Easter gifts for family
Speckled treasures of the heart and of the mind,
Oh, and of the spirit,
Meadowlarks sing,
Daffodils dilly dally,
Moss grows,
On the blooming lilac tree,
Time passes and slows
Bent like strings
On Eric Clapton's guitar
Sweet sounds from wrinkles in time,
And there,
From out the rock,
Beams of light,
Like sun rising,
Like Faith brewing,
Like Hope eternal,
Like Love unbounded,
Emerges The One,
The Being of Light,
The Daffodil of laughter,
The Moss of warm blanketed friendship,
The Speckled Treasure of nests everlasting,
The Lilac of scents of therapies soothing,
There, out of the silence,
Emerges: All that is hidden, revealed,
What you have heard in whispers,
Proclaimed from the house tops.
Our heart spews like lava, the pledge:
We will follow,
We will follow,
Tell us how to follow.
And the gentle voice replies:
With Easter gifts for family,
With Speckled Treasures of the heart and of the mind,
Oh, and of the spirit,
With Meadowlarks singing,
With Daffodils dilly dallying,
With Moss growing,
On the blooming Lilac Tree,
With Time passing and slowing,
Bent like strings
On Eric Clapton's guitar
With sweet sounds from wrinkles in time,
And with Love,
Always with Love,
With Love, Love,
With Love.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 23, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Out On The Crystal Blue Ocean
Out on the crystal blue ocean,
Out miles from shore,
Out on a calm day,
Out on a crisp morn,
Out on the Atlantic,
South-southeast from Norfolk
Hovers a helicopter,
Coming in for a landing,
Humans preparing
To go from one substance to another,
Like ice to steam to water,
From mainland to chopper to carrier.
Out on the crystal blue ocean,
Out miles from shore,
Out on a calm day,
Out on a crisp morn,
Out in the Atlantic,
South-southwest from Norfolk.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 21, 2011.
Out miles from shore,
Out on a calm day,
Out on a crisp morn,
Out on the Atlantic,
South-southeast from Norfolk
Hovers a helicopter,
Coming in for a landing,
Humans preparing
To go from one substance to another,
Like ice to steam to water,
From mainland to chopper to carrier.
Out on the crystal blue ocean,
Out miles from shore,
Out on a calm day,
Out on a crisp morn,
Out in the Atlantic,
South-southwest from Norfolk.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 21, 2011.
Waiting For The Tempest To Start
Waiting for the tempest to start.
Running around,
Getting people nervous,
Silly sensations,
About nothing details,
For the big day
That's supposed to be
About having fun.
Better to keep perspective,
Relax,
Take a breath,
Hear the beat,
Settle down,
Help everyone else to relax,
Probably do their jobs better,
Self-motivated by the enjoyment,
And if one or two things
Are out of place,
So much the better.
Waiting for the tempest to start.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J, Kelly
April 21, 2011
Running around,
Getting people nervous,
Silly sensations,
About nothing details,
For the big day
That's supposed to be
About having fun.
Better to keep perspective,
Relax,
Take a breath,
Hear the beat,
Settle down,
Help everyone else to relax,
Probably do their jobs better,
Self-motivated by the enjoyment,
And if one or two things
Are out of place,
So much the better.
Waiting for the tempest to start.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J, Kelly
April 21, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Flat Out
Flat out,
Cruising the desert floor,
Sven gunned it.
Not a car in sight,
Heat waves rising off the road,
Holding on for dear life,
As if on a barrel-powered rocket engine,
A young buck and his filly in a Mustang convertible,
Top up to fend off the sun,
Heat baking the world of scrub brush.
Heading to Vegas,
Bakersfield left behind,
A weekend of wild fun,
Bankrolled by a lottery ticket win,
Change back from Thursday morning coffee, roll,
And big black bold headlines:
"We won, Baby, let's get married!"
Just a lucky break,
An extra $25-grand
In his wallet,
In his pants,
In the seat,
Behind the wheel.
Flat out,
Cruising the desert floor,
Sven gunned it.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 20, 2011
Cruising the desert floor,
Sven gunned it.
Not a car in sight,
Heat waves rising off the road,
Holding on for dear life,
As if on a barrel-powered rocket engine,
A young buck and his filly in a Mustang convertible,
Top up to fend off the sun,
Heat baking the world of scrub brush.
Heading to Vegas,
Bakersfield left behind,
A weekend of wild fun,
Bankrolled by a lottery ticket win,
Change back from Thursday morning coffee, roll,
And big black bold headlines:
"We won, Baby, let's get married!"
Just a lucky break,
An extra $25-grand
In his wallet,
In his pants,
In the seat,
Behind the wheel.
Flat out,
Cruising the desert floor,
Sven gunned it.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 20, 2011
Five Tool Player
Five tool player,
Natural talent,
Fast, but quicker than that on the bases,
Power when it's needed,
Tracks down every fly ball,
Rocket arm from right,
Nail that sucker at home,
Smart as all get out,
Mentally tough,
Kids melt his heart every time,
Still says aw-shucks
When an elderly woman in the grandstands
Reminds him of Grandma.
Five tool player,
Natural talent.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 20, 2011
Natural talent,
Fast, but quicker than that on the bases,
Power when it's needed,
Tracks down every fly ball,
Rocket arm from right,
Nail that sucker at home,
Smart as all get out,
Mentally tough,
Kids melt his heart every time,
Still says aw-shucks
When an elderly woman in the grandstands
Reminds him of Grandma.
Five tool player,
Natural talent.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 20, 2011
Waitz among the pantheon of New York greats
Legendary nine-time New York City Marathoner Champion Grete Waitz, 57, who died on Tuesday, April 19, in Oslo, Norway, should be counted among the very best athletes in New York’s pantheon of athletic greats.
Waitz died after a lengthy battle with cancer. She was a school teacher in Norway before she became a world-class athlete.
Four-time New York City Marathon Champion Bill Rodgers called her one of the great pioneers of the sport.
“You never saw effort on Grete Waitz’s face,” he said. “She ran and lived with a certain kind of grace that defined her.
Asbury Park 10K
I had the distinct honor of seeing her during an event the night before the Asbury Park 10K in the old Paramount Theater at the north end of the boardwalk. This was in 1985.
I had followed her career, watching whenever the New York City Marathon was televised. Every time Waitz was in the race, she was running from the lead, of course, and cruising to another legendary victory. She always inspired me to keep going in my own very, very modest road running and road racing career.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, I hadn’t punched through from 10K and five-mile distances very much at all. However, eventually, I started doing the Long Beach Island 18-miler, and then I did my first marathon in New York City in 1985. I went on to run four New York City Marathons, two New Jersey Waterfront Marathons, two Marine Corps Marathons, and one Jersey Shore Marathon. Later, when I switched to race walking, I walked on my own one 26-mile trek from Plainsboro to Lawrence Township and back, and two from Westfield to Madison and back.
Sure, I was also inspired by Bill Rogers, Frank Shorter, and Alberto Salazar. Oh, and I was also inspired by the three great Providence College runners: Irish-born Mick O’Shea who dominated New England cross country in the 1970s; English-born Geoff Smith, who won the Boston Marathon in 1984 and 1985, and was heartbreakingly passed at the finish line by Rod Dixon at the 1983 New York City Marathon; and Irish-born John Treacy, who in 1978 and 1979 won the won the IAAF World Cross Country Championships in Glasgow, Scotland, and Limerick, Ireland, respectively, and, like Waitz, won the silver medal in the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, Calif.
And among women of that time, there was Joan Benoit, of course, who looked a lot like the character, Juno, in the movie “Juno,” but could be as competitive in a race as Larry Bird or Wayne Gretzky with the championship on the line.
But then there was Waitz.
She was tall, slender and, as Rogers said, appeared the personification of stoicism.
She would run and run and run. From the Verrazano Bridge to Central Park, she’d be brilliant, throwing in surges when needed, and rarely showing if she was laboring, even during one race when she clearly was laboring from a digestive tract problem.
And time and time again, there she would be at the end, breaking the tape, winning another race, and building the legend.
Competitive Career
Between 1978 and 1988, she won the New York City Marathon nine times, a record reminiscent of Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. It is unlikely that anyone else will win the race nine times, and even more unlikely they will win nine New York City Marathons in 11 years.
In the 1978 race, Waitz also took a full two minutes off of the women's world record. She broke the world record three years in a row. Before her competitive career was finished, she lowered the women's world record by nine minutes. The record time had been held by Christa Vahlensieck at 2:34:47. In the 1978 race, Waitz lowered that to 2:32:30. Then, she lowered that to, 2:27:33 in 1979, and 2:25:41 in 1980.
Waitz lowered that mark to 2:25:29 in the 1983 London Marathon. In 1986, she won the London Marathon for a second time, in a career best 2:24:54. She also won the 1988 Stockholm Marathon in 2:28:24, which remains the Stockholm course record for women.
Waitz won the 1983 World Championship Marathon in Helsinki. In the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, she won the silver medal, finishing behind Joan Benoit, who had stunned everyone by putting on a surge early in the race that TV analysts at the time said was highly risky. Los Angeles was hot and humidity that day. The analysts kept waiting for Benoit to fade and/or for the pack to eventually catch Benoit, but neither happened.
To this day, Benoit and Waitz remain probably the two most broadly recognizable names in women’s marathon history.
Waitz experienced success in shorter road races, as well.
In New York City, she won the L'eggs Mini-Marathon five times. She won the prestigious 10K Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta four times. In 1980, she won the Falmouth Road Race on Cape Cod, Mass., which at the time attracted both the nationally elite and the local best New England and northeast road runners.
During her career, Waitz held the world road records: at 8K distance; twice in the 10K; and at 10 miles.
In the world of cross-country, Waitz earned two bronze medals, in 1982 and 1984, at the IAAF World Cross Country Championships and won the gold medal five times, from 1978 to 1981 and in 1983. That’s an accomplishment that tied her with Doris Brown Heritage for the most wins in the history of women's International/World Cross Country Championships.
From Superstar To Legend
Perhaps the mark of the woman, however, the part of her career that elevated her from superstar to legend was the story of how she accompanied the late great New York Road Runners Club President and father of the modern New York City Marathon, Fred Labow, in 1992 on his first marathon.
He had been diagnosed with cancer, and after all those years of organizing the race, he decided it was about time he should run the race.
Ever an ambassador for the marathon and for the New York Marathon, and true to her good friend, Waitz said she would accompany Labow on his race.
They finished the race in 5:32:35, but for everyone who had been a part of the race, the finishing time wasn’t as important as finishing. That’s a mantra, by the way, repeated by a sizeable portion of the marathon runners, and certainly by runners like me: I finished. That's a victory.
My fastest time was about 4:15, but most of my marathons were closer to Labow’s time. And it never really mattered, then or now, when I go out in weekend 5Ks and five-milers.. What mattered then, and what matters now, was and is that I finished.
Waitz said that she felt more soreness after that five hour race than during her winning races. She said she had new respect for the folks who run the race at my pace.
Well, that solidified her legend in my mind. She felt what I always felt?
And she did it out of appreciation and love for her sport, for her signature race, and for her friend.
As Rogers said, it was a form of grace that defined Grete Waitz. She is a legend who should be included whenever people gather around and list those who are among the very best athletes in New York sport history.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
April 21, 2011
Waitz died after a lengthy battle with cancer. She was a school teacher in Norway before she became a world-class athlete.
Four-time New York City Marathon Champion Bill Rodgers called her one of the great pioneers of the sport.
“You never saw effort on Grete Waitz’s face,” he said. “She ran and lived with a certain kind of grace that defined her.
Asbury Park 10K
I had the distinct honor of seeing her during an event the night before the Asbury Park 10K in the old Paramount Theater at the north end of the boardwalk. This was in 1985.
I had followed her career, watching whenever the New York City Marathon was televised. Every time Waitz was in the race, she was running from the lead, of course, and cruising to another legendary victory. She always inspired me to keep going in my own very, very modest road running and road racing career.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, I hadn’t punched through from 10K and five-mile distances very much at all. However, eventually, I started doing the Long Beach Island 18-miler, and then I did my first marathon in New York City in 1985. I went on to run four New York City Marathons, two New Jersey Waterfront Marathons, two Marine Corps Marathons, and one Jersey Shore Marathon. Later, when I switched to race walking, I walked on my own one 26-mile trek from Plainsboro to Lawrence Township and back, and two from Westfield to Madison and back.
Sure, I was also inspired by Bill Rogers, Frank Shorter, and Alberto Salazar. Oh, and I was also inspired by the three great Providence College runners: Irish-born Mick O’Shea who dominated New England cross country in the 1970s; English-born Geoff Smith, who won the Boston Marathon in 1984 and 1985, and was heartbreakingly passed at the finish line by Rod Dixon at the 1983 New York City Marathon; and Irish-born John Treacy, who in 1978 and 1979 won the won the IAAF World Cross Country Championships in Glasgow, Scotland, and Limerick, Ireland, respectively, and, like Waitz, won the silver medal in the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, Calif.
And among women of that time, there was Joan Benoit, of course, who looked a lot like the character, Juno, in the movie “Juno,” but could be as competitive in a race as Larry Bird or Wayne Gretzky with the championship on the line.
But then there was Waitz.
She was tall, slender and, as Rogers said, appeared the personification of stoicism.
She would run and run and run. From the Verrazano Bridge to Central Park, she’d be brilliant, throwing in surges when needed, and rarely showing if she was laboring, even during one race when she clearly was laboring from a digestive tract problem.
And time and time again, there she would be at the end, breaking the tape, winning another race, and building the legend.
Competitive Career
Between 1978 and 1988, she won the New York City Marathon nine times, a record reminiscent of Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. It is unlikely that anyone else will win the race nine times, and even more unlikely they will win nine New York City Marathons in 11 years.
In the 1978 race, Waitz also took a full two minutes off of the women's world record. She broke the world record three years in a row. Before her competitive career was finished, she lowered the women's world record by nine minutes. The record time had been held by Christa Vahlensieck at 2:34:47. In the 1978 race, Waitz lowered that to 2:32:30. Then, she lowered that to, 2:27:33 in 1979, and 2:25:41 in 1980.
Waitz lowered that mark to 2:25:29 in the 1983 London Marathon. In 1986, she won the London Marathon for a second time, in a career best 2:24:54. She also won the 1988 Stockholm Marathon in 2:28:24, which remains the Stockholm course record for women.
Waitz won the 1983 World Championship Marathon in Helsinki. In the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles, she won the silver medal, finishing behind Joan Benoit, who had stunned everyone by putting on a surge early in the race that TV analysts at the time said was highly risky. Los Angeles was hot and humidity that day. The analysts kept waiting for Benoit to fade and/or for the pack to eventually catch Benoit, but neither happened.
To this day, Benoit and Waitz remain probably the two most broadly recognizable names in women’s marathon history.
Waitz experienced success in shorter road races, as well.
In New York City, she won the L'eggs Mini-Marathon five times. She won the prestigious 10K Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta four times. In 1980, she won the Falmouth Road Race on Cape Cod, Mass., which at the time attracted both the nationally elite and the local best New England and northeast road runners.
During her career, Waitz held the world road records: at 8K distance; twice in the 10K; and at 10 miles.
In the world of cross-country, Waitz earned two bronze medals, in 1982 and 1984, at the IAAF World Cross Country Championships and won the gold medal five times, from 1978 to 1981 and in 1983. That’s an accomplishment that tied her with Doris Brown Heritage for the most wins in the history of women's International/World Cross Country Championships.
From Superstar To Legend
Perhaps the mark of the woman, however, the part of her career that elevated her from superstar to legend was the story of how she accompanied the late great New York Road Runners Club President and father of the modern New York City Marathon, Fred Labow, in 1992 on his first marathon.
He had been diagnosed with cancer, and after all those years of organizing the race, he decided it was about time he should run the race.
Ever an ambassador for the marathon and for the New York Marathon, and true to her good friend, Waitz said she would accompany Labow on his race.
They finished the race in 5:32:35, but for everyone who had been a part of the race, the finishing time wasn’t as important as finishing. That’s a mantra, by the way, repeated by a sizeable portion of the marathon runners, and certainly by runners like me: I finished. That's a victory.
My fastest time was about 4:15, but most of my marathons were closer to Labow’s time. And it never really mattered, then or now, when I go out in weekend 5Ks and five-milers.. What mattered then, and what matters now, was and is that I finished.
Waitz said that she felt more soreness after that five hour race than during her winning races. She said she had new respect for the folks who run the race at my pace.
Well, that solidified her legend in my mind. She felt what I always felt?
And she did it out of appreciation and love for her sport, for her signature race, and for her friend.
As Rogers said, it was a form of grace that defined Grete Waitz. She is a legend who should be included whenever people gather around and list those who are among the very best athletes in New York sport history.
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
April 21, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Amelia's Appaloosa
Editor's note: The following first appeared in the Winter 1995 edition of The YMCA News, a publication of the Madison Area YMCA, Denis J.Kelly, managing editor.
Amelia's Appaloosa
Ride the Hollow's Sleepy Shadows Before Winter's Long Blue Echo
Lost somewhere in the woods:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your body's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Major Andre's tree
All saddle and pumpkin and stark bark
Silhoueted against a blustery moonlit sky
Beckoned the equestrian toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in the wind long after yet also long before.
Amelia led her frightened Appaloosa named Salmon
Up the narrow shadowy path.
"Let us take this adventure," she encouraged her steed,
"Against the brisk October wind.
Feel the air's crisp bite awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely, all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Across these unchartered waters,
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come, let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway to a new life.
We seek our new faith.
We seek our new hope.
We seek our new love
In a history on the other side of the morrow,
Flying ever east toward the horizon."
Searching somewhere in the city:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your mind's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Old Neighbor Calloway's Cafe
All coffee and candles and sidestreet conversations
Silhoueted by Greenwich Village streetlamps
Beckoned the aviator toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in a diary long ago yet also long before.
Amelia stabled her frightened Salmon
Uptown near shadowy Central Park.
"Let me take this adventure," she calmed her trusty steed,
"Against the wet November storm.
Feel late Autumn's first gale awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely, all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Through these unchartered analyses
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come,let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway to a new understanding.
We seek our new knowledge.
We seek our new meaning.
We seek our new commitment
In a history on the other side of the morrow,
Learning ever about the east beyond the horizon.
Found somewhere over the Pacific:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your spirit's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Wise steed's broad shoulders
All muscle and sinew and instinct
Undaunted by the wintry moonlit sky
Beckoned the painted pony toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in history long after yet also long before.
Salmon deciphered the street-maze to rescue frightened Amelia
From the hollow's shadowy mysteries.
"Let us tame this adventure," he soothed her heart,
"Under December's first white snowfall.
Before Winter casts its long blue echo, let us awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Across these unchartered iceflows,
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come, let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway across the Pacific.
We seek our new assignments.
We seek our new achievements.
We seek our new aspirations
In a history on the other side of the norrow,
Meditating ever eastward on the illuminating horizon."
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 14, 2011
Amelia's Appaloosa
Ride the Hollow's Sleepy Shadows Before Winter's Long Blue Echo
Lost somewhere in the woods:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your body's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Major Andre's tree
All saddle and pumpkin and stark bark
Silhoueted against a blustery moonlit sky
Beckoned the equestrian toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in the wind long after yet also long before.
Amelia led her frightened Appaloosa named Salmon
Up the narrow shadowy path.
"Let us take this adventure," she encouraged her steed,
"Against the brisk October wind.
Feel the air's crisp bite awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely, all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Across these unchartered waters,
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come, let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway to a new life.
We seek our new faith.
We seek our new hope.
We seek our new love
In a history on the other side of the morrow,
Flying ever east toward the horizon."
Searching somewhere in the city:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your mind's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Old Neighbor Calloway's Cafe
All coffee and candles and sidestreet conversations
Silhoueted by Greenwich Village streetlamps
Beckoned the aviator toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in a diary long ago yet also long before.
Amelia stabled her frightened Salmon
Uptown near shadowy Central Park.
"Let me take this adventure," she calmed her trusty steed,
"Against the wet November storm.
Feel late Autumn's first gale awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely, all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Through these unchartered analyses
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come,let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway to a new understanding.
We seek our new knowledge.
We seek our new meaning.
We seek our new commitment
In a history on the other side of the morrow,
Learning ever about the east beyond the horizon.
Found somewhere over the Pacific:
Let the river flow at its own pace and in its own time, and tune your spirit's internal timepiece to its pace. For it is wise to harness the great forces of momentum in your quest and it is foolish to think you could ever change the course of the river anyway. Unless, of course, one of the truly great notions of Western Civilization comes along, as they are wont to do from time to time. Then, it is your responsibility to bridle the great strength of your creative whimsy and follow the leadership of Amelia's Appaloosa.
Wise steed's broad shoulders
All muscle and sinew and instinct
Undaunted by the wintry moonlit sky
Beckoned the painted pony toward a rendezvous
Somehow written in history long after yet also long before.
Salmon deciphered the street-maze to rescue frightened Amelia
From the hollow's shadowy mysteries.
"Let us tame this adventure," he soothed her heart,
"Under December's first white snowfall.
Before Winter casts its long blue echo, let us awaken our sleepy resolve.
For surely all saints and all souls accompany our journey
Across these unchartered iceflows,
For they have been down these hollows themselves.
Is this a dream come true, True Love, or yet another false alarm?
Come, let us search toward the shadowy dawn
For a passageway across the Pacific.
We seek our new assignments.
We seek our new achievements.
We seek our new aspirations
In a history on the other side of the norrow,
Meditating ever eastward on the illuminating horizon."
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 14, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Breathing Easier
Editor's note: This essay first appeared on Oct. 14, 1981 in the Brick Town News, Brick Township. The writer was a reporter, editor, and photographer for the weekly newspaper. It was written in anticipation of his first vacation, a little more than a year into the job.
Writing and running and rhythmetic. Yeah, breathing easy now, I've got this licked.
I've been here going on 14 months, now. Except for a long weekend here and there, It's been a year of week-in, week-out go-round in the hustling, bustling Town News newsroom.
It's time to catch a second breath.
Writing? That's right: Denis J. Kelly, staff writer, editor, hometown journalist. Mostly of portraits of people who make up Brick Township.
It is exciting, I'll grant you that. You do everything, from start to finish, from reporting to photography to deciding where a story will go in the paper to writing the headlines.
Oh, you're not Mike Wallace, or anything like that.
But, you can sort of be like Charles Kuralt, traveling down hometown roads, meeting people, observantly.
Running? That's right, Denis J. Kelly, runner. In-between chasing down stories, you can find me chasing down that dream to remain an athlete for life. And as a runner, I climb aboard a perfect platform to observe the bounty of nature.
I'm partial to those special days each season, when you feel the quintessence of the next season: those cool days of late August, frosty days of November, toasty days of March and scorching days of May.
And to the tree canopies along Carroll Fox Road, the rolling Herbertsville hills, enchanting Ocean County Park, and twice around Lake Carasaljo.
And to prances along the oceanfront Jersey Shore boardwalks, where the hypnotic crash of the waves lulls you into a trance, mile after mile.
If only I could plug my reporter's notebook into the runner's inner thoughts during a good run -- running is really a thought game -- I could be up there on the library shelves with the likes of James Joyce.
The trick is to learn to relax, to relax even while you are running.
To tune into your legs: the muscles, the tendons, and to remain loose.
To drink in the oxygen-rich air as if it were an elixir.
To roll your neck every now and again, and to drop your forearms periodically, because that is where the tension pools.
And to think that if it were not for the incidentals, like the friction of the air and ground, and growing fatigue, you could run on forever.
Now count to 10 -- v e r y s l o w l y -- and relax.
Writing and running and rhythmetic. Yeah, breathing easier now, I've got this licked.
See you next week.
For Searching For Goodness
Denis J. Kelly
April 9, 2011
Writing and running and rhythmetic. Yeah, breathing easy now, I've got this licked.
I've been here going on 14 months, now. Except for a long weekend here and there, It's been a year of week-in, week-out go-round in the hustling, bustling Town News newsroom.
It's time to catch a second breath.
Writing? That's right: Denis J. Kelly, staff writer, editor, hometown journalist. Mostly of portraits of people who make up Brick Township.
It is exciting, I'll grant you that. You do everything, from start to finish, from reporting to photography to deciding where a story will go in the paper to writing the headlines.
Oh, you're not Mike Wallace, or anything like that.
But, you can sort of be like Charles Kuralt, traveling down hometown roads, meeting people, observantly.
Running? That's right, Denis J. Kelly, runner. In-between chasing down stories, you can find me chasing down that dream to remain an athlete for life. And as a runner, I climb aboard a perfect platform to observe the bounty of nature.
I'm partial to those special days each season, when you feel the quintessence of the next season: those cool days of late August, frosty days of November, toasty days of March and scorching days of May.
And to the tree canopies along Carroll Fox Road, the rolling Herbertsville hills, enchanting Ocean County Park, and twice around Lake Carasaljo.
And to prances along the oceanfront Jersey Shore boardwalks, where the hypnotic crash of the waves lulls you into a trance, mile after mile.
If only I could plug my reporter's notebook into the runner's inner thoughts during a good run -- running is really a thought game -- I could be up there on the library shelves with the likes of James Joyce.
The trick is to learn to relax, to relax even while you are running.
To tune into your legs: the muscles, the tendons, and to remain loose.
To drink in the oxygen-rich air as if it were an elixir.
To roll your neck every now and again, and to drop your forearms periodically, because that is where the tension pools.
And to think that if it were not for the incidentals, like the friction of the air and ground, and growing fatigue, you could run on forever.
Now count to 10 -- v e r y s l o w l y -- and relax.
Writing and running and rhythmetic. Yeah, breathing easier now, I've got this licked.
See you next week.
For Searching For Goodness
Denis J. Kelly
April 9, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Mack Truck Bull Dog
Mark Truck
Bulldog
Friday
Chugging
Wheezing
Snorting
Hauling
Pay loads
Up the
Catskill
Mountains
Pulling
Yearning
Searching
For the
Six pack
Weekend
At last
Until
Monday
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 7, 2011
Bulldog
Friday
Chugging
Wheezing
Snorting
Hauling
Pay loads
Up the
Catskill
Mountains
Pulling
Yearning
Searching
For the
Six pack
Weekend
At last
Until
Monday
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 7, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Lunch Time Musical Magic
One of the best parts about visiting my 93-year-old mom in her nursing home in Ocean Grove on Wednesdays is that Jim Donnelly comes in at lunchtime to play piano.
The eating area is right next to a little parlor area where the piano is, and residents, all in wheelchairs, wander over to gather near the piano once they’ve finished eating, and sing along, openly or quietly, with the favorites Jim Donnelly plays.
Most days he stays a bit after lunch to play “one more song” at least a half-dozen times. But last week, March 30, he remained at the piano until 1:50 p.m., and the residents, my mom, myself, and staff who were coming and going to and from their duties, all listened.
A long time ago, I figured out that visiting my mom, while it seems to result in a brightened face on her part by the time I leave a couple hours later, really also leaves my face brightened.
I’m visiting her, but what they don’t tell you, is that it is a two-way street. She is visiting me.
I visit during other days of the week, most often Saturday or Sunday. But on Wednesdays, the piano is an added bonus.
Sheer Enjoyment
Every time I hear Jim Donnelly play, I marvel at the instrument, and at his ability to play songs for hours without sheet music, just by memory.
There are times when I think it isn’t so much the striking of the keys which makes the hammers strike the piano wire that creates the sound. At times, I can’t help imagining that it is the striking of the keys that plays some mystical piano in time and space, which then activates some grand songbook of music, which comes alive.
Where do these songs come from, from out of the ether, to tug at heartstrings of all these grand folks in wheelchairs? And the heartstrings of this grand person, my mom? And my own heartstrings?
Left hand and right hand creates the music. Oh how marvelous does the player dance along the 88 keys, in hundreds of different patterns. And oh, how the music is channeled through Jim Donnelly’s hands, through his memory, through his craft and through his art out into the “space between us all,” floating, then bathing our ears, our memories, and our thirsting for art appreciation. Talk about social networking.
Song List
I grabbed a flyer insert to the newspaper I was holding early on, and started using it as a surface upon which to write down song titles. I wanted to be able to better remember afterwards the variety of tunes Jim Donnelly was playing.
We only then moved over from the lunch table to be near the piano. Mind you, he had been playing for some time before that. But from when I started jotting down song titles, these are the songs he played:
“If I Only Had A Brain,” “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “Bicycle Built For Two,” “Down At Papa Joe’s;” “Those Were The Days;” “Personality;” “Blueberry Hill;” “Can’t Stop Loving You;” “Hit The Road, Jack;” and “Under The Boardwalk.
He said he was booked to play at an Italian wedding, so he had been practicing the next four songs, “That’s Amore;” and Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” “A Very Good Year,” and “That’s Life.”
He continued with, “America The Beautiful;” “God Bless America;” and “The Marine’s Hymn,” because of the timeliness of the second line, “To the shores of Tripoli.” He did “And The Band Played On” and “East Side, West Side.”
And then one of the residents said another resident only liked classical pieces.
So, Jim Donnelly threw in a Mozart piece, which is universally recognizable, but whose title I don’t know. However, it is a piece that required a cross over by the right hand for a couple of notes to the left of the left hand, while the left hand continued to play a set part of the piece. Several times during the piece, it came back to that maneuver, and each time I was hypnotized.
Then he followed that up with Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Sure it wasn’t a concert hall piano or rendition, for that matter, but it didn’t matter. This was better. Somehow Jim Donnelly on this parlor piano at the end of an extended lunch hour concert had nailed it. It was like Beethoven, himself, had come over for lunch, and there he was playing what he had been working on for an upcoming wedding he was booked to play.
And then the magic came to an end with a hearty rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Just brilliant. Just grand.
Thanks Jim Donnelly.
And, of course, thanks, Mom.
For Musings
Denis J. Kelly
April 3, 2011
The eating area is right next to a little parlor area where the piano is, and residents, all in wheelchairs, wander over to gather near the piano once they’ve finished eating, and sing along, openly or quietly, with the favorites Jim Donnelly plays.
Most days he stays a bit after lunch to play “one more song” at least a half-dozen times. But last week, March 30, he remained at the piano until 1:50 p.m., and the residents, my mom, myself, and staff who were coming and going to and from their duties, all listened.
A long time ago, I figured out that visiting my mom, while it seems to result in a brightened face on her part by the time I leave a couple hours later, really also leaves my face brightened.
I’m visiting her, but what they don’t tell you, is that it is a two-way street. She is visiting me.
I visit during other days of the week, most often Saturday or Sunday. But on Wednesdays, the piano is an added bonus.
Sheer Enjoyment
Every time I hear Jim Donnelly play, I marvel at the instrument, and at his ability to play songs for hours without sheet music, just by memory.
There are times when I think it isn’t so much the striking of the keys which makes the hammers strike the piano wire that creates the sound. At times, I can’t help imagining that it is the striking of the keys that plays some mystical piano in time and space, which then activates some grand songbook of music, which comes alive.
Where do these songs come from, from out of the ether, to tug at heartstrings of all these grand folks in wheelchairs? And the heartstrings of this grand person, my mom? And my own heartstrings?
Left hand and right hand creates the music. Oh how marvelous does the player dance along the 88 keys, in hundreds of different patterns. And oh, how the music is channeled through Jim Donnelly’s hands, through his memory, through his craft and through his art out into the “space between us all,” floating, then bathing our ears, our memories, and our thirsting for art appreciation. Talk about social networking.
Song List
I grabbed a flyer insert to the newspaper I was holding early on, and started using it as a surface upon which to write down song titles. I wanted to be able to better remember afterwards the variety of tunes Jim Donnelly was playing.
We only then moved over from the lunch table to be near the piano. Mind you, he had been playing for some time before that. But from when I started jotting down song titles, these are the songs he played:
“If I Only Had A Brain,” “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” “Bicycle Built For Two,” “Down At Papa Joe’s;” “Those Were The Days;” “Personality;” “Blueberry Hill;” “Can’t Stop Loving You;” “Hit The Road, Jack;” and “Under The Boardwalk.
He said he was booked to play at an Italian wedding, so he had been practicing the next four songs, “That’s Amore;” and Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” “A Very Good Year,” and “That’s Life.”
He continued with, “America The Beautiful;” “God Bless America;” and “The Marine’s Hymn,” because of the timeliness of the second line, “To the shores of Tripoli.” He did “And The Band Played On” and “East Side, West Side.”
And then one of the residents said another resident only liked classical pieces.
So, Jim Donnelly threw in a Mozart piece, which is universally recognizable, but whose title I don’t know. However, it is a piece that required a cross over by the right hand for a couple of notes to the left of the left hand, while the left hand continued to play a set part of the piece. Several times during the piece, it came back to that maneuver, and each time I was hypnotized.
Then he followed that up with Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Sure it wasn’t a concert hall piano or rendition, for that matter, but it didn’t matter. This was better. Somehow Jim Donnelly on this parlor piano at the end of an extended lunch hour concert had nailed it. It was like Beethoven, himself, had come over for lunch, and there he was playing what he had been working on for an upcoming wedding he was booked to play.
And then the magic came to an end with a hearty rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Just brilliant. Just grand.
Thanks Jim Donnelly.
And, of course, thanks, Mom.
For Musings
Denis J. Kelly
April 3, 2011
One Of The 10 Best Days Of The Year
One of the 10 best days of the year
Bright crisp Spring day
Broad blue sky
Warming but not too hot sun
No humidity.
Pleasant ride
Out into the country
Two-lane highways
First burst of yellow leaves
Fresh tunes playing
In concert in a shuffle
Straight rock and roll
Loud live luscious crisp clean.
One of the 10 best days of the year
Bright crisp Spring day
Broad blue sky
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 3, 2011
Bright crisp Spring day
Broad blue sky
Warming but not too hot sun
No humidity.
Pleasant ride
Out into the country
Two-lane highways
First burst of yellow leaves
Fresh tunes playing
In concert in a shuffle
Straight rock and roll
Loud live luscious crisp clean.
One of the 10 best days of the year
Bright crisp Spring day
Broad blue sky
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 3, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Just a Hint, Really
Just a hint, really,
A suggestion,
A raised eyebrow,
A turn of a phrase,
A particular word,
A little innuendo,
A double meaning,
Clearing the throat,
An imperceptible shrug,
Letting out a sigh.
Did he really ask that?
Did she really say go?
Was he reading sign?
Was she sending signals?
Could he be way off base?
Could she be just putting on a front?
Could he finally be hearing yes?
Just a hint, really.
A suggestion.
A raised eyebrow.
A turn of a phrase.
A particular word.
A little innuendo.
A double meaning.
Clearing the throat.
An imperceptible shrug.
Letting out a sigh.
For Conversations with Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 2, 2011
A suggestion,
A raised eyebrow,
A turn of a phrase,
A particular word,
A little innuendo,
A double meaning,
Clearing the throat,
An imperceptible shrug,
Letting out a sigh.
Did he really ask that?
Did she really say go?
Was he reading sign?
Was she sending signals?
Could he be way off base?
Could she be just putting on a front?
Could he finally be hearing yes?
Just a hint, really.
A suggestion.
A raised eyebrow.
A turn of a phrase.
A particular word.
A little innuendo.
A double meaning.
Clearing the throat.
An imperceptible shrug.
Letting out a sigh.
For Conversations with Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 2, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Merrill And Priscilla
Merrill just finished learning how to spell
Priscilla.
Merrill never had to know how to spell
Priscilla,
Until now.
Ah, but now,
Now.
Now Merrill wants to spell the name endlessly,
Priscilla.
She is a vision that came upon him
Undefined.
But slowly,
She has come into focus.
And now,
Now.
Merrill wants to spell the name endlessly,
Priscilla.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 1, 2011
Priscilla.
Merrill never had to know how to spell
Priscilla,
Until now.
Ah, but now,
Now.
Now Merrill wants to spell the name endlessly,
Priscilla.
She is a vision that came upon him
Undefined.
But slowly,
She has come into focus.
And now,
Now.
Merrill wants to spell the name endlessly,
Priscilla.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
April 1, 2011
On Softball and Spring
Jerry Kaptsein didn't come down from Providence for the opening of their Spring Training. They had no visions of playing out their options, or holding out for a no-cut contract, or more money next year.
They weren't looking to play in the media cities that had lucrative promotional opportunities. They didn't even know what their uniforms would look line, or when they would get them. At this point, they really didn't care.
Right now they were worrying about the Winter pounds, and how they were going to get rid of them. The dust rose over the sandlot next to Harrington Hall, as some 20 workers from the IMH (Institute of Mental Health) and General Hospital looked forward to that opening day in May.
Their friends thought they were nuts. It was late February of what seemed like the worst winter in history. Eight inches of snow still lay on the ground, and Spring was never going to come.
But these were men of vision. These were men of dreams.
These are the guys of the Local 1350 softball team -- our team -- that won 35 games last year, and lost only 10, all for the fun of it, and for the sake of bringing civic pride to their fans at the Medical Center. This is the game of bats and balls, bases and mits at its glorious foundation.
Today is April 1, and these guys are the personification of it. Today is April Fools Day, a day designed way back there in the Middle Ages to trick people into smiling. Old Man Winter still had his sour grip on people's growling lips. Nothing could break the dreary spell, except for sheer foolery. That tickle of a prank wants to subversively warm the cold heart with a special fever. Just toasty enough for a giggle.
Never mind a giggle, after this long winter, we deserve a good, long 19-inning belly laugh.
They've shown you how to have fun. Now let the guys of Local 1350 be the example you'll follow. Get out, get into the sun, and do things. Choose up sides for your own softball team or just play catch at lunchtime. Loosen up, shoot some hoops, hack a few tennis balls. Walk around Wallum Lake, or "come about" in a dinghy on it. Jog through the fields of Exeter. Go for an eagle. Grow a plant. Get a tan. Be a fan.
Drink in that warm air, feed those creative juices inside, and then get back to work with new eyes, new drives.
And get out to watch these guys of Local 1350, especially this month as they play their exhibition season at Garvey Field. This is their year.
Move over Yaz!
Editor's note: This piece first appeared on April 1, 1977 in "Outlook," the monthly newsletter for the employees at the Rhode Island Department of Mental Health, Retardation and Hospitals, Cranston, R.I.. The editor was Denis J.Kelly.
For Searching For Goodness
Denis J. Kelly
April 1, 2011
They weren't looking to play in the media cities that had lucrative promotional opportunities. They didn't even know what their uniforms would look line, or when they would get them. At this point, they really didn't care.
Right now they were worrying about the Winter pounds, and how they were going to get rid of them. The dust rose over the sandlot next to Harrington Hall, as some 20 workers from the IMH (Institute of Mental Health) and General Hospital looked forward to that opening day in May.
Their friends thought they were nuts. It was late February of what seemed like the worst winter in history. Eight inches of snow still lay on the ground, and Spring was never going to come.
But these were men of vision. These were men of dreams.
These are the guys of the Local 1350 softball team -- our team -- that won 35 games last year, and lost only 10, all for the fun of it, and for the sake of bringing civic pride to their fans at the Medical Center. This is the game of bats and balls, bases and mits at its glorious foundation.
Today is April 1, and these guys are the personification of it. Today is April Fools Day, a day designed way back there in the Middle Ages to trick people into smiling. Old Man Winter still had his sour grip on people's growling lips. Nothing could break the dreary spell, except for sheer foolery. That tickle of a prank wants to subversively warm the cold heart with a special fever. Just toasty enough for a giggle.
Never mind a giggle, after this long winter, we deserve a good, long 19-inning belly laugh.
They've shown you how to have fun. Now let the guys of Local 1350 be the example you'll follow. Get out, get into the sun, and do things. Choose up sides for your own softball team or just play catch at lunchtime. Loosen up, shoot some hoops, hack a few tennis balls. Walk around Wallum Lake, or "come about" in a dinghy on it. Jog through the fields of Exeter. Go for an eagle. Grow a plant. Get a tan. Be a fan.
Drink in that warm air, feed those creative juices inside, and then get back to work with new eyes, new drives.
And get out to watch these guys of Local 1350, especially this month as they play their exhibition season at Garvey Field. This is their year.
Move over Yaz!
Editor's note: This piece first appeared on April 1, 1977 in "Outlook," the monthly newsletter for the employees at the Rhode Island Department of Mental Health, Retardation and Hospitals, Cranston, R.I.. The editor was Denis J.Kelly.
For Searching For Goodness
Denis J. Kelly
April 1, 2011
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