The River Connects Us

In the joyful half-light of dawn,

You bubble up among great white pines

Bathed in sparkling sunlight,

Little impeded by those dark stones

That leave no permanent scars on your water.

I can embrace your width with a single stride,

Yet your spirit is already wider than the sky.

Gentle, modest, clean, pure,

You are yet to display

The anguish and frustration of youth,

When you rage against the constraints of your banks,

Flooding fallow fields and city streets.

The world calls to you, my river.

You are greater than the waters that flow through you.

Your waters are here today and gone tomorrow.

But you, my river, are eternal.

With age, your waters will grow uncertain and apathetic

As they flow to the Delta, then to the sea.

But you, my river, will not grow old.

You are forever, like the stars,

Whose reflections sparkle in your waters.

Today, my river, you are still young,

Even as I grow gray and old

I long to drink the water of your youth.

I will launch a small stick in your headwaters

To imagine its journey through many adventures.

But always this stick, of good Minnesota birch made,

Is a remembrance of our youth together.

Long before canoes of Kevlar made.

Long before casino Siren songs.

Long before summer cabins and motorboats.

Long before digging mountains of iron ore.

Long before the axe and saw of logging.

Long before strangers with their paper deeds.

Long before Ojibway unveiled the source 

To Schoolcraft and Boutwell, the Headwaters,

The birth-place of the Great River,

Was a people who worshiped this birth of waters

By a still, gentle pool sparkling with sunlight

And edged with rare orchids and pink moccasin flowers

Beneath the outstretched limbs of ancient white pines.

A sojourner

Ambling aimlessly through this forest

On a foggy autumn morning,

Will pass hillsides of aster in rich blue,

Under golds and reds of birch and maple.

Or see fresh signs of wolf and bear,

Watch a pine marten flow over rocks,

Hear the melodious Great Horned Owl,

Or sense the white-furred snowshoe

Timorously awaiting the camouflage of winter.

The imagination may sense a shape

Moving purposefully through the mist,

At the edge of the birth-pool of the Great River.

The wandering mind might also hear

Distant echoes of forgotten chants.

The Caretaker still watches

Over this place.

Rollin’ south and north, east and west,

Pullin’ loads, trundling near and far;

Fertilizer and seed ambling north,

Beet sugar and grain flowing south,

And coal from the west to light our nights.

Engine 7284 rolls on.

Lumber to frame new houses,

Lettuce for our salads,

Peaches for homemade pies,

And enough fixins’ for bread,

We The People depend on the rails.

Engine 7284 rolls on.

Sloggin’ past flooded mud flats,

Plowin’ through desert heat and deep snow,

Past sleepy towns and big city lights,

Up purple mountains high,

Haulin’ freight over prairie bare,

Engine 7284 rolls on.

From Memphis and St. Louis

To Albuquerque and Winslow,

Even Fargo and Seattle,

Towin’ stuff for our daily grind.

Rollin’ day and night, as always,

Engine 7284 rolls on.

The song

Stars make

Rushing across the sky,

Echoes through stone arches

Of the bridge

Over convulsing waters,

Distorting reflections

Of street lights

Weaving through

Gossamer clouds.

Barges ply the waterways

Day and night,

Joining North to South.

Bridges unite

East and West,

Joining distant domains

Of this vast nation.

Throughfare of melding,

Is this great watershed.

Home from the forest

Home from the plains

Home from the cities

Where life is insane.

Home to sacred waters

That flow through my veins.

Home to dark, cool waters.

Home to where my heart remains.

See the full moon

Spread her golden hair out

On pillowy waters, all about

Red velvet ribbons festooned.

Home to where time

Just drifts slowly along.

Home is where I belong

Even if only in my mind.

An aimless feller rode in

On a black and stormy day.

At town center he rested

Thinking about where best to stay.

Suddenly a powerful roar;

A mighty posse he spied.

Rumbling past the Antique Shop,

A leather-bound Harley tide.

Their tires were on fire,

Their engines made of steel,

Their helmets, worn and scarred,

Their faces filled with zeal.

A slap of pride went through him

As they stormed through the town,

Their Harleys rumbling hell bent

For the flooding open ground.

Come on. Save the day.

Save the town from the river.

Flood riders on the way.

Their faces were set.

Their eyes were fixed.

All going to stop the flood.

His feelings no longer mixed.

As they rode on, he joined them,

No longer an aimless feller

But the savior of a town.

No longer a feckless heller.

Come on. Save the day.

Save the town from the river.

Flood riders on the way.

The good teacher is a river for her students.

Supported by her wisdom,

   they glide over rough places

   and safely navigate dark waters.

She gently supports them with her right hand

   while pointing out their future with her left.

She reflects the midday sun

   even into the evening of her day.

The good teacher is a river for her students.

She reveals the horizon,

   its infinite span of possibilities.

No shuttered classroom

   can contain her teachings.

The embrace of her teachings

   balances the span of childhood,

Leaving youth freely unencumbered

   by the mudflats of life.

The good teacher is a river for her students.

No flotsam or jetsam

   clutters her banks.

The traverse of her waters

   touches all shores.

All is gentle with her.

Night waters

Become a mirror

In expressive abstraction

Of river’s own reality,

Drawn by unseen currents

And waltzing eddies.

An image

Of cubist grace.

Splash!

A frog jumps

Into his own reality,

Distorting the mirror,

Sending shivering ripples

To distant shores.

Slow

And low,

A ’64 Impala

Flowin’ free

In faded Blue Dream,

Teleports from 70’s East LA

To Mississippi mud flats

Caked from the drought of ‘23.

Rolling like an ace out of place,

Needing only a wash and a wax

To ride with pride.

Bouncing down

The River Road run,

Flooding the surround with sound,

Subwoofer and amp

Vibrating hot to the groove

Of Santana’s Smooth,

Shaking Big Muddy’s dusty ground.

Once an elegant royal

Gliding over the river,

A dancer on the big stage,

Now destined for scrap.

Your fittings melted down;

Your fine linens and furniture

Hauled away to a landfill.

How beautiful

And perfect

Were you,

American Duchess?

Now lingering.

A mere rippling reflection

In noxious, green water.

Soon all that will remain,

Memories of your spirit,

Forgotten by a fickle society

That no longer values history.

Hidden away, out of sight

Like so much else

That grows too old.

Strings stretched and frayed;

Notes no longer crisp and clear;

No longer fit for the concert hall.

No more mournful Elgar concertos.

Too old and beaten up, that time has gone.

Hangin’ in a deserted workshop,

Cello dreams of soloin’ the soul,

Clingin’ to a cloud, playing 12-bar blues

At smoky nightclubs

Or on the banks of Old Muddy.

Dreamin’ misty melancholy,

Growlin’ flattened notes and walkin’ bass.

Dark, foggy nights on the levee,

Singin’ sweet soul with Lucifer’s own bow,

Stooping syncopated chords, riffin’ the baseline.

Just a beaten-up ole gutbucket under the stars.

Eagles

Defy gravity, performing

Their aerial courtship dance.

Chorus frogs fill the air

With their mating song.

River,

Freshly aroused

With spring’s snow melt

Rises up to embrace

The levy wall.

Killdeer scurry across the mudflats.

Snowy egret stands unmoved.

American Queen,

That syncopated maiden,

Floats by as if on feathers,

Her wake in rhapsody

With the silky current.

The low, deep

Swoosh

Swoosh

Swoosh

Of her paddlewheel

Softens the steady, straining

Continuo,

Those barely heard groans

Of the paddle engine’s gears.

"There are only two seasons: winter and baseball." - Bill Veeck, Jr

"Baseball is like driving. It's the one who gets home safely that counts." - Tommy Lasorda

"Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too."  - Yogi Berra

“It's a bee-yoo-tiful day for baseball." - Sportscaster, Harry Caray

Winter cold drives deep into the soul,

Shoveling snow and busting ice dams down.

Even football doesn’t help, not even the bowls.

And then, first sign of spring, the world turns around.

Until spring training there’s little to do at all.

"There are only two seasons: winter and baseball."

Baseball is a game both simple and hard.

Catch the ball in your mitt,

Watch for bad throws. Always on your guard.

Step up to the plate, get a hit,

Add to the scoreboard accounts.

"It's the one who gets home safely that counts."

They say love makes the world go around.

But the pop of a ball in the catcher’s mitt,

The crack of a bat (that magic sound),

Ball heading to the fence, homerun bound.

Baseball to summer is like paper and glue.

“Love is the most important … but baseball is pretty good, too."

Waiting for days, both clear and warm,

Not played on a field or court but in a park,

Baseball is the ultimate art form.

Grace and easy pace, from daylight to dark,

You needn’t do anything else at all.

“It's a bee-yoo-tiful day for baseball."

Like tears on the cheeks

Of this great river,

Your tents shine

With rainbows of color

In the early light

Of a frosty morn.

You are the forgotten.

Among the leafless willows,

Your poor cry out for good food.

On an icy marsh,

Your homeless cry out for warmth.

But you are not forgotten.

“Everyone will see this.

No one can miss it.”

“Walk on.”

The carriage moves forward

At a steady, slow pace

Dictated by the current

Of a force little affected

By the course of modern times.

Traveling

Without arriving,

Dubuque overflows with grace.

Standing astride ordeals

For nearly two centuries,

The river its psychic source.

As birds on a power line,

Old men

Gather at the coffee shop to talk

About the weather--

“Will it rain? Won’t it rain?”

“Remember the winter of eighty-three?”

About the younger generation--

“Not as tough as we were.”

“We walked to school,

Uphill, both ways, in freezing rain.”

About sports, back in the day--

“How about them Cards?

Stan Musial and Lou Brock;

They could string hits in a real spree.”

About their grandchildren--

“Did you hear about my Ruth

Hitting homeruns?

Her teammates call her the Babe.”

And on they brag,

Each, in turn,

Filled with pride.

Once,

Before mere reflections

Of a lost past,

Prosperity

Heralded movies

Of glorious things and exotic dynast.

Now, only rusty ruins remain,

Weeds breaking through sidewalk cracks.

Even Mark Twain’s own cave

Is a now just an afterthought,

Memorialized on a 2x4 metal sign.

Rust encrusted

Girders groan

Under the weight of endless

Cars and eighteen-wheelers

Carrying the nations

Hopes and dreams.

Beatin’ and a Drummin’,

Drummin’ and a Beatin’.

Beatin’ the five-gallon buckets.

Rappin’ the deep-water soul.

A kick and a snare, boom-bap tap.

Hip-hop beat to the bim bang bam.

16th and 32nds over and over, wham.

Closed hats, open hats on the offbeats.

Trappin’ the beat with a boom-bap tap.

Mixin’ and swayin’ an African lick

To the cornpone Southern hip-hop stick.

Rim, lift bucket, rim shot, bam.

Beatin’ flows from the spirits in the wrists

To the tips of the dowl-rod sticks.

Arrhythmic tourists

Scurry past,

Diverting their eyes

As if you don’t exist.

Music is food for your soul

But some coins for dinner,

Perhaps a gumbo bowl,

That’s good, too.

Bourbon Street flows

From dusk to dawn,

Shadows wandering the night;

   the never-ending party,

   intoxicated humanity.

Doe-eyed lovers dreaming;

   the confused hunting for their lost “it”;

   cruisers and losers out for a good time;

   hawkers and stalkers earning their daily bread;

   the angry shouting insults

   at their never-again date

   while staggering through puddles of beer.

Beyond the old old and the new old,

Beyond the artificial moons,

Beyond the twinkling stars

That do not reside in the heavens,

Beyond the reflections of spilled drinks,

Beyond this rowdy illusion of joy,

Ancient live oak trees live,

Their dark limbs hung sadly

With heavy, gray moss.

Then there is the river.

Always the river.

The river just flows.

The street car

Trundles along,

Not too fast,

Bound for the Cemeteries.

Streetlight Blues disappear

To the horizon,

Into the distant past.

What then can we know

Of the many generations

Who have seen sorrow

And joy

On the banks

Of this great river?

In the fiddle’s strings,

Their tears are remembered.

Their kisses in its bow.

Slice the okra.

Dice tomato and garlic.

Sautee with the Trinity--

(chopped onion, bell pepper and celery).

Toss in shrimps fresh from the fleet,

Blue claw crabs fresh from the bayou.

Ooh, doggie. I tol’ ya. Real Creole style.

Add a splash of Beaujolais.

Bouillon de poulet and bay leaves

Makes the soup, fusion the flavors.

Dump in filé powder and tabasco.

Add a splash of Beaujolais.

Fold in the roux to épaissir the Gumbo.

It should be medium to dark brown,

About the color of chocolate.

Add a splash of Beaujolais.

You didn’t make the roux ahead?

Arrêt! Turn the heat down!

In another frying pan,

Oil and flour, equal amounts.

Fry slowly, very slowly.

Roux wants constant stirring

And a lot of patience and love.

This is going to take time.

You will need another bottle of Beaujolais

Glaring shafts

Of yellow and red

Pierce the star-shivering night.

Constant chaos

Of churning water

Drips to the beat

Of the engine’s valved voice.

Deckhand, ordered to action,

Wrestles thick mooring rope

To Loop the docking bollard,

Making fast the tie to land.

Now manacled,

The paddleboat is estranged

From the living river.

Unmoored flotsam floats past,

Giving the illusion

That the boat is still moving.

A nighthawk gliding in fluid gyres,

Mocks the ship’s engine

With small mechanical cries

While shivering stars resume

their rippling on dark waters.ription goes here

The Mississippi is more wonderful than the creek that flows through my town.

But the Mississippi is not more wonderful than the creek that flows through my town,

Because the Mississippi is not the creek that flows through my town.

The Mississippi has enormous barges

and for those people who see things

that may no longer be there,

those waters are still travelled

by paddle wheelers of the days of Twain.

The Mississippi flows from Lake Itasca

And crosses Louisiana to dump into the sea.

Geography books tell us this.

But only a few know the creek of my town,

the spring and marsh it comes from,

the waters it flows into,

and because there are so few it belongs to,

It is larger and more free.

The Mississippi leads to all the world.

Beyond the Mississippi there is the world

and all the wealth of those who own it.

No one ever wondered what is beyond

the creek of my town

The creek of my town doesn’t make anybody think of anything. Whatever is next to it is simply next to it.