Motes

 

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In Storage

 

Walk through the collection,

kick up dust.

Discover artifacts from times past

secure beneath layers of years.

 

Insufflated by recognition, they float,

upward filtered through time,  

They sparkle, dance in sun beams

that slip through attic windows.

 

Reconnected with the re-collected,

this renascence reconstitutes pasts

to vivid, palpable, tactile presents,

revitalized but altered.

 

Their genesis, once in real time,

now transformed in space time

pine for their original forms.

Lost in the continuum, but not forgotten.

©2020 Ed Touchette

 

 

WATERS

 Posted on my FB page. This is the last poem in a series titled ARMISTICE DAY which will be posted here in October. 

 

 

WATERS OF THE LETHE

An Ode to Charlottesville

 

We stood beneath the lintel

Where vistas are boundless.

But crossing to Elysium,

We stopped to quench our thirst.

 

Blinded by the light and freedom

We anointed others to our rightful place,

Went back.

To divine with sprigs of oak and hick’ry,

Talk through cans attached with string.

 

Save the statues

Fly the flags

To remember the horrors.

The waters of the Lethe prompt serial delusion.

 ©2020 Ed Touchette

* * * *

Space Craft Spotted At Renaldi

Strange Object Sighted Near Renaldi

We stopped in Renaldi to lunch at a diner formerly owned by a boy band famous for falsetto phrasing and, as one music critic said,  ‘harmonies pleasing to Gods and Goddesses.’  The chef, Rose Pend, no relation to any band members, had recently achieved international acclaim as a defendant in a law suit filed against her by her husband.

 A usually quiet hamlet of farm families and barnyard animals, Renaldi has been turned southeast from northwest in an attempt by Wilson Pend—renowned barrator who once sued a dog owner for refusing to leash his Labrador during a fireworks display thus allowing the animal to instigate a brouhaha when a flock of pigeons, intent on escaping what they had perceived as gun fire, crashed through the stained glass window of a nearby chapel—recently, as early as yesterday, sued for abandonment and loss of affection because another resident, who asked to remain anonymous for fear of being implicated in the certain-to-follow court action Pend would pursue, because his wife of forty years had up and left before she’d  heard the cock crow a third time, or so this reporter inferred from the lengthy speech offered by Pend at a subsequent hot dog roast, barbecue, and political rally.

Frank Whatson, Pend’s attorney, refused comment when asked by a reporter for the Happy Valley Sentinel as to his client’s mate leaving home before sunrise. Later, Whatson confirmed that, Marjorie Rose Pend, his client’s wife, had not returned home following a trip to Osaflora, the suburb of Renaldi where the alleged craft allegedly landed, to view what some claim is an extraterrestrial craft. Sitting atop a mound, behind a picket fence, (see the accompanying illustration) a distinguished object, appearing as a cottage with an antiquated television or internet connection.

In his claim that cited his neighbor’s herb gardener as a co-defendent, Pend claimed Roger Delahaunty, a former prosecutor who had recently been disbarred for under reporting income to avoid taxes, had invented the story and had constructed the pseudo craft to establish a theme park from which he hoped to gain a sizable income to allay the pending (no pun intended) bills from attorneys retained to defend against Pend’s pending litigation.

©2020 Ed Touchette

The Altar at Preg

The Altar at Preg

Stopping for the night in Elta, we consumed an early dinner of conger and rice, a local favorite, and retired early so that we could rise with the sun and visit the Altar of the Preg. We wanted to arrive before the expected deluge of visitors clamoring for seats on this the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Restoration of Faith in the Healing Powers of Star Gazing. The inundation by Gazers of this holiest of sites in the world of collected interpretations would break all previous attendance records.

Prior to the outbreak of, maligilitis, in the early part of the century, the denizens of Eluthia County regularly sacrificed virgins at the Altar of The Preg. (The altar sits atop a hill south of North Tinsdaly.) The ritual, the sacrifice of a male virgin in honor of Theseus, came to an abrupt conclusion when the son of a wealthy land owner, next in line to bear the brunt of the ritual—so to speak, confessed that he had indulged his libidinous longings long before he’d visited a cold storage facility to ensure his role as a progenitor. (At a fertility festival in another province, he’d enjoyed a couple of sips of a philter and had engaged a woman without a filter or any other protective devices.) Fearing the discovery of an heir not apparent at that time and a protracted legal dispute, R. Paltry Howell, then the mayor of the township and President for Life of the local chapter of the Nights of Phaedra declared the annual sacrifice a pagan ritual and deemed it harmful.

Los Animales, a group of cartoon aficionados dedicated to establishing territorial imperatives in a world they feared was going to hell in a hand basket, because they said so, planned a demonstration at this year’s gathering and the size of the group meant any available overflow would be viewing a televised replay of events. Nonetheless, with representatives of the Order of Amigula standing arm in arm at the perimeter of the festival, the local constabulary believed order would prevail. 

©2020 Ed Touchette

The Indian Died

Did I Mention

The Indian died, about ten miles north of Waldingford Bridges, a location well known for its refusal to participate in a feature film. Y’know which one. So we hitched a ride with an eighteen wheeler ( the part of the vehicle in which we sat featured 10 of the 18 wheels) hauling frozen beef lungs to a dog food plant in Taswell. Auntie (I rarely called her that because when I used that form of address she’d snarl and split like a Eastern Diamond Back thinking Johnny Burgoyne was marching through her swamp) nonetheless, she was fascinated with all of the gauges on the dash that the driver used to ascertain the operating condition of the vehicle. Also, she was mesmerized by the chords hanging from the ceiling of the cab. The sway of one chord had a particularly hypnotic affect. The trucker let my aunt haul on one as we passed a pasture filled with grazing dairy stock. As thrilled as she was with her new toy, the cows paid little attention to the sound, and she found that exasperating. (Our driver mentioned that the cows had become insured to the sound of an air horn. Farmers had trained them thusly to prevent the souring of product. My aunt remained unfazed.) As well, as we entered the depot at Taswell, she hauled on the lanyard to the air horn and lumpers scattered. Later, one old timer related a story about how, when he was much younger working the docks in Gloucester, a ship’s horn sounded and so frightened the crane operator, the operator jerked the controls too quickly and a pallet loaded with 50 pound cartons of cheese, tipped and fell into the harbor. A woman, somewhat renowned for her bird portraits, photographing sea birds perched on a nearby wharf recorded the event and the roll of film was seized by the authorities pending the outcome of the law suit certain to be filed. As of this date, the suit remains unsettled but the film, appraised at $50 at the time its execution, is now valued at hundreds of thousands. Appraisers feel that the price will rise even higher as the death of the eminent artist is imminent. 

©2020 Ed Touchette

The Mansion at Brodsleeve

The Mansion at Brodsleeve

 

Driving through Lower Brodsleeve, we happened upon this mansion. Prides Muse was built for John D. Walls, Chairman of the D and B Railroad Corporation. Gifted to the village of Lower Brodsleeve, Walls’ former home is now a western music venue and gift shop.  It features several rooms filled with memorabilia from the days when the D&B hauled hoppers filled with stone from the mines, north of Brodsleeve, to crushers east of the village, and finally to finishers south of Brodsleeve. (Nothing but snake infested swamp sat to the west of the village in case you were wondering.) Suffice to say. Walls became filthy rich  hauling hard stone from the mines to be finished into kitchen counters, patio fire pits, decorative planters, and more. 

More rooms have been converted to displays of the recordings for which Lower Brodsleeve has become famous. When stone wear fell from fashion, the building became uninhabitable due to neglect. When Arthur MacArthur stumbled on the building and immediately, if not sooner, decided to purchase the structure and establish a rehearsal space and recording studio for his band, Los Dicotos. The balance as they say, is historical, as Los Dicotos went on to a successful recording career and wowed audiences with appearances on The Lucky Stroke Hit Parade and American Plant Stand. An entire room is dedicated to Moonlight Cruise, the well known composition featuring Roy Ray in his initial foray into western music.

The stairway to the tower rooms was replaced by an elevator in 1947 but has since been restored to its original condition. Visitors found the music in the elevator incongruent with the mission of the museum and insisted the museum rethink its design.

Dell Upton

Dell Upton

Leaving Fardimlee, we passed a sign for Dell Upton. We discussed the name for several miles but were unable to agree on the origins of the hamlet’s appellation. Hoping a visit to the hamlet, might offer insights to the etymology of  the name, we turned back. Despite its history as a refuge for Native Americans during King George’s War there seemed to be no connection to the migration from west to east.  The theory that touted travel by canoe along the ice cap held no water.

Delving into its present-day reputation as a hub of research, where scientists and lab assistants spend hours, days, and months pouring over computer generated formulae with hopes of discovering a cure for Intolerance, led nowhere. So far, any success they’ve enjoyed has been limited to a cure for Impatience with Spring Odors, in particular, the smell of fresh cow manure spread generously over the meadows.

To no avail, an attempt was made several years ago to generate a salve capable of healing nail cracks. The product, failing to affect that condition whatsoever, did prove worthwhile in mitigating fish odors. And much to the surprise and amazement of the research team’s leader, the unctuous salve proved a benefit in facilitating the replacing of axle bearings in older model—pre 1946— Plymouths. Although patents pend, locals feel there is little hope that the product will prove the gold mine promised by the company’s founder, Ben-Ray Donn. Donn, having frittered away the millions he received as seed money from the town, left for the Florida Keys, years prior. As is visible in the accompanying image, Dell Upton’s fields are slowly reverting to original states although old timers argue: Green fields in autumn are more a consequence of leaks in the drums used to bury the excess radium applied to sun dials and wind chimes for night viewing. We left Dell Upton not knowing how much radium we might have ingested but whenever we stopped at a cross roads, and my aunt blinked, drivers approaching in the opposite lanes waved heartily to thank us.

A Note From Fardimlee

A Note From Fardimlee

Street Corner—Fardimlee  

etching ink monoprint 

15 x 20 inches

edt. 1979

Just beyond Fardimlee is Converse, a town settled by talkers. A quiet village but for the din of interminable conversation, inhabited by descendants of the  early abstract expressionists. Formerly, this visual culture reared descendants on charcoal, paper, and inks but today, the residents of Converse rarely draw and paint. Although they love implied meaning, they prefer simply constructed sentences with little if any embellishment. Therefore protracted diatribe is frowned on making political speeches unwelcome. They construct scenes and images with words. Their penchant for discourse has developed into a culture of storytelling unmatched except for the Southern United States. As one critic stated: Residents of Converse write that which is palpable.

As children progress through their years from infancy to adulthood, life changes obviate the need for sophistication in communication. Residents tend toward gatherings that enhance opportunities for exchange including prattle, gossip, outright boasting, yakking, and confabulation. Words bolstered by images are revered, nonetheless, relying on an image to clarify a message is verboten. Sign language is, however, welcomed.

Annually, pow wows fill open spaces with wordy riposte and banter. Gatekeepers are charged with denying entry to those who would indulge a habit of substituting commonly overused descriptors and nouns. For example, last summer, a professor of communications was asked to leave the grounds when he touted a student’s work that included this sentence. Multiple people, here, at the Pow Wow for Peace Politicos  suffered injuries, here, when exposed to sunlight despite lathering with sunscreen, here.

Cigar Store Indian

Cigar Store Indian

We stopped in Dill Weed for lunch. Since the election a few years ago, when the populous opted to shorten the name of the hamlet to Weed, the area has experienced exponential growth—at least in numbers of residents. This increase is attributed to an influx of refugees from the communes that dotted the hills during the 60s and 70s but were dissolved during the Nixon years.

A crew of cameramen, actors, and best boys remained after an episode of Alias Smith and Jones was shot nearby. They regularly visit the Weed plaza. They sign autographs and picture postcards. Despite the fact that they look nothing like their photos from 60 years ago, they, nonetheless, enjoy the lively exchanges with people who hardly know and or knew them.

During our time in Weed, we, my aunt and I, spied a motorcycle parked in front of Twin Feathers Smoke and Cigar Emporium. The Indian started with no problem and we toured the area for the remainder of the day.

The Hanging Gardens

Deriving their name from their usage subsequent to the feudal feuds of the early 17th Century, these gardens, where early residents washed and dried clothing (thus the name), feature an array of fronds and blossoms unique to this area alone. As we traipsed through the fauna, my aunt noticed several animals that bore a resemblance to rabbits but were much too large. Although they resembled rabbits, we later learned the locals called them ponies. This prompted my aunt to lapse into stories of her youth when her father would leave home early to scour the countryside for food.

Anchored in Presley Bay

Near the coast of Consalvo adjacent to Presley Bay, we anchored. Initially awestruck by the magnificence of the layered sand and the dearth of vegetation, we set to concocting a repast of local fare, hoping to film a documentary of local cuisine. Of course the first course would have to be a digestive consisting of unrisen biscuits salted with seeds from the local borber bushes. Hopeful that this course would ease us into the heavier offerings—palmet livers, coarse ridwol skins stuffed with a mixture of heavy cream and brandied willa berries, and the ubiquitous range lillies to be roasted with the frozen sol we’d packed for just such an occasion.

Singuinal nest in the rocks above the bay and leave future get unguarded. Nonetheless, knowing the danger of disturbing their nests, we opted to leave them alone. (Last season several sailors had entered the bay and knowing of the tasty delicacies had scheduled a film crew to record a documentary on the preparation of Singuinal Omelettes. Nonetheless several Singuinal attacked the crew and a videographer lost arm hairs and the lobe of an ear when a King Singuinal dove on her.)

The Ancient City of Quasdalia

 

We were stuck. In the center of the vast city of curves and power blocks, we had driven the auto into a pot hole the size of which is unmentionable given the limitations on descriptive speech. It was mammoth. And speaking of those woolly beasts, the hole might have accommodated dozens of the critters as well as distant relatives from the Kingdom of Apes, Gnu and Wildebeests. Exaggeration aside, it was a big hole.

Speaking of holes, we decided at that time to delay our trip to Quasdalia, and over coffee and donuts, decided to spend the remainder of our day relishing the gifts of the ancients. We left the auto in the hole with a trustworthy mechanic and hiked roughly 100 yards to a nearby motel. The Wishing Well Motel, aptly named for the well sitting at the entrance to the parking lot. Auntie promptly tossed a coin into the well as we passed and announced that she was hoping for a quick solution to our dilemma. When I told her that keeping wishes a secret was crucial to their being granted, she quickly recanted.

A day in Isabella

ISABELLA

This city, renowned for its hospitality, sits on a mud bank flanked by two streams, the Roiling and the Turgid. Consequently its inhabitants, known affectionately by the appellation, Swimmers, have so instilled in their get this necessary affability to water, that their predominant distinguishing characteristic has become webbed feet. At the gates to the city, Helmeted Hornbills rest atop Grecian columns, hurriedly constructed during the three day dry period between the rainy months which extend through the Roman Calendar, compensating for leap years and time spent for celebrating the return of wrestling as a professional sport.

As we turned off the highway to enter Isabella, my aunt remarked on the cleanliness of the sidewalks. (We arrived in early spring so the dearth of floating sediment or lack of turbidity in the Roiling allowed for a clear view of the submerged stone walks.) We were delighted to see, first hand, the handy work of graffiti artists, who have utilized mosaic techniques to tell the history of the city.

The Immigrant

 

The Immigrant

Fortunate am I to stand

at the bottom of Moorland

where granite melts to water,

where nothing constricts my view.

To hear cobbles chuckle in ebbing tides,

and soar on thoughts of distant lands, 

fare forward beyond the savages,

exult in the prospect of eternity.

Sail with Amundsen on Hudson’s Bay

searching for the Northwest Passage.

squinting to glimpse Melville hunting oil.

Icebergs and shipwrecks appear.

Souls and skeletons litter beaches.

Blackburn’s lost fingers,

the nets of the living dead release,

I wallow and wonder in new worlds.

Once your voice filled my sails

and I sailed the universe

setting my course on dreams,

asleep in a shoe of wood.

As you who sailed to an unknown land,

speaking without being heard,

hearing without understanding

standing alone in crowds.

Horizons restricted bedizened dreams

future buried in your gardens.

You worked as others soared, as

now do I on gossamer wings.

Days of endless joy from your labors

paint horizons without limit.

Nets fill with glittering stars. 

Where I am you are.

Living

Life and death on planet Earth or

While watching a child headed for the beach.

A star is born

Its brilliant lustre blinds

Its pull, its gravity irresistible

Its beauty unbearable

Whelmed by attention to

Its every want

Its volume  swells

Its beauty hones

As fission fizzes

Its death approaches

Its glow mutates to memory.

A window closes.

Day Lilies and Other Plants

The self-inflated soar

On self engendered thermals.

Below.

Tethered by belief.

Others eye Day Lilies

Short-lived but glorious

Willingly laborious

More for us than me.

Memory of Mountains

A Memory of Mountains

Near Middlebury, where I paint, fields and pastures loll westward.

The lake in the distance shimmers below granite cliffs.

A stand of trees draws a line.

A stone wall crosses – interrupting but briefly.

 The landscape is its own being and cannot be other.

This patchwork of cornrows and lush, verdant grasses,

rich umber furrows where stalks will sprout,

eases the eyes to the deep, ultramarine that is

Champlain.  

Beyond, near Port Henry, mountains rise from the waters –

not gently, as if to ease the soul to higher planes,

severely, demanding to know why you approach.

Once you’ve explored and exhausted all answers,

given yourself to the simple majesty that, millions of years ago,

was the verge of the ocean,

you’ll let go of that to which we cling,

those feeble attempts to dominate the indomitable. 

and

You will embrace your being on the Earth.

You will give thanks.

You will feel grace. 

Crow and Squirrel

The crow flies,
Straight as an arrow.
Her shadow undulates
Crossing the cornfield.

They’ll meet at the ditch
On the side of the road
Where a squirrel lies—
His way to the field
Interrupted by a truck.

more at 

A Brief History of Power

A Brief History of Power
(Clearly Visible as you Cross the Causeway to Rocky Neck) 

Between Norman’s Woe and the Magnolia shore
The financials tower over Boston .
Sparkling in the morning sun,

Striving skyward across the harbor,
The Universalist, St. Ann's, and most humble,
Our Lady, clutches a dragger.

Above all, wind turbines.
Withal, cell towers defer.

Turbines
24 x 18 inches
acrylic/ canvas

 

Soon.
Sails will fill
The harbor will come alive
With flapping white canvas or
Synthetic blends
But aren't all stories.