Friday, November 11, 2016
Thursday, November 10, 2016
SING ALONG ~
———————————————————
Sing Along
Sorry, I'm real sick right about now of the profound —
We have profound poets, profound politicians, profound pundits
Profound books to read, and while I revel with the next guy in the profound
Learn from the profound, sing along with the profound
There is nothing in the world like straight talk
When straight talk is the obvious trail through the woods
Up the alley
To the cancer cell
I can't tell you how much of my life working in the woods
Has taught me to skip the profound and follow the deer trail
Sideways across the mountain, not up —
So I'm not there to listen to Donald Trump's concession speech
In a long line of marauders and monsters on the stage with him
Nor Hillary Clinton's carefully staged concession, and farewell
Please go
With your husband's sexual predatory ways
Akin to his golfing buddy Donald Trump's similar predatory ways
And Anthony Weiner's similar predatory ways
Along with Julian Assange's similar predatory ways
The face of Hillary Clinton and other women's faces tells it all
There has been serious damage done
Or as the voice of a young woman shouted out to Hillary Clinton
The other night when she gave a speech roiled and boiled
In the controversies no doubt caused by those who she associates with
The young woman supporter cried, "Not Your Fault "
A beautiful teleplay, lasting mere seconds, that shined that light
And how I was just reminded by Sweetheart while walking
The woods in the rain that it was 40 years ago today
When we rolled out of blankets on the floor of
Our wood's cabin after spending the night by the radio
No sleep, and welcomed in the Presidency of Jimmy Carter
We must have closed our eyes for a moment because the cabin door
Knocked and outside was our only neighbor Everett who stood there
Lame and wanted to know, in this 11th hour, if I could cross the river
And work up five cord of firewood for him before winter
Winter just around the bend
I'd be paid $8 a cord from a guy who didn't have money, or wood
I'd have to cross the river wearing waders
I cut the wood Everett got his wood winter did come and now it's all passed
A lot of Trump's voters are like Everett
Up at dawn banging on some door waiting for an impossible dream to come true
Sometimes it does
In the right hands
Working hands
Of all colors
Shapes and
Sizes
————————————————
Bob Arnold
9 November 2016
Vermont
p.s. "Please go" re Hillary — here is a thought I haven't heard entertained —
to assist healing the country, unifying opposites, where Donald Trump can
reveal a conciliatory heart, and make everyone jump, mostso his supporters,
since his past life has been a wonder of unpredictability: have Mr. Trump
select Hillary Clinton as a Supreme Court Justice. World goes round.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
ON SOME GREAT AND GLORIOUS DAY ~
———————————————
On some great and glorious day
the plain folks of the land
will reach their hearts desire
at last and the White House
will be adorned by a downright
moron.
___________________
H. L. M E N C K E N
(1920)
DRIVE ON, DRIVER ~
_________________________________________________
Hello Midnight,
Half the country is shocked, the other half is shouting, “Drain the swamp!” And wanting to still, “Lock her up!” This is from the Trump campaign in a ritzy downtown hotel in New York City late last night and now into early Wednesday morning.
We’re in trouble.
Most likely worse than Nixon: the executive branch, the House, the Senate, all destroyed for civil duty, humanitarian concerns. A monkey house.
The polls are now a proven joke, ditto most of the media, my goodness won’t Donald Trump have a field day with them all.
We shouldn’t deny we are involved, whether we like it or not, with a coup — the F.B.I. and their minions, how moderate Republicans will survive, never mind much of the country as Trump takes over with his bully ways. Should be a disaster to watch. And much pain to endure. Many won't be able, already weakened, beaten, diminished, badly hurt.
Naturally we never trusted Hillary (and we voted for her) being Bernie people, and way back (a year ago) those in the know knew Bernie would be the better candidate against Trump. The dirty tricks of the DNC and Hillary’s campaign against Bernie is also coming home. So she has now received her punishment.
Trump will also get his. And those that voted for him, needing an authoritarian figure, are about to receive one.
A week ago, Susan asked me could Trump win? I said, “Definitely. If the back hills people come through: the workers, the plumbers, the pissed off," and they have. Once upon a time they were Democrats and in strong unions. Now they’re zombies. Lotto ticket buyers. Driftless. Mainly white nationalists. And Trump absolutely loves it where he has them.
Susan’s gone to bed very depressed.
Imagine the Obamas.
The animals.
The sea.
The sky.
The animals.
The sea.
The sky.
———————————————————
Bob
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Monday, November 7, 2016
BORN HERE ~
Son of a Bitch
The
old man is a something else
Son
of a bitch — no other way to
Think
of it, even though it isn’t
Exactly
kind, but that’s the way it is.
He’d
bitch at you, he’d bitch at me,
Give
him a topic — weather, taxes,
School
budget, road maintenance, local
Politics
— the first person in to see
His
son at the town garage, the last person.
You
knew what would be said as soon as
You
left, you almost wanted it to
Begin
while you were still there.
Give
him time, he’s heading that way.
Has
helped his son at work on truck
Engines
for the last twenty years and
Is
now past seventy, wool capped,
Glasses,
blunt forehead, all shoulders
In
a sweatshirt no matter when I see
Him,
even picking strawberries up on
One
of the sunny hills across town, but
He
is almost friendly when doing that.
A
gorgeous garden, peas are always up
By
early May, and he has a way and
Tenderness
to work in asparagus and
Bushels
of raspberries on the small
Vegetable
bed he plows by the side
Of
the road. Plants his bush peas
Roadside
to shed dust that rises
From
an overpopulated back road;
How
those neighbors fly. He has bitched
And
stamped so many years about the
New
hoard that his language and treatment
On
the subject is abbreviated to
A
shake of his head — he knows you
Understand
even though you weren’t
Born
here — the key to what it means
To
be native in this old man’s eyes,
Idiotic
as it might seem since he isn’t
Anymore
native than the next white old
Gent
still farming in town following
His
own father’s haul, but it does
Generate
a certain policy of who-is-who
In
the town. “How long you lived here?”
Is
like having the last word.
The
old man and his son have lived here,
Right
here, no more than a few feet either
Way
of birth-right, in this house and not
Including
the porch where I stand trading
A
few words with the old man — he tacked
That
on ten years ago. We have known
One
another twenty years and no matter
Each
time I see him we go into the same
Routine
of weather, seasonal news, how
Far
along we both are in getting up next
Winter’s
wood supply. He can be counted
On
to have his firewood (cut from bought logs)
Bucked
and split and stacked in a half
Dozen
rows thirty-two feet long fresh and
Sturdy
and incredibly pleasing to the eye.
He
does this all by himself with a wood splitter
And
grubby chain saw, while maul and wedge
Are
always close by for what won’t split.
His
son burns oil in a castle of a house
And
can’t make any sense of this wood
Infatuation
but he will tell you it gives
Dad
something to do, maybe keep him out
Of
the garage away from the customers
Who
walk away bewildered by the old man’s
Statements.
How in the world can one man
Be
so outright angry and do such complete
Work
in his garden and firewood detail?
I
can picture him right now moving between
The
stacks of firewood adjusting the ends
Of
each row not to spill apart, raking
Bark
and chips, liking every bit of the
Feeling
he must have knowing it is early
May,
far from winter, and here he is
Ready
for anything. A son of a bitch.
Born Here
Mason
was never meant to die —
I
know we all still think that,
But
he did, before winter, and
We
lost one of our last town farmers.
I
wonder what he would have thought
Of
this past winter of nearly no snow —
Mud
that we figured dry by late
March
how it doubled-back after a
Week
of rain ruining the roads all
Over
again. Mason would have
Taken
it in stride, he was born here.
How
many times did he pull out
A
lost visitor to the village
At
the foot of his hill — door deep
Tipped
in mud — shying away from
Taking
money for his time as he neatly
Curled
up the log chain on the rear
Tongue
of his tractor. It was a half
Mile
trip back up the hill. Unlike us,
Mason
never had a view to the river
From
his place, but he and Ruth
Often
drove down the valley
Road,
slow as a walk, looking into
Our
yard over stone walls where Susan
Raked
the wet spring flower beds,
Her
hair torn in the wind.
Those
were the days! If they missed
Us
going down river — on the way
Back
they waved — real waves, like
They
meant it. We would return
The
favor when hiking around the
Old
woods road of Church Mountain
Rising
into Mason and Ruth country,
With
its hilltop view of the valley.
I
always felt back at home returning
From
work in the winter seeing
Distantly
their row of barn windows
Lit
for milking. One man and
Woman
together kept the farm
Mended
and able. It was one of the
Last
working farms in Guilford, and
Now
without Mason, there are four farms
Left.
Thirty years ago, Mason always
Reminded
us with his own personal
History,
there were thirty farms in town.
Mason
died of the old man’s disease
According
to Bill Weathers, who is
His
cousin, and can’t pronounce Alzheimer’s.
When
he died Ruth scrubbed every room
In
the house from floor to ceiling and
Still
hasn’t moved Mason’s old blue
Oldsmobile
out of spring mud beside
The
barn — which we could identify
Anywhere
— even in the grocery store
Parking
lot twelve miles away in town.
Ruth
and Mason shopped together, cut
Hay
and logs and bread together, and
Maybe
it is one way for Ruth now to
Spend
her own last years tending one
Cow
in the barn and fattening a calf
For
veal. We hiked around the mountain
Yesterday,
saw the changes of a
Better
road, new neighbors, and now
We
scramble with our little boy
Carson
who loves to run in the woods.
In
all four downstairs windows of the house
Ruth’s
poinsettias are thriving, just
Like
always — nothing has changed —
Except
Mason is gone.
Barefoot
She’d
be barefoot from
Late
spring right up till
Fall
and around deer season
She’d
be wearing sandals.
Go
down to their place —
Rusted
stovepipe sticking
Out
of a window, he’d be
In
the small garage tooling
Under
someone’s car. Jump between
Mechanic
work, body-shop and
Towing;
most people brought
Their
car there only once.
But
from the mobile home steps
She’d
holler another “customer”
Was
calling on the telephone.
He
gave me that look of importance,
Rubbed
grease off his hands onto
Newspaper,
trotted out of the garage.
They’re
both middle twenties — three kids.
The
two youngest boys sit naked around a mud
Puddle,
play with broken toy trucks
That
look like their father’s truck
—
huge wheels, shattered windows.
He
skips the steps up to the trailer,
Leans
past her wide body with the desire
Of
a brother, not a husband,
Disappears
for awhile.
She’s
eating a sandwich, I wave to her,
She
smiles. Everyone who remembers her
As
a teenager say she was thin, pretty,
The
blonde hair always washed and combed.
This
afternoon she is in a bathrobe,
Her
bare feet spread thick. After she
Smiles
at me she looks everywhere
Else
— over the acre of junk cars,
Ratty
trees, a lawn mower stuck in
High
grass, down to four cows at
The
furthest corner of the pasture,
Back
to her two boys splashing
Like
ducklings in the puddle —
Everywhere she looks, but at
me.
Bob Arnold
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