We have an allegiance to rocks. They are symbols of stability and commitment to the land that has nurtured us from infants to aging adults. Just as ancient northern wayfarers used them to mark their journeys to new places and new adventures, we have them around us to remind us of our dependence and gratitude to the land that has provided that nurture and given us direction.

We have named this figure, Farley, after Farley Mowat the author of The Far-Farers. [We noticed today Farley has gained status in the neighborhood: a bird had perched on his head. Soon we expect there will be bird shit on him which is the true initiation rite a statue must receive to be part of the local environment.]

Today my partner asked if I had noted the irony in the front yard scene. With that prompt, I wrote the following poem.

Hideous Reality


Facing each other across the street
On one side
A proud Minnesota Viking balloon.
On the other
A modern day Inukshuk of glacial stone.
Both imbued with zeal—
the kind that only comes from religious
commitment, I suppose.
The airy football icon rousing his
true believers to
piss their pants if necessary.
While the stone warrior of ancient lore
wishes someone would notice
his wagging head.

October 21, 2004 - Bob Dylan on National Poetry Almanac

In 2004, a Newsweek magazine article called Bob Dylan "the most influential cultural figure now alive," and with good reason. He has released more than forty albums in the last four decades, and created some of the most memorable anthems of the twentieth century, classics such as "The Times They Are A-Changin," "Like a Rolling Stone," and "Blowin' in the Wind."

While Dylan's place in the pantheon of American musicians is cemented, there is one question that has confounded music and literary critics for the entirety of Dylan's career: Should Bob Dylan be considered a songwriter or a poet? Dylan was asked that very question at a press conference in 1965, when he famously said, "I think of myself more as a song-and-dance man."

HL would muse:

Mister Troubadour

Dylan:
“I’m a poet,
and I know it.” Robert
Zimmerman approves this ad. Good
job, Bob.

Grass&Gravel Times

Thanks to my friends at Poets Online (check the link above and on the right side under Links), another of my poems has been published. I was mortified when I submitted it with sugar mispelled (sic.), the editor was so kind to correct it for me.

Visit my other site, Grass and Gravel Times, to find "Smell of Summer" or just click the title.

888>6

After the presidential debates a person has to wonder what a Rupugnican would say about my motto

War's not the Answer
RIDE A BICYCLE

Nader's not the Answer
Buy a Hummer

or how to explain their candidate trying to be elected this time:

No Fraud Left Behind

You can
tell Dubya what
to say but you cannot
make him think. President Bush wails
nonsense.


Save us!

I guess it takes about four days for the storm to blow over. When the sun came back out I saw the world as it really is:

Hunting Diversity

We used to have slaves
Now we got dogs
Take 'em to Dakota
Indian land
Shoot Chinese birds
Use Italian guns
Hallelujah
See you Yanks next October

Don't you just love autumn? All the hunting dogs on reprieve from the wire prisions where they spend the rest of the year? Dog prision: not just for Dixie anymore.

There are times when the poem I am working on is struggling to find its voice. Something happens. October 1 was that kind of day. I just stepped outside to do the daily chores around the yard. It was as if the weather was waiting for me: Like an Impressionist painting the words of October flashed onto the page:

Words for October

Wild out there today
Cold clouds
Wind whipped leaves
Dark rain
Palpable energy
Touching the psyche
Penetrating the soul

The other poem showed itself in two versions. Wow

"&>,: 9"