“If it weren’t for the rocks in its bed, the stream would have no song.” — Carl Perkins
Music
A Post Apocalyptic Poem
by Lewis Cavallo
All these days are filled with rust,
With nothing living on the earth’s crust.
Ships and cars and planes and hearts,
Are all that you’ll find,
But who said that the human race has become refined?
Civilization has ended… Yes,
Cultures have been removed… Yes,
Common sense ceases to be relevant… Yes,
But was it not compulsory before?
Perhaps the era of technology has ended,
And most souls of the past have descended,
But we are still human after all…
Aren’t we?
Does a smart phone and a suit and a job and a home,
Make us the humans we have all known,
Or is there something inside of all of us,
Something that helps the wounded,
Instead of our own.
Maybe it’s the feeling inside when we see another,
The rush of excitement, pain, fear and the next world,
To discover.
Maybe it’s the thought of putting down,
What has so much to offer just for your own needs,
Greedy…
Needy…
I don’t see a difference from this world and the last,
Perhaps someone I stumble upon will shut me down fast,
Or perhaps they will nod and walk on, right past.
āWhat is the meaning of life? That was all- a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.ā ā Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Moorish Queen once stood in front of a Cigar Store – Skagway Museum
āTo preserve the past is to save the future…ā Ā ā Nanette L. Avery
Local Alaskan art.
āLove is the only flower that grows and blossoms without the aid of the seasonsāĀ ā Kahlil Gibran
āAnd that’s how things are. A day is like a whole life. You start out doing one thing, but end up doing something else, plan to run an errand, but never get there. . . . And at the end of your life, your whole existence has the same haphazard quality, too. Your whole life has the same shape as a single day.ā Ā ā Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park Ā
With eye upraised his master’s look to scan,
The joy, the solace, and the aid of man:
The rich man’s guardian and the poor man’s friend,
The only creature faithful to the end.
George Crabbe
A Something in a Summer’s Day
Emily Dickinson
“A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!”
The Lost Pilot
Ā James Tate
for my father, 1922-1944
Your face did not rot
like the othersāthe co-pilot,
for example, I saw him
yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare
as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot
like the othersāit grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their
distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive
orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,
with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested
scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You
could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what
it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least
once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,
I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a strangerās life,
that I should pursue you.
My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake
that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.
Maverick Mist 