The half-perceived material stream
THE WANE
The wood darkly
may i be?
woman and child
santa clause, then religion
man versus mob
life, the illusion
intellect, then decision
truth and science
death, the alliance
woman and child
THANKS GIVING
The White Man cometh
Invites you to his table
Takes all your land
Then massacres able
Compassion without
Makes you ill
Understands only greed
White Man’s screed
Steal and enslave
Children, men and women
White Man so brave
For profit the few
Today, anew slew…
What do you bring to the table?
Didn’t the Indians have a nice place to live?
What are you thankful for?
IF ON A TUESDAY
After careening southward on 295 in snow squall conditions created by a fast moving cold front sweeping o’re the mid-Atlantic I found refuge in a small Delawarean college town were I supped a splendid miso pumpkin bisque with edamame and ginger creme fraiche, mussels swimming in Yuengling lager, seasoned with caramelized fennel brick-red grape tomatoes, smoked mushrooms, butter, and herbs topped with grilled bread, all complemented by a superbly bold Red Zinfandel boasting black cherry and raspberry with a rhubarb character and a dash of violet and white pepper. Subsequently, the floral essences of rhubarb and violet were ethereal and dissipated after the first quaff; leaving a spicy full bodied berry with a very smooth finish – I enjoyed three glasses. Supremely, no brick-red grape tomatoes rolled across any floors. It has been a good drive home.
AUTUMN OVATION
It was a lovely keen autumn evening for for a bottle, er… glass of red wine and cinema – mine was a Velvet Crush Pinot Noir, rich, expansive black cherry with hints of baking spice and a smooth lingering finish while viewing the third episode of the first season of Foyle’s War, “A Lesson in Murder”. Salude!
FINAL ACT
A silver-gray balmy breezy day. The winds are gusting to twenty-six miles per hour and the temperature is hovering warmly in the seventies. With rain threatening, the bleached white walks are already stained pink from moisture. The wood and it’s canopy of chartreuse, ochre, burnt orange and scarlet foliage are whipping, bending to and fro in an energetic Watusi of a dance. The leaves, rustling a louder song, sing interrupting the softer frenetic chorus of crickets and remaining insects chirping the last symphony for the season, the last hurrah.
