Finding and reporting what's special across America
Do not descend the dune.
A thousand feet of uphill sand could easily be your ruin.
The Sleeping Bear will soon awake.
He’ll cause your arms and legs to ache.
You’ll wish you never saw the lake,
for now you sing a sorry tune.
Father Time’s chisel
and Mother Nature’s palette
create monuments.
Father Time sculptures…
Mother Nature murals…
Their collaborations…
At Boulders Beach, on False Bay along the Cape Peninsula of South Africa, within Table Mountain National Park…
stands a boardwalk that showcases a free-roaming colony of African penguins.
When they are not busy nesting,
or caring for their hatchlings…
they are preening,
and standing watch…
over the rookery.
Some African penguins may gather in small groups before setting off to hunt for fish,
while others are content to surf the shoreline,
always wary of hungry seals…
who would easily prey on unsuspecting penguins, ready to rip open their bellies for the fish they have recently swallowed.
Ahh, the abbreviated life of an African penguin…
I fear
that being here…
or being there…
is neither here
nor there.
So where
should I care
to be,
if I never dare
to be?
To be clear–
I declare,
that far or near,
or anywhere
I care
to steer,
I may be unaware
of it,
if I only stare
at it.
I took a stroll
and spied a tool
that looked real cool–
where taffy pulled
around a spool.
I pulled a stool
to watch this jewel.
And like a fool
who’s ridiculed,
my spittle drolled.
But there’s a rule
recalled from school:
That life is full
of soles with holes
whose souls are whole.
So ’round it folds
a to and fro,
the taffy flows
to fuel a flue
and form a glue.
A stroll along the pier
with seagulls, oh so near,
that roost before they scare–
then quick they take to air,
for what it is they fear
shall always disappear,
because there’s nothing there,
yet soon the boards are bare.
Happy Thanksgiving!
From too much rain to bother honoring the dead.
I don’t give a shit.
Those…NATO allies that I dread–
keep me bawlin’…
So I just did me some talking to my sons.
And I said, “I didn’t like the way Dems got things done–
Winning at the polls.
Those…losses are falling on my head,
they keep fallin’…”
But there’s one thing…I know.
The Blues they sent to beat me
Just defeat me.
It won’t be long,
Subpoenas now step up to greet me.
(interlude)
Democrats keep falling on my head.
But that doesn’t mean the House will soon be turning Red.
Winning’s not for me,
‘Cause, I’m never gonna stop the wave with complaining.
I’ll cop a plea.
It terrifies me.
(interlude)
It won’t be long ’till prison opens up to greet me.
Bad vibes keep falling on my head.
But that’s just karma coming ‘round on me, I dread…
Mueller’s got the key.
‘Cause, I’m never gonna stop the probe by complaining.
I’ll drop a tweet,
’cause I’m President Cheat!
Thanks to Original Songwriters: Burt Bacharach / Hal David
While enjoying my morning breakfast, and catching up on some classic poetry, I decided on a mash-up, which seemed entirely appropriate at the moment.
*
What appears to be a giant reptile hovering high above my yard,
casting a scary shadow across my sun-drenched grass…
is no more than a harmless lizard and an optical canard,
revealed by pulling focus on the screen beyond my window glass.
The tree frogs are out in full force at nightfall.
A cacophonous chorus of tens of thousands of croaking creatures bask in the sticky humidity after a brief, familiar rainfall.
They sing a familiar refrain a capella with a delicate vibrato…
To celebrate the moon’s debut over a thick glade of pines, live oaks, and palmetto.
“Let’s get this shuttle moving!” shouts a middle-aged surfer dude in an orange muscle shirt at the volunteer driver of the tram parked curbside at the farthest reaches of Anastasia State Park’s parking lot by the beach.
“First of all, I’ve got plenty of empty seats to fill, with plenty of people still on their way. And secondly, you should have thought about getting here earlier pal, ’cause I been here since 5:30 transporting people to the concert. So stop complaining that I’m the one who’s making you late!” the driver retorts.
“Well asshole, I have no intention of missing the opening number because of you,” he bellows.
“You’re welcome to get off my ride anytime and call an Uber if you want, but otherwise, I suggest you shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down, and wait patiently like the rest of these folks,” the driver threatens.
According to Joe and Jenny, who had come from Gainesville in celebration of their 10th wedding anniversary, the passengers on the tram were stunned into silence after this fiery exchange. The moment Leah and I took our seats on the tram, the mood seemed unusually somber for a group of mostly baby boomers who were on their way to attend a sold-out performance of Steve Miller Band with Peter Frampton at St. Augustine Amphitheater.
This was to be our maiden concert at the amphitheater–having purchased tickets over three months ago–knowing that we were taking a chance with the rainy summer weather, but choosing to risk it all for just a few hours of iconic rock and roll nostalgia.
At last the day had come, and despite the iffy forecast through late afternoon, the overcast sky had held firm, and it wasn’t long before we were on our way, barreling along the service roads…
to the back door entrance of the amphitheater.
It was 7:05pm and the opening power chords of Something’s Happening were already resonating through the thick air. We bypassed the crowded concessions…
and settled into our seats…
under the big top…
to lose ourselves in Frampton’s guitar licks.
From the start of the evening, Frampton established a smooth repartee with his exuberant audience–thankful for the fans who’ve stuck with him through thick and thin.
At 72, Frampton has seen his share of sunsets in your eyes and lines on [his] face, affably referencing his musical longevity during the interludes between songs, and reflecting on the passage of time through his career–from his chart dominance to his subsequent free fall to his eventual resurrection.
The devotees in attendance who may have missed the ’70s, seized this downtime as the perfect opportunity for a bathroom break, but not without escaping playful ridicule from Peter..
“I wish I could pee. I really do,” quipped Frampton. Now I can only pee on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday… with the help of Flomax.
He’s willingly traded his teen-idol, cascading hair locks and bare-chested pop star status for a musician’s bald/bold appreciation of his instrument, and aptly demonstrated his guitar prowess throughout his set list:
But the literal centerpiece was Black Hole Sun–“the best song [he’s] never written”–performed as an instrumental from the 2007 release of his Fingerprints album that garnered Grammy acclaim.
As if channeling Chris Cornell on the anniversary of his birth, July 20,
Frampton commanded the stage with a mindful intent of demonstrating his guitar virtuosity,
and he deftly acquitted himself in the eyes and ears of his audience.
And when the last shred had been wrung from his beloved Gibson, the crowd let him know how much they were with him and how much they cared.
After a half-hour intermission to reset the stage, the evening continued with Steve Miller and his band.
With a few exceptions, Steve Miller’s set list mimicked his multi-platinum Greatest Hits album, spanning the mid to late 70’s, and nobody in the crowd was disappointed, because they had come to sing along and Dance, Dance, Dance.
Set list
From his early overture into blues-infused rock, to experiments in psychedelia, to a catchy collection of counter-culture anthems with mainstream melodies, Miller captured the songbook for a new generation of America in flux.
Midway through his set, Miller evoked a memory from 1965 that took him from San Francisco to New York for a performance of The Mother Song on NBC’s Hullabaloo with The Four Tops and The Supremes.
As Miller recounts, the $250 he earned from the gig gave him the confidence to shop for a new guitar at Manny’s Music, a cherished, legendary music instrument store located in mid-town Manhattan. Unfortunately, he discovered there was nothing he could afford. Rejected and dejected, he headed for the door, whereupon he discovered a cluttered barrel of buried guitars standing neck up with a posted sign: “Your Pick–$125.”
One guitar called to him–a 19-string sitar-guitar that he had to have. Along the way, Miller explained some of its unusual features: spool-like knobs, 3 pick-ups, and a mirror on the backside.
Of course, after 53 years it’s still in his possession, despite an offer of $125,000 from a bigwig music producer. This tale has been repeated at similar events for years and years–with fluctuating asking prices–but the audience was hooked on every word and ate it up.
“Whadaya think? Should I consider selling it?” he petitioned the crowd.
Naturally, the crowd answered back with a resounding, “HELL NO!”
Miller put the instrument to good use in a soulful rendition of Wild Mountain Honey.
Thereafter, with each new tune, the audience responded with greater enthusiasm and a deeper appreciation of his classic hits.
The band returned with a raucous 4-song encore (if you consider Threshold to be a song rather than an intro)…
And in an instant, the show was over. We were transported back to the here and now–no longer celebrating the soundtrack of our salad days from high school or college, but always reminded that “time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”
Ironically, I spotted the belligerent surfer dude from before, who had embarrassed himself aboard our tram. Folks were filing past him to the exits, yet he seemed frozen in place–as if locked in a trance–holding onto a past that he was so impatient to embrace.
Doot-doot-doo-doo, tick-tock-tick…
Doot-doot-doo-doo, tick-tock-tick.
What’s to see when in Seattle?
There’s no need to wheedle,
When tourists flock to the very top
of the steeple called Space Needle.
But in the shadows down below,
there stands a garden made of glass–
where colors reign and forms arrange
to entertain en masse.
Sophisticated patterns blown
from molten globs of flexible fire
Illuminating worlds unknown
to ponder and admire.
Details reveal a melting pot,
a tints and hues collision
explodes to form a twisted star,
and match Chihuly’s vision.
Where is my place in the World?
Where is my home?
My place is a harvest
of everything listed.
No one place defines me, lest
l ever existed.
