Rain

I hope you are sleeping well. You should be – if the rain is not too loud . I woke because it was too warm and I was perspiring. The rain is rapping on the roof, walls and skylight of the tree house like it is trying to get in. The dilapidated gutters are overrunning and the water is slapping the wooden balustrade and deck of the veranda like ten thousand angry palms across ten thousand innocent faces. The ground is saturated and the cement walk is flooded. It continues to rain. 

                                                                              

A LETTER TO C.

A LETTER TO C.

Dear C.,

I hope I wasn't too overly cynical in my last e-mail. I am, in most essential respects, optimistic: though cognizant of the muddy playing fields that have been imposed – pressed upon us. Coming from a heart that prefers a forthright skyway; I am not very fond of muddying the trail. All this talk of doing the right thing, while considering what new physical limitations, let alone national, let alone global developments may deter us from achieving what is expected, leaves me unpropitiously estimating, "What next?".

Yesterday, I was without internet and phone service for five hours, (a tornado in Newcastle County?) – and this morning the power went off while I was working on line, ( a transformer blew at Sams?) Speaking of Lame Adventures!

I hope you are accomplishing all you desire.

Longingly,

R.

RAPTUROUS RAPPORT

Passing on the Right

Passing on the Right

I love the smell of iodine in the morning ; for that matter I love it in the afternoon, evening and all night ; I don’t want to be anywhere other than near the ocean. It is no wonder that the earth is made up of over seventy percent water. I could never be happy on Mars or Venus, although it pleases me to have them so near . I have been adaptable at times ; some of you would argue this point, you know who you are, but, your untruthiness be told , it was simply that your agendas and quotas were not being met ; often or not it was your unrealistic and distorted expectations driving you to pronounce me as inflexible. Anyway, I would like nothing more than to be compassionate toward those who would harm me, but, there are too many assholes passing on the right.

– Robert Pennington Price

Lunaris Rarus

Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a blue moon. Pale purple colored shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.

– Robert Pennington Price

TO SENSE

To Sense

With the cooler nights lending themselves to more temperate mornings – it's been a brutally hot summer – I have taken to riding the mountain bike. On the wide open country roads traversing the old railroad tracks and the creeks and streams heading up the St Jones River I was rewarded by the pleasant aroma of freshly cut grass; my path was strewn with an abundance of cobalt blue morning glories and a pair of yellow finches raced along side me, always perching, waiting for me to catch up before taking wing flying another fifty yards before lighting to repeat all over again. Butterflies flittered at lush green foliage, smal winged and large winged, orange, yellow and white. The sun shone brightly and the sky was a paler shade of the dewy and reflective morning glories. On returning to a more congested area at a stop sign – ceding to the oncoming rush hour traffic – I discovered two copper pennies, one heads, one tales; the latter perfectly canceling the former. All-pervading, the adventure leaves me with a sense of gratitude and the recognition of good fortune: and two cents richer.

– Robert Pennington Price

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

Bike Ride Apple Pie Breakfast

In the cool of the morn

Devoid of all scorn

I inflated bike tires

Beyond all the mires

Rode; less forlorn

Returning to home

Cut oats not alone

Golden Delicious

Coconut, raisons judicious

A pie all my own.*

* Add ginger and walnuts!

– Robert Pennington Price

THE CANOPY

The Canopy

The verdant cloak, inching closer to the bay window overlooking the head of the St Jones River where I write, is glistening with the continuing precipitation – each leaf a sparkling emerald –  droplets the size of quarter dollars rap and tap on the sky-light at the apex of the vaulted ceiling of my tree house. The verdure is eerily still while starry openings reveal a silver-gray yonder. The usually sun-bleached white walk is tan, colored by the moisture that refused to cling to the lush vegetation that drapes an arbor of branches like long arms and fingers reaching, reaching until autumn and then winter, perforce, amend the green and disrobe the wooden structures.

– Robert Pennington Price

VIRGO

Virgo

A dense cluster of  leaves of the trees in the wood turn upward in anticipation of  the impending precipitation. Branches waggle, yes, and no, thrust back and forth, urged up and down by a sub-tropical breeze, while the bluish-purple sky dims and rain droplets rattle on the sky-light and pepper the bleached white cement walk. It is humid, yet cool. There is a sense of stillness: yet simultaneously, a frenetic energy boasting of what may come. A distant boom and the rustling of tens of thousands of leaves softly sounds the eve. Waiting… waiting… for come what may.

–Robert Pennington Price

The Slogan

On this hot dry and overcast August 22nd 2012 I have been very pleased to entertain at my round table, in a room in the corner of the palace in my mind, discussing the theme of trust and distrust, the generations it takes to instill reliance, or break it down, (mostly break it down), and other brilliant revelations of character as conveyed in his short stories, none other, than John Updike himself.  Fragmented  translucent clouds wafted overhead, signaling the onset of autumn. Outside and stories below in the courtyard the pool of dense rippling blue-green sent up an abysmal odor of chlorine, as we talked freely and intensely seriously, recalling those famous last words, from far too many manipulative close family members, erroneous employers, randy rectors, unthinkingly enthusiastic law enforcers, corrupt congressional coteries, former gold digging girlfriends, (to put names to a handful), “trust me…”.

Robert Pennington Price

MOVIE REVIEW

Movie Review

Ugh… Hatfields and McCoys… Ugh…

Too much like:

 Some close family members,

Staunchly contorted clients,

Exed  gold digging girlfriends,

Former wonky employers,

Past  lustful ministers,

Nearsighted Law enforcers,

And

Current  corrupt congressional cohorts;

In other words:

Too much like:

Most  imposed acquaintances…

Robert Pennington Price

Thursday

How did it get to be Thursday?

Yesterday it was the weekend.

How did it get to be Thursday?

Still… no money to send.

Less than two days it will be the weekend,

A time for hard work and to earn.

Less than two days it will be the weekend,

Enough money to go to work; I yearn.

Next thing you know it will be Thursday

Will there be money to send?

Next thing you know it will be Thursday,

On and on with no end.

Robert Pennington Price

From A Bay Window

From A Bay Window

 

The leaves paint a dappled backdrop on the white walls; their shadows cast from the sun, low in the evening sky. Green fingers from the verdant canopy dance with short quick movements from side to side and up and down; nodding yes, and then, no. The dark and threatening storms have swept over the bay to New Jersey taking the thunder and lightening with. The weather has calmed and the cement walk is bleached white again, dry, of the few light showers that were satellites of the mother rainstorm. I read and write by the waning light – message a friend and view responses – reply again. Back to my charge, by and large, gleaning insight, from come what may.

Robert Pennington Price

The Phantom of Her Blog

The Phantom of Her Blog

Her blog appeared with the ping of my phone, I transpierced, mesmerized, engulfed, navigating my way round the phantom, lifted, carried deep into the well, emerging, prancing over catwalks, springing toward the decaying spiral of dripping eloquence, up, up to the dome overlooking all that can be seen; an ancient river of wisdom.

http://salmonsaladandmozart.com/?p=2216

Trough the Dark Foliage

Trough the Dark Foliage

The verdant Canopy is a green-black cloak.

Thunder roars and rolls as cannons on a battlefield,

Birds chant wildly deep from the wood,

Raindrops mark the bleached cement walk 

With spatter the size of quarters.

A rat-tat-tat on the skylight informs 

A steadier flow of precipitation.

Bits of sky, like stars, shine silver-gray

Through the dark foliage. 

The rumbling rolling drums subside,

Distant; passing; moving eastward.

Another cell parading from he west now audible

Gains momentum, louder, replacing it's predecessor. 

The sky dims.

Cadence of an aircraft circling the storm sounds overhead.

Booming reverberations resume.

Tree branches waggle, patiently,

In wait of a drink.

–Robert Pennington Price

Past Future Present: From a balcony From a balconyI look on the verdant...

Past Future Present: From a balcony
From a balconyI look on the verdant...: From a balcony From a balcony I look on the verdant canopy Where insects flitter And all birds chitter The sun creeps round...

From a balcony

From a balcony

I look on the verdant canopy

Where insects flitter

And all birds chitter

The sun creeps round

To emerald leaves found

Coolness prevails

Soon to set sails

The sun creeps round

Temperatures mound

The earth does spin 

While societies sin

Make your own path

Tis all that you hath

Don't be a lady

The motivation too shady

Roads don't exist

Take maps off your list

Paths they are made

Where your foot is laid

Walk on…

– Robert Pennington Price

APRIL SHOWERS

April Showers

Beyond the bay window, more verdant it grew:

With every free raindrop, denser the hue.

I drink; then I write,

I call without fight.

This consistent cold spring rain

Leaves nothing to vain:

I call on my friends 

To relive all our pain.

My friends; they have said,

Nothing is dead.

Left all alone

Reading by the phone.

The boughs they do sway

While others do pray,

Their desires be done:

While yours; still to come.

Left all alone

Make your own home.

Robert Pennington Price

The Wood is a Stage

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

– William Shakespeare 

The Wood is a Stage

The wood, still, lighted brightly this day

Monochromatic 'cept  the few red bud

Peaceful warm and quiet, 'cept birds at play

Brilliant cerulean backdrop o'er  the wood

A curtain, cloudless; where the eagle soar

Everlasting cheep, does the red bird cheep

Little  blue brook to the Jones River pour

A carpet, rust leaves, for creatures to sweep 

A stage; for willing players: evermore …

– Robert Pennington Price

SUNSET CRUISE…

Once upon a time, I Chuang Tzu, dreamt I was a butterfly,

fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a 

butterfly, and was unconcious of my individuality as a man.

Suddenly I awaked, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do 

not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly, 

or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.

                                                                                          Chuang Tzu

                                   Taoist Philosopher and Chinese Mystic

                                                                                             c. 330 B C.

SUNSET CRUISE

A burnt-orange fiery ball of a sun sizzled as it dipped into an aquamarine Gulf in the distance, as the golden orb of a  harvest moon peeked shyly at the fold of our vast ultramarine Atlantic, the cloud filled sky took on a glow of pastel shades ; same as those painted nine-teen-twenties art-deco hotels on Miami Beach, one-hundred and fifty miles to the north-east. The sixty-five foot catamaran was full of drifting sunburned faces sipping wine and beer which flowed in copious and generous amounts. The first mate, from Wilmington Delaware gave me a nod ; sunset cruise was a success.

Another visit from the Earl of Grey…

Let us consider that we are all partially insane.
It will explain us to each other.

–Mark Twain

Incessant Subjection

The Earl of Grey 

Has come to see me

Soothing My guilt

Never to wilt

For  a moment or two

He speaks aromas

Sights sounds true

Lest in a coma

Nourishing

The common sense

Spun flourishing 

By those of offense

In a soft velvet 

Whisper to me

No time to let

Just time to be

The Earl of Grey 

Has come to see me

Calming the guilt 

I wish he'd kilt

The untold want, of life and land ne'er granted,

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find. 

– Walt Whitman

The Maggie S. Myers

The Maggie S. Myers

Had two handsome buyers

Captain Thumper and Jean

 Sighted and saw her clean

They saved her; a renaissance feat

From stem stern to cleat

One hundred and twenty years old 

For five thousand she sold

Historic Oyster schooner

Sails the Delaware Bay

Daybreak and sooner

Prevailing winds make her way

Commissioned  in eighteen ninety-three

Fifty feet long and  fifteen feet wide

From the Murderkill to the Bay she is free

Like a fat snow goose to glide

Eight to ten inches of hull

Thick skinned and beefy

Rarely a lull

Breaking bay ice easy

It was love at first sight 

Friend proudly said

Sailing, working all her might

Diligently , many are fed 

Low to the water 

And dredges by hand

Never she falter

Always she's grand

On fourth of July

Food drink and song

She entertains I 

And all who come along

The Maggie S. Myers

Has two handsome owners

Captain Thumper and Jean

A song to be seen

We yearn to be pierced by that

 Occasional void through which the supernatural flows.

–Charles Wright

True Religion

This world is mostly roiling water:

And no matter what land you stride

It is no more than a crumpled bridge

To take you to the other side...

All crossings are negotiable 

You need not live in fear

Open your heart and mind with compassion,

Understanding with love ... near and dear.

Dissidence

Let us consider that we are all partially insane.

It will explain us to each other.

– Mark Twain

Dissidence 

It is six in the morning

You want me to call now

You're asleep and you're snoring

Some way and somehow

Resting for another day

Making another vow

To hear what they say

Then use your common sense

To play what they play

Furthermore and hence

Guiding their sleepwalk

Tearing down their fence

All while they balk

Creeping around

Not hearing you talk

It is six in the morning 

You want me to call now?