Captivated and stricken,

there is a seed inside.

You’ve got calling and curse,

a straight desert road into the sun.

A blacktop grave,

paved but not sure.

Moonlight and stars,

they’re in your eyes,

filling you up with this romanticism

this drive that keeps the wind in your hair

and a song on your lips.

Reminiscent of the beats of old.

The soul of the nation rests in your chest.

The passion to live free,

to know, to hear, to play the song

that gets planted, sprouts, and buds

in the soil and care of a listener,

a poet, a preacher, a lover,

an artist and a musician.

Grow that tree friend,

get on the road and grow.


For The Man Who Makes Coffee

There is a coming ice age
And we decided not hibernate
We face the teeth of winds
we survive
to prepare yourself for the bleak winter is no ordeal
a Gor-Tex here, a parka there
To ready yourself to prepare takes true skill

There is a man
He is an outfitter for preparation
For one must have the deluge in a paper cup
One must have the aroma attached to one’s nostrils
One must taste the words that give way to endless musings

If one is not going to hibernate

-James Bauerle

When time is stolen away by Psychology, Mathmatics and balancing budgets, a writer must turn to reading.

Here is an appropriate celebration of fall written by William Morris:

“The Glittering Plain”

Fair is the world, now autumn’s wearing,

And sluggard sun lies long abed;

Sweet are the days, now winter’s nearing,

And the winds feign that the wind is dead.

Dumb is the hedge where the crabs hang yellow,

Bright as the blossoms of the spring;

Dumb is the close where the pears grow mellow,

And none but the dauntless redbreasts sing.

Fair was the spring, but amidst his greening

Grey were the days of the hidden sun;

Fair was the summer, but overweening,

So soon his o’er-sweet days were done.

Come then, love, for peace is upon us,

Far off is failing, and far is fear,

Here where the rest in the end has won us,

In the garnering tide of the happy year.