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Friday, September 13, 2013


This little fable was published in  ROUND, EARTH, POEMS a chapbook published by Jim Sorcic and Jenny Orvino at GUNRUNNER PRESS, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in an edition of 300 copies.  It was later included in CRUISIN' AT THE LIMIT published by Kirk Robertson at Duck Down Press, Fallon, Nevada.


Once a gull decided to fly to the moon.  He flew higher 
than the road maps, higher than the desk globes, for it is 
very far to the moon.  After he had been flying for a few
days, he met a king who was also traveling.  “Where
are you going?” said the king.  “I am flying to the moon,”
said the gull.  “Why don’t you come with me,: asked the
king.  “I am going higher than everything, where I shall
stay and be king.”  “No thank you,” said the gull, I don’t
think I shall.”  When the gull reached the moon he heard
the king shouting and looked up to see him.  his voice
was small, because far above everything is a long way.
“Look at me, silly gull.  I am king.  I am higher than
everything.”  “Yes you are,” said the gull, “but to remain
king you must stay there and no one can come near
you.”  And saying this the gull returned to earth and 
played along many oceans.

Thursday, September 12, 2013


(from The Book of Days)

From the far North come
The Tellings.  They come so that
We may learn the many ways of others
Who live here in this place with us,
Even if their voices be small or their habits
Not what we may understand from our own knowing.

Those who travel, those who name, bring
The Tellings to us in Autumn.  For almost
A week we watch their fires come closer as
They move down from the distances.
When they reach the meadows just beyond
The villages we send the children to them.
For three days they speak only to the children.

This is because the children
Are able to see the magic of The Tellings
More clearly than others.  They will learn
The songs and find roles to assume in the
Ways of The Tellings.  They will show us
What the travelers and those who name
Bring back to us.  They will be the vehicles.

When I was young I was among the first
To see the ladders turning in the air;
The ones of flame, the ones of ice and the ones
Changing color.  My part was that of the long
Bell and I would make its sound often, for it
Was pleasure for all to hear this curious sound.

This was long ago and this Telling is old.
Now we have music and the changing of the forms.
We also know the dance that moves the places of things,
So that which was far away may be near and that
Which was lost or almost forgotten may be found again.

Each time the Telling brings
Us what we do not know.
It is like what you call morning
When all is once again before you and unknown.

One time, in a telling, there came
A great room, so great that mighty
Rivers were within it.  This lasted
Many days and all that was asked there received reply.

We wait now for the return of the children.
Their voices can be heard at the edge of the wood
Lands.  They sound excited.  We are able to hear
Songs we do not know.

I am telling you these things about how we are
So you may come to recognize travelers and those
We name should they come near you in dreams
Or should you, in traveling, come upon things,
Or songs, or places requiring Tellings.  We await you.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013



We’ve had some of them stored for years in that wooden pantry just below the cellar stair, where mom kept the plums and tomatoes and pickles.  They were the words.  The special ones we didn’t use everyday.  When guests came we would open some and they would spark conversation.  After dinner with a slice of pie and slice of cheese those deeper ones that stuck to the sides of the jars would be scraped carefully and served up.  The ones that mattered, like blood and its engines, famine and tumult.  They are gone now.  So much time has passed since childhood that even the pantry is difficult to remember, let alone those words.  Still they pulse through our bodies.  Unlike cells they are not replaced every seven years by a new one.  We hold them in our hearts and mouths and call to one another across time as if it were a fence between yards.