neighborhoods,
      Off mowers in cul se sacs,
Folks from off combines on farms,
            And all mixed up,
                  Going here to there
            Going there to here,
                  Just going,
                        Moving,
Heading somewhere sweet,
      Or even heading somewhere,
                  Scowling,
Don't make no never'mind to me,
            Either way
Makes a study

He said:
      Yes ma'am
            I come out here
To experience life.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011

The Journey Jones

I got the journey jones
      I want to eat distance
Chew on the miles
      The in-between
Mainline the bee line
      Into the interior
            Of America
      The vast interiors
Of a nation

Head west into the wilds
      Feast my eyes
            On the sights and sounds
      That Lewis & Clark themselves
Yearned to see

Up to the headwaters
      Of the muddy Missouri
Up where the Rockies
      Reach the skies
Up where even chip monks
      Have contracts as sherpas
            To eastern greenhorns
      Like me

Who have the journey jones
      Craving distance
Hungering for miles
      The in-between
Mainlining the bee line
      Into the interior
            Of America
      The vast interiors
Of a nation


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011

The Wrinkle

This episode in his life
      Was the wrinkle in the tale
That altered his trajectory,
      And sent him off
On a new journey.

Not unlike a song on the radio
      Whose architecture
Calls for the singer to drone on in a low register
      For the first two stanzas,
Only mildly raise excitement in the chorus

Then, all of a sudden,
      As if by surprise,
Although we should have known its explosion
      Had been foretold
            Embedded in the brew
      Of chord progressions
                  And note juxtoposition
In those first two stanzas,

Still, now with a dramatic key change,
      The drone is replaced
            By a singer possessed,
      Inspired,
                  Singing at the top of his lungs,
      Proclaiming as if in the gospel tent
            On a hot steamy high plains Bible-belt night
                  His eternal love for a soul,
                        So fair, so fine
                              So Guinevere,
            So compelling, yet tender
      That their very meeting
            Would forever remain
                  For good or for ill
In the halls of the legendary couples
            As love heralded,
      Heralded love.

And this meeting of passion and dreams,
      This episode in his life
Was the wrinkle in the tale
      That altered his trajectory,
And sent him off
      On a new journey.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011

Fathers And Sons And Grandfathers

Editor’s note: I wrote this piece in 1989. Even though my dad died in 1999, and my son is in his late 20s, it still captures the intergenerational relationship that defines me,  my son and my dad.


He wrapped his 15-minute-old fingers around my pinky. He had a firm grip. Already he was growing. I had just witnessed his birth. It was as if I could hear him say:
 “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Son.”
I’ve been Dad, of course, from the very beginning. And, I’ll always be Dad in that sense. I’m Dad because of who I am.
But I’ve found, like in so many other things, being Dad is so much more than just a title. It’s not just who I am; it’s also what I do. It’s a relationship in the constant state of “becoming.” It’s like being a seed – with an endless capacity for growth.
It’s been six years now: years of walks and playgrounds, and storybooks at night. There’s been a lot of toys, sticks and rocks. Lately, it’s been “Othello,” checkers and backgammon instead of Candy Land. Suddenly, it’s also tee-ball, swim lessons and parts in plays.
It’s been explanations on how this world works: how to listen and learn; how to be good; how to trust and love. The seed has grown as we’ve gotten to know each other. I call him on the phone, and I can imagine his extending his open palm:
“High five, Dad.” 
“High five, Son.”
He sees my own Dad often. They share their own kind of relationship. They’ve shared the discovery of mechanical pencils, that nifty fold-up pocket scissors, and all kinds of remedies for broken toys.
There’s been walks to nearby playgrounds and forays into my Dad’s home office.
The seed grows, and in a sense, it grows young for my Dad as it grows old for my Son. I remember happening upon them once playing at the keyboard of the electric typewriter. The 6-year-old’s  fingers, small but growing in confidence, were being guided by those of a man 70 years his senior. “It’s time to eat,” I said, calling them to supper.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Thanks, Son.”
My Dad? Well, my Dad held two jobs, and seemed capable of holding more. He always seemed a patriarch. He put five kids through college and always encouraged us to grow. He’d say, “In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.”
We studied hard in school, participated in activities. I ran track in high school, edited the newspaper in college. After that, I was busy starting a career.
Then I became a Dad. Gradually, that seed started to grow again. It seems now that when I stood in that nursery and first touched my son’s hand, as I became “Dad,” I started becoming “Son” all over again. Since then, I’ve come to realize that my Dad probably sees me as I see my own Son. When I think that, I am blown away.
As he rises from his favorite chair when we arrive for our visit, my Dad puts down his crossword puzzle and folds his glasses. He lays one hand on my Son’s head as he extends the other. He smiles broadly. Without saying anything, he says:
“I love you, Son.” 
“I love you, Dad.”

For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011

Today Makes A Week

Today makes a week
      Until another journey begins.

Anxious now, worrying,
      That this gloriously leaky driip
Might someday dry up,
      Might on those days crossing America
Fail to open and flow,
      Fail to be able to enunciate
The great wide wonder
      That dances like a giddy camper
            Who has just found out
      That her mother mysteriously packed
            In her otherwise purely nutritious lunch box,
      A secret treat, her favorite,
            A six-pack of her favorite cookie,
      Her comfort food, if it could be argued
That an effervescent nine-year-old spirit
      Ever needed a food to give her respite
From the light and hope
      That seemed to form an indestructible aura
Around her head, like a halo.

Today makes a week
      Until another journey begins.

Anxious now and stoked
      To write about the 6,000 mile journey
From the perspective of a camper,
      Hopelessly giddy about the secret treats
Packed away beside the lunchbox pen and paper.

Oh, please let it flow
      From the gloriously leaky drip
Upon seeing the great wide wonders
      Of those days crossing America.

Today makes a week
      Until another journey begins.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011

Savor The Flavors Of The Country

Savor the flavors of the country:
      Big bold juicy Kansas City steak,
Golden ears of Iowa corn,
      Mounds of butter-fluffed Idaho potatoes,
Leafy green Pennsylvania Dutch salad
      Garnished with New York state carrot slivers,
Chopped Piedmont mushrooms and cucumbers,
      Jesey tomatoes twice the size of fists,
Pitchers of Wisconsin milk for the kids,
      Carafes of California table wine for the adults,
Hot apple pie cobbler courtesy of Washington state
      Under Vermont churned extra smooth vanilla ice cream.

Savor the flavors of the country.


For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011

Dusk On The High Plains

Dusk on the high plains,
      Jed poured the thick black coffee,
Knelt next to the campfire,
      His horse nearly swallowed in the shadows:
Steve wrote.

The day ahead would be crucial
      In Jed's search, hot on the trail,
Looking for the sergeant
      Who'd made his enlistment pure hell:
Steve wrote.

Even though Jed had the lower rank,
      And the task at hand had called for following orders,
Jed balked at the zeal with which the 'bub had barked
      The rebukes that questioned his steel,
            Questioned his honor:
Steve wrote.

Now, somewhere out there,
      Somewhere in the utter vastness,
            The utter darkness,
Jed aimed to track him down,
            Call him out,
                  Face him,
                        Reclaim his honor,
                  Show him,
            Best him,
Call it square:
       Steve wrote.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011

A Great Day To Be All Over Our Towns

We were all over Watchung, Long Hill Township and Warren Township on Memorial Day, Monday, May 30, to attend observances and parades in all three towns.
Each had heart-felt remembrances for the veterans who made the supreme sacrifice in the defense of their country.
The day awoke with an early thunderstorm that some might have thought might have washed out the scheduled events. But early on, the weather cleared, and by the time the first ceremonies began, the rain was a thing of the past. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it is something about 2011, but each event seemed to have a slightly bigger audience than in year’s past. 
In Watchung, the day started with the fallen firefighter’s remembrance over in front of the Firemen’s Exempt Hall. Then folks gathered at the veterans monuments in front of the Texier House in the Watchung Circle for Memorial Day services. Air Force retired Gen. Thomas Hartmann, and his wife, Air Force retired Lt. Col. Virginia Hartmann, were the guest speakers.
Up in Long Hill Township, the parade up Main Avenue in Stirling ended at the veterans monuments in front of the grades 6-8 Central Middle School, The events are organized by the American Legion Post 484, Stirling.
The Grand Marshall this year is Anthony ‘”Tony” DeFilippis, who spoke briefly. “I am a man of few words,” he said. Few words, but big actions.
He was in the Navy during World War II, and then he came home and made a life for himself, his family and his community by being the proprietor of the Stirling Hardware Store on Main Avenue, from 1946 until his retirement in 1982. He is also a 60-year life member of the Stirling Volunteer Fire Company, a founder of the Stirling Legion post, and an overall community volunteer.
Then it was over to Warren Township, with the parade on Mountain Boulevard to the municipal complex. The  keynote speaker was New Jersey National Guard Lt. Col. Dan Mahon, who was sent to Ground Zero immediately after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, from Fort Dix, where he is operations chief. He remained at Ground Zero for a month.
He stood on Monday across the parking lot from a flatbed that had rolled proudly in the parade, carrying the piece of World Trade Center steel. It will become part of a new 911 Heroes Memorial at the Warren Municipal Complex. As he said, on days such as these, he is allowed to get emotional. He put aside his prepared text, and spoke from the heart.
Laying the wreath at the foot of the veterans monument was World War II Navy veteran Ken Whatley and World War II Army veteran Philip Sapienza.
Warren Middle School students read “Why I’m Proud To Be An American” essays they wrote for a Watchung Hills Elks Lodge-sponsored contest. “Taps” was played by two trumpeters from the Watchung Hills Regional High School Marchung Band. The band did double duty, marching in both the Long Hill and Warren parades. In Warren, the high school band was joined by the Warren Middle School band on the “National Anthem” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
It was a great day to be all over Watchung, Long Hill Township and Warren Township. It was a great day to honor and revere our nation’s armed services, first responders and those who died for their country. Now, let’s do our part. Vote on every election day. Vote on Primary election day, Tuesday, June 7. 
Make sure you could say to all those veterans you honored on Memorial Day: “You did your part. Now, I did mine.  I voted.”

For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011

Remember In Ways Great And Small

Yes, Memorial Day is still 11 days away, and next week might be a better time to talk of Memorial Day remembrances.  But the good folks of the Warren American Legion Auxiliary asked us to speak in advance of next week about the significance of the poppies they sell every year as an act of remembrance, and as a way to raise money and awareness for veterans programs. The Auxiliary does such good work every day of every year.  Who could say no?
Remembering in reverence is really a very personal thing. There are, no doubt, as many ways to remember as there are people. And there are as many people who should be remembered as there are people.
It doesn’t take a “Hero” to be a hero. It doesn’t take being a hero to justify being remembered.
Sometimes it takes the parade down main street,  with loud trombones and tubas and fanfares to remember. Sometimes it takes the peace and quiet of the lone trumpeter on a distant hill playing, “Taps.”
Often the remembrance is for the men and women in the uniforms of the soldier, the sailor, the airman, the Marine, or the coast guardsman. After 911, we learned again how proud, too, are the uniforms of the firefighter, the police officer, the emergency medical technician and the fire chaplain.
We also learned how proud is the uniform of the office worker, the restaurant dishwashers, the newsstand clerks, the innocent bystanders, the hard-working janitors and the middle management folks who would come to work early each day, not to mention the airline flight attendants, the moms and dads on board, and the construction workers and truck drivers who volunteered on the pile for weeks, risking their lungs and their health without a thought for their own safety.
We learned this year, too, of how proud is the inspiration of the Rutgers University senior, Pamela Sue Schmidt of Warren Township, who was cut down in the prime of her life. She was so young, so smart, so energetic, so kind and so positive. Her remembrance, fashioned by friends and family who were inspired by her  example, was to do as she would do: create a scholarship so that future students like herself could pay her spirit forward full of youth, smarts, energy, kindness and being positive.
The truth of the matter is that the folks who are remembered aren’t remembering themselves. The most humbling thing about remembrance is that the folks who are being remembered, like Ms. Schmidt, and like all the other loved ones in uniform as well as our family-members, our friends, our work colleagues, our mentors and our charges who are now departed, all would most likely be saying on Memorial Day: “It’s the other way around. You say you remember me? And yet, it is I who remember you… quietly, and in my own way, a lone trumpeter on a distant hill, remembering fondly.”
So, when you see an American Legion Auxiliary member offering poppies for sale leading up to Memorial Day, to help raise a little money and awareness for  veterans programs, make a little donation, display the poppy, and read up a little bit about the history and significance of the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” written in 1919 by Major John McCrae, a poet, doctor, and brigade surgeon with the first Brigade of the Canadian Artillery Forces. Then find some distant hill somewhere, and read quietly:
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place; and in the sky/ The lark, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below./
“We are the dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved, and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields./
“Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”

For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011

Brilliant In Her Radiance

Brilliant in her radiance,
      Cowgirl of the American West,
Bedazzling, sharing her charms.

Bright yellow blousey cotton
      Flaps loose in the afternoon breeze,
The Great Plains in a cool spell
            Unusual for late June,
Except for those weeks
      When Canada visits the flats on a front.

Long tangled auburn hair
      Flying nearly horizontal downstream,
The gusts so crisp,
      And crossing her face in front,
            Only her effervescent smile,
      And barber-lather-white eyes,
Shone through the flowing tresses.

Cowgirl of the American West,
      Wearing a sun-colored blouse
            And the leathers of a round-up,
Stamping her own romantic style,
      Remington-balanced,
            On stirrup-engineered boot heels,
Not yet 25, if a day,
                  Brilliant in her radiance.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 24, 2011

Crustacean Debris

      You can use your toes as divining rods --
You know, those magical Y-shaped branches alleged to be able to detect a water source --
      Yes, you can use your toes as divining rods
            In the early morning surf at Wildwood Crest
To search for sunken conch shells,
      Three-quarters-covered with wet sand
            In the shallows formed by receding tides.

      Ah, June, July, August at the Jersey beaches,
            Sandy Hook to Cape May,
They can be like distant Caribbean Island getaway destinations.

And further north along the Jersey coast,
      While the sun reddens and browns the bare tops of men's heads
Like a form of Holy Tonsure --
      You know, the ritual haircuts the monks proudly wear
As outward signs of prayerful commitment --
            Anyway, further north along the Jersey coast,
Years ago an Army Corps of Engineers "Beach Reclamation Project"
      Siphoned sand off the ocean floor a mile to five miles out,
            And pumped it onshore,
There to be spread by bulldozers to widen the beach.

Spewing forth from the pipe the sand looked as though
      It had never seen the light of day,
Yet like an old wooden house that shines
            From a new coat of paint after a refreshing powerwash,
The sun bleached clean the years of life spent beneath the sea
      Like the detective's powder that reveals fingerprints.
The solar rays reflect off millions of fragments
      Of broken anthropod shells and discarded gems
That had perhaps laid under that water for millenia uncounted.

            And now with your toes as divining rods,
You can sift through the various specimens of crustacean debris
      As though they were as valuable as diamonds,
And imagine hundreds of stories from over the ages
      When this Indian canoe or that ship wreck,
            This fishing trawler or that Navy sub,
      This clam or that crab,
            This mussel or that oyster,
Might have left their mark for the ages,
      Years and decades and even centuries ago,
            Millenia ago,
Now finally to be revealed too insightful beachcombers,
      Tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
Who are open enough to look closely enough
            At the raw materials of life's truly remarkable headline news,
And be creative about how best to incorporate the experience
                  In our own special individual
Army Corps of Engineers spirit, mind and body reclamation project.

                  Oh Dear Lord,
Mother Ocean and Father Sand and Spirit Surf,
      As we approach the intermission of the school year --
Because, in truth, the school year is year-round and life-long,
            Although the summer, ah, the glorious summer, is its own special learning station --
As we approach the summer of the school year,
      And look forward to, and prepare for, another Fall,
Open our mind's and our heart's and our soul's creativity
      As we remember that some of the
            Most important,
                  Most valuable,
Most enriching lessons that will be learned
      By children and adults, Fall through Spring,
Won't be taught in school classrooms,
            But rather will be detected by year-round divining rods
At learning stations more closely resembling Summer's best learning readiness zones
      Called child care centers and pools,
            Gymnasiums and fitness centers,
      Playgrounds, family swims and camps,
            Community youth theater and dance stages,
      Morning announcements and evening fire circles,
            Teen activities and senior citizen drop-in centers
      Baseball diamonds and soccer pitches,
            Catskill Mountain and Scout campouts, and 3,500 feet hikes,
      Street road races and walk-a-thons,
            Zoos, museums, aquarium and historic site field trips,
      Family vacations and Saturday day-treks to the beach,
            Fireworks on Independence Day, all proud and spectacular,
      Main Street parades, all tubas, trumpets and trombones,
            And first-light Taps off on a distant hill muffled only by the dew itself,
Worship services in a favorite cathedral or chapel,
                  A man-made structure, perhaps,
       Or a God-made outdoor tree canopy or seaside horizon, yes, yes,
Followed on alternate weekends by drowsy city park walks to that particular forgotten bench,
                  From which to try the divining rod on the Sunday New York Times,
                        And Papa Hemingway's best stories.

As we approach the Fall after a Summer full of divining rod days,
      As the leaves turn and the temperatures drop,
            And bathing suits and sunglasses
Give way to sweaters and cords,
      Let us remember how we used our toes as divining rods,
And now instead substitute our convictions as creative artist teachers and mentors,
      Sojourners and poets and dreamers,
            To assert our commitment to mission,
To reaffirm our belief in body, mind and spirit,
      Faith, hope and Love,
            And the greatest of these is love.

Yes, let us use our energies,
      Our infectious human laughter,
And our profound belief in play,
      To help our charges discover for themselves
The next part of themselves
            Just waiting to be unearthed,
Like those nearly sunken conch shells,
      Like that rich layer of crustacean debris,
Now sparkling like jewels in the bright sun,
            The whispered voice of the the Lord, his or her self,
Waiting for us decipher this blessing,
            This holy gift,
For we tonsured anthropod anthropologist sojourners of faith, hope and love,
      This crustacean debris.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 21, 2011

Dish No Dice

Dish No Dice
      Took no gruff
From any of the fellas
      At the Crossroads Bar.

From four directions,
      Truckers, bikers, bus-riders,
Tourists, ranchers, farmers,
      Mixed it up all day and all night
At the Crossroads Bar.

One night, one of them blokes
      Tried to mix it up with Dish,
Went a step too far.
      She scolded the mug:
            "Ya went where you shouldn'a,
      Off limits, you fool."
At the Crossroads Bar.

Patrons looked up from their beer,
      Pushed plates of steak and taters,
            Stood from each corner,
      Stood in fury,
            To defend Dish,
Don't mess with Dish,
      They scowled.

Dish No Dice
      Took no gruff.
From any of the fellas
      At the Crossroads Bar.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 18, 2011

One-Way Street

One-way street
       This ruler called time
Though memory,
      While an illusion,
            Can seem as real
As blood,

      And learning
Can be a coach to cheat
            The future.
It can teach the veteran
      To play smarter
When the physical
            Of unbounded youth
      Is robbed by time.

Otherwise,
      A one-way street
Is this ruler called time.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 17, 2011

Harold And The Gent

"You pregnant?"
      Harold, the coffee guy,
Asks the gent before him
      Who just asked for his morning joe:
            "Decaf... black."

The gent laughs, scrunches his face, questioning.

      "Been doing this 29 years,"
Says Harold, friendly enough fellow,
      Graying mustasche, receding hairline,
Working his little coffee stand,
      Parking lot, Westfield station.

Surrounded by newspapers, magazines,
      Cigarettes, candy and coffee urns,
Harold explains:
      "Women come by here, day after day, year after year,
Suddenly the switch, they say,
      Decaf... black."

I say, "What, you pregnant?"
      They look in disbelief,
"How'd you know?"

The gent's laugh turns into a broad laugh,
      Going along with Harold, seeing his point.
Gent tells Harold, "You tell'em, 'It must be your glow.'"

Harold likes this guy, his kind of humor.
      They laugh again, the moment passes
Between Harold and the gent.

      Gent catches his train to New York.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 14, 2011.

Engineer Pulls His Whistle

Engineer pulls his whistle,
      Long and loud, 4:38 a.m.,
Crossing Rahway Avenue in Westfield.

Stephen could hear it plainly
      Three-quarters of a mile away,
At home in bed, awake,
      Fighting to get back to sleep,
Shoulder sore from sleeping too long on one side,
      Air passageways burning
From being too dry, condition of the bedroom,
      He and Aggie put out water,
But the air never seems to dampen,
      Dry heat in the apartment,
Window opened, but a high dominates the weather map,
      An unusual overabundance of arid atmosphere,
Adding crackle to the treble of the night,
      And the digital numbers fix the time before his eyes,
            The serenade for the sleepless.

Engineer pulls his whistle,
      Long and loud, 4:39 a.m.,
Crossing Rahway Avenue in Westfield.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 13, 2011

Draw The Curtains

Draw the curtains,
      Let me get some kick.

Worked all night,
      Exhausted.
            Drained.

Last two hours
      Just dreaming
            About crawling home,
Climbing under the covers,
      Snuggling as deep as possible,
Maybe even wearing blinders,
      Put plugs in my ears,
            Shut out the world.
Forget about the bills,
      Leave the nasties behind,
            Back on the factory floor,
Back with the shadows and sawdust.

Let me get a good eight hours
      Of Grade A American shut-eye.

Draw the curtains,
      Let me get some kick.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 13, 2011

He Had An Insatiable Appetite

The smoker had an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

      Something about him
Always attracted the attention
      Of khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Whenever he'd stop by
      Early in the morning on a Saturday
      To pick up the overnight newspaper
      And a cup of coffee.
The smoker would be there.
      He'd always been there.
Smoking up a storm.
      Or filling up coffee
With 10 or more packets of sugar.
      And tons of cream.

Sometimes the Saturday streets and sidewalk
      Would appear damp
Either from a passing Friday-night front
      Or from the collective ramains
Of the morning dew.

      Or maybe the filmy coating was the collective sweat
Of the generally poor migrant workers of the farming district
      That surrounded the town proper.
Maybe the smoker was a refugee
      From years spent racing the weather and the calendar
      To get the crop in the ground.
Maybe the pressure had finally gotten to him
      One March or April
And the damage done to his emotional gas tank
      Had left him delirious
      With an appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked
      Under the shade of irregularly planted trees.
He tripped over broken pieces of sidewalk,
      Slate that had once been level
But now ran perpendicular to several different planes,
Thanks to the massive strength of one of Mother Nature's mighty trees,
      Their roots enforcing their will
      On mere man-made arrangements.
Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked out of the store this morning
      Paper under an arm,
      Corn-beef bun in a small brown bag
      And coffee too-hot-to-drink-just-yet
      Burning through his fingertips,
      Burning through the hot beverage styrofoam cup.
Two black squirrels played
Beneath a bush in front of the antique store across the street,
      Although what appeared like play to khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Might, in fact, have been a raw struggle to survive.
      The smoker didn't even notice.

The smoker put one one butt
      And flamed up a new one,
"In practically the same motion,"
      Commented Khaki-pants-brown-loafers to himself.
"A human chimney he is.

"What happened to him that he turned out this way?
      Need I fear turning out like him,"
      Khaki-pants-brown-loafers debated to himself,
"When Wall Street's fields turn fallow and parched?
      Even if I tried to help
Would it be any good, would it reach through?
      How do I pray for him tomorrow?
How do I pray for the smoker?
      And does he pray for me?
Is this what becomes of hobos?
      Not some Woody Guthrie song,
But this, a smoker,
      His emotions plowed under and turned to dust?
He is turned into smouldering coals,
      Turned into cigarette paper
Glowing in the dim shadows of dawn,
      Half-asleep, half-alive,
Wheezing,
      With an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.
      Could I ever become this?
What does he think about when he thinks?
      Where does he go from here?"

As Khaki-pants-brown -loafers walked away
      He heard the smoker hack up more phlegm.
      Wash it back down
      With another cigarette.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.

      The smoker
Continued to sit in front of the small-town deli
      As brown-station-wagon-power-windows
Made a u-turn back to a new development city
      For breakfast.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 10, 2011

A Steel Stronger Than Fear

Editor's note: The following editorial appeared in the Thursday, May 5, edition of the Echoes-Sentinel.


The death of Osama Bin Laden on Sunday, May 1, came not in some cave in the rugged Afghanistan-Pakistan border region, living the life of a fake monastic mendicant, but rather in a fortified, walled-in $1 million compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, a suburb of Islamabad. And so, the long, frustrating search for the world’s Public Enemy Number 1 is finally over.
Thank goodness.
Now comes the aftermath, the dealing with the half-life of the hatred he spun. We must live with the hatred breaking down like a particularly foul quantity of spent nuclear fuel rods, destined to lose their destructive potency over years, decades, and even longer.
Still, there is a truth that we can all hold onto and nurture, like an aloe vera plant for the body, mind and spirit. It is a steel stronger than fear. It is goodness.
It is the faith, the hope and the love we pay forward, we spread every day by doing the simple things of civil society, the simple things that taken together nurture life as it ought to be lived, life as it was meant to be lived. We defeat Bin Laden over and over again every day when we live as individuals contributing to a collective.
This year, both Warren Township and Watchung will receive portions of the steel from the World Trade Center, which each town will fashion into 911 monuments of remembrance. Volunteers from both towns are designing attractive monuments so that all generations can honor the steel that was stronger than fear.
The steel symbolizes the strength that was exhibited by the innocents on 911. They are the office workers, the coffee shop and restaurant cooks, the cleaning service personnel, the administrative assistants as well as the corporate executives, and of course the firefighters, the police and the emergency medical technicians who died at the World Trade Center. It is their spirit that is a steel stronger than fear.
For years, folks have been visiting the Tower of Remembrance at the Shrine of St. Joseph in Long Hill Township. The tower is fashioned from World Trade Center steel.As folks will come to see in Warren and Watchung, the steel will have a way of attracting folks to come and honor the victims of 911 each in their own way. They’ll honor the folks who died in New York, at the Pentagon, and in a farm field in  Pennsylvania.
They will also be honoring those who lived on after 911, families of victims, and the rest of well-meaning Americans and friends of Americans around the country and around the world, who know all about a steel stronger than fear.
It’s a steel also found in classrooms every school day and in after-school programs when a teacher reaches a student’s mind and gives insight to a truth that will be a part of their value system for the rest of their lives.
It’s a steel when folks hold doors for one another going into the convenience store, when folks visit loved ones in nursing homes, when folks organize garage sales, church bazaars, cookie and cupcake sales for good causes, and when folks go to the fireworks displays at the Warren Lions Expo and the Christmas Tree lightings at the Watchung Circle and the Meyersville Circle.
It’s a steel in a the late, great Watchung Firefighter Claude “Red” Ford, 91, who died on Tuesday, March 29, 2011, and whose memorial service will be held at 11:30 a.m., this Saturday, May 7, at Wilson Memorial Church, Watchung.
Mr. Ford was a steel stronger than fear if ever there was one. Watchung Councilman Steven Black, owner of Gray’s Florist, Route 22 East, Watchung, said every spring around this time, Mr. Ford would come in, without fanfare, without any awareness that anyone was noticing, to buy bunches of loose flowers, and place them on the graves of fallen Watchung firefighters. Anonymously, like a true mendicant, with a generosity of spirit more valuable than gold, and with faith, hope and love in his heart, he was just doing what he would do naturally. He was just doing what was right. He was remembering those who had done before what he was doing now.
He was showing us all what it means to be a steel stronger than fear.

For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 5, 2011

Fanfare for the Common Teacher

Editor's note: The following editorial appeared in the Thursdat, April 21 edition of the Echoes-Sentinel.

Aaron Copland’s iconic piece, “Fanfare for the Common Man,” all French horns, trumpets, tubas,  trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sounds like it should be emanating from the morning fog of Arlington Cemetery, or at sunset over the cornfields of Iowa, or at the change of shifts at the mills of Woonsocket and Lowell, and the factories of Detroit and Cleveland.
Let’s imagine a previously unheard Copland composition, “Fanfare for the Common Teacher,” was just found in some time capsule. It would be just as heroic, just as stoic, and just as grounded in what it means to be the builder of the great American dream.
Let’s play it with children’s toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, Saturday afternoon piano lessons, and Sunday-go-to-Grandma’s car radio sessions with sons and daughters, listening to Dad tell about the late great Duane Allman playing slide guitar and guitar genius Eric Clapton “bending strings” on “Layla,” turning the family van into Carnegie Hall.
Fast forward from that kernel of learning to sophomore high school instrumental music class. It is long about April, and the teacher has had a year-long obsession to reach beyond a student’s malaise to tap into a creativity she, herself,  has witnessed everywhere else but the music room, and in other ways. Maybe it was on the way to and from class, on a class trip, in the cafeteria, even in town when she’d see him at a church event or in the Little League parade years earlier. Anyway, that learning project just got through. Something clicked. Maybe it was a stray comment about bent strings and ‘Layla,” and the student says, “You know Layla? You know about bent strings? I know about bent strings, too. Want to hear? I’ll bring in my guitar.”
Fast forward to the high school Hall of Fame induction ceremony for that student who had since gone onto a career as a church organist emeritus, bringing a dynamic sound to a church in the inner city and leading student trips all over the world in search of international and cultural variations of bent strings.
That music teacher never won a Teacher of the Year award. But, boy could she teach. She had a thirst for learning and an even bigger thirst for teaching, and she lived for that moment with not just this one student, but scores of students taught over years in the classroom. Yes, she had been able to see them learn, and at her retirement, she would say she had had “the honor and the privilege to witness” learning moment kernels grow into national monuments, fields of dreams, hard-working American factories, immigrant-supported mills, and family learning vans.
Last Saturday afternoon, at the Hall of Fame Induction ceremony at Watchung Hills Regional High School, nine former students, now leaders in their fields and chosen areas of expertise, got up and remembered classroom teachers of all kinds and from all subject areas at Watchung Hills, and in their Warren, Watchung and Long Hill elementary and middle schools.
They remembered how they found ways to germinate kernels of learning that flowered into successful careers for them, their families, and their communities. They remembered and thanked these teachers by name, along with their classmates, their coaches, their guidance counselors, their school nurses, and their families.
Meanwhile, sitting in the audience, it didn’t take much to imagine variations of Aaron Copland coming  whispering down the hallways from the classrooms, the gyms, the cafeterias, the libraries, the student lockers. There were French horns, trumpets, tubas,  trombones, timpanis, gongs and base drums, sure, but there was also guitar licks from Duane Allman and Eric Clapton, and a half-dozen first-graders on toy pianos, primary tambourines and Suzuki violins, too. They were serenading their teachers.
They were honoring all those teachers who were never picked as teachers of the year who nevertheless will be the ones remembered decades from now at their own Hall of Fame inductions. And the ensemble played, Fanfare for the Common Teacher.
Say thanks for the teacher that made a difference in your life by voting on school election day, next Wednesday, April 27.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 5, 2011

Northern Route: New York To Seattle And Back By Bus Introduction

Editor's note: The following is the introduction to a compilation of poetry put together in 2002, called "Northern Route: New York To Seattle And Back By Bus." The poetry was written during a cross-country bus trip during the summer of 2002.


The following 181 compositions of verse were written during a nine-and-a-half day excursion: about three days by bus straight through from New York to Seattle, followed by about three-and-a-half-days in Seattle, and followed by about three days by bus straight through from Seattle to New York.

This trip was a reprise of one taken almost a year earlier from New York to Los Anveles and back by bus. Whereas the 2001 trip took me through St. Louis and then down through Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona to California going out, and then coming back through Denver, across Nebraska and Iowa to Chicago and then New York, this 2002 trip took me through the northern tier. Both ways, I passed through the states of New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho and Washington.

Early on in the 2002 trip, I discovered that whereas there were many similarities between trips, this second experience was as different as the first-born is from the second-born in a family. I had learned a great deal from the first trip, and applied much of it to preparing myself for the second. But still, there were unpredictable surprises.

For instance, try as I might, I couldn't stave off having that washed out feeling I had at about the half-way point, during the afternoon of the second day. I thought I had forced myself to rest enough during the first night, but still, long about Minnesota, I felt jjust as exhausted as when I crossed Missouri the year before.

Predictably, however, day three after the second night benefited during both trips from from the rush of adrenalin, knowing that come what may, by the end of the day, I would be in a bed. showered, and relieved from having completed the three-day crossing.

And again this year, the return trip, with the lure of getting home, completing the task, and seeing my loved ones made the return crossing much easier to take. Both years, the return trip seemed an after thought in the preparations, an anti-climactic part of the whole excursion. Yet both years, the return trip yielded rich veins of concepts, observations, situations, emotions and opportunities for writing. The lure of home, I should never be surprised to find out, is as powerful, if not quietly more powerful, than the wanderlust of the first part of the adventure. As Dorothy, herself, said, there's no place like home.

This year was remarkly different, too, in that I had one additional day of layover on the wet coast, and this layover was with family, in a cozy home with a restful vista, and in a city with which I was somewhat familiar. The hospitality was overflowing, and again, that seemed to nurture the opportunities for writing. Thanks, thanks, and thanks again.

Having finished two cross-country bus trips, I now feel I am a veteran, and would do others at the drop of a hat. They are one of the best travel bargains, especially if booked in advance. Greyhound Bus Lines is nothing short of remarkable. They put so many buses on the road at one time, 24-hours a day, seven days a week, all across the country. The bus divers are efficient, safety-conscious, courteous, and real professional. They take their jobs seriously, and tend to deliver on time every time. Three cheers for the bus drivers.

However, here's a hint that should help bus travelers: if at all possible, book trips with as few transfers from one route to another. Best of all: choose a route at its origin, such as New York, Los Angeles or Seattle, and choose the routes that are straight through to your destination. That way, you are given re-boarding passes at each layover, and are essentially gauranteed literally the same seat from start to finish.

Last year, I went from New York to Los Angeles on one vehicle, same seat the whole way. And I returned on one vehicle, same seat the whole way.

This year, I had to transfer in Chicago, from one bus route to another, one vehicle to another. It was fine on the way out. I got on the new bus, was in line early enough to grab essentially the same seat as the vehicle from New York to Chicago. But I ran into trouble during the return trip, when I got bumped from the first vehicle for the leg to Cleveland. I was with about a dozen passengers on the second vehicle to Cleveland, who had to sweat it out to see if we could get back on the first vehicle, when it began taking on passengers again in Cleveland. That was disconcerting to say the least, especially so close to the end of the trip, just eight hours away from New York. To Greyhound's credit, it should be noted, we all did get back on the original bus to New York, and arrived home on time. All's well that ends well.

Still, for anyone who wants to really get a taste for how broad and diverse and yet similar this great country is, corss-country but travel is a remarkable education. Sure, it is a little uncomfortable sleeping on a bus, not one night but two nights in a row. But that's a small price to pay for the experience. Essentially, the vehicle stops every two to three hours, for the driver and the passengers to take a 10 to 40 minute or more break, depending on whether it is a snack break, meal break, maintenance break, or a quirk in the schedule. So a three-day trip is really 24 to 36 little two or three-hour trips tacked back to back. It's a game, where you look forward to the breaks, and then once in the breaks, you look forward to getting back out on the road to get to the next break.

And in-between, there are people, places and situations you will see nowhere else, enough to write volumes about. And with a generous supply of CDs, books or magazines, and a bottomless curiosity about what makes America tick, cross-country bus travel is a pure delight. It is summer school for adults. It is like the summer reading lists I'd get during high school.

Of course, most of the passengers are making the trips because they have to: because they can't afford another way, or they are going part of the cross-country route, and train or air travel is less convenient and more expensive. But for me, I'm doing it for the sight-seeing, pure and simple. I'm doing it as a writing laboratory.

Next trips? I think I want to head straight down the coasts, particularly New York to Key West. Seattle to San Diego must be breathtaking, too. And New York to the Canadian Maritimes might be fun, as would going from Montreal to Vancouver. And don't forget the Hudson Valley, and through Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine to Old Quebec City.

There is also New York to San Francisco, with a chance to see Utah, northern Nevada, and the Sacramento-to-San Francisco stretch of California. I am also itching to see the Old South, down through Atlanta, Alabama, Mississippi to New Orleans. Oh, and up the Mississippi, retracing the route of the song, "City of New Orleans," to Chicago. And it might be fun to circumnavigate Texas, big enough to be its own country. And get a good healthy taste of bourbon by cutting back and fourth across Kentucky and Tennessee. Don't forget the Motor City and the Michigan peninsula, and Simon and Garfunkel's start to their legendary bus trip  in the song, "America," Saginaw. And one of these days, somehow, someway, Alaska.

Still, there is also the urge to stay at home, maybe next summer, and tour good old New Jersey, use my own car and write about my own backyard. It could be something like: The Jersey Shore, Sandy Hook to Cape May. And, I'd love to hitch rides on the subways, ferries and rapid transits to explore the five boroughs of New York City.

The possibilities are endless. Don't get me started. Or rather, I can't wait to get started.

For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
May 4, 2011

Nine In Line

Nine in line,
Eight like to skate,
Seven with Kevin,
Six, he gets licks,
Five, no jive,
Four, take the door,
Three, stung by a bee,
Two, lots to do,
One, let's have fun,
And one more
Time to score.

For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. kelly
May 1, 2011