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
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 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
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
Wednesday, May 18, 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
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
Tuesday, May 17, 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
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
Saturday, May 14, 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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 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
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
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
Tuesday, May 10, 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
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
Thursday, May 5, 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
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
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
Wednesday, May 4, 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
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
Sunday, May 1, 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
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
Oh, You
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
Not that anything ill
Is wished on you.
Go about your business.
Flourish.
Just do it elsewhere.
Do it on someone else's beat.
Do it so you don't
Get in my face,
Wreck my day,
Ruin my fun.
Who needs it?
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
Not that anything ill
Is wished on you.
Go about your business.
Flourish.
Just do it elsewhere.
Do it on someone else's beat.
Do it so you don't
Get in my face,
Wreck my day,
Ruin my fun.
Who needs it?
Oh, you.
Oh, you again.
Can't you just go away?
Can't you just stay away?
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
The Singer With The Thick Welch Accent
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions
Strightforwardly,
Matter-of-factly,
Succinctly,
With morsels of tidbits,
Inside information,
Background notes,
As thick as his voice,
A rich baritone,
Who belted out pop hits
During the raucous sixties,
Manly-man songs,
About old-fashioned masculine conquests,
Honorable against a more conservative
Set of standards,
Still courteous, full of etiquette,
Victorian bashfulness bridling back
The passion just bursting to overflow,
The songs athletically arranged,
On a compilation, a greatest hits boxed set,
Including four bonus tracks,
Previously unreleased.
And in-between the tracks,
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Answered the radio interviewer's questions
Strightforwardly,
Matter-of-factly,
Succinctly,
With morsels of tidbits,
Inside information,
Background notes,
As thick as his voice,
A rich baritone,
Who belted out pop hits
During the raucous sixties,
Manly-man songs,
About old-fashioned masculine conquests,
Honorable against a more conservative
Set of standards,
Still courteous, full of etiquette,
Victorian bashfulness bridling back
The passion just bursting to overflow,
The songs athletically arranged,
On a compilation, a greatest hits boxed set,
Including four bonus tracks,
Previously unreleased.
And in-between the tracks,
The singer with the thick Welch accent
Answered the radio interviewer's questions.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
Already It Was A Month Late
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour,
To meditate,
To stop,
To breathe,
To think,
To give thanks,
To give praise,
To pause,
To cleanse,
So simple,
So therapeutic,
So important.
And he had been careless,
Maybe he had been lazy.
He had failed to be insistent,
For his time and space.
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour,
To meditate,
To stop,
To breathe,
To think,
To give thanks,
To give praise,
To pause,
To cleanse,
So simple,
So therapeutic,
So important.
And he had been careless,
Maybe he had been lazy.
He had failed to be insistent,
For his time and space.
Already it was a month late,
His keeping up the routine,
His setting aside
Even the 10 minutes,
The quarter hour.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 1, 2011
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