Flickr, cc, Protopian Pickle Jar
By Bill Ramsey, April 17, 2020
0nce, on a dry and rocky footpath,
a dab of sacred saliva dampened dust.
Silently, the mender’s hands kneaded,
molded and applied the curious blend.
Mudded eyes opened. Vision restored.
These days, we walk mired down,
slogging mucky tracks, traversing
our first New England mud season,
distanced, sheltered, masked, waiting
for healing, solace and renewed balance.
April’s earth underneath our boots
is dew dampened, drizzle drenched,
thaw soaked and oh so mud mucked.
Bogged down in this deadly pandemic,
we yearn for a closure, less muddled. Continue reading
Written by Bill Ramsey and Joyce Hollyday. The litany is being read and prayed in front of the White House today on the anniversary.
We remember those victims whose names we read today, and all the residents of My Lai who were killed while cooking breakfast, huddling beneath their homes, shielding their children, running from danger, or being herded into ditches.
Let us not forget, so that we never repeat. Continue reading
By Bill Ramsey
December’s first day dawns,
presenting an unexpected sketch
between my beaten path’s margin
and a recently resurgent river’s bank.
A patch of park is neatly etched
beneath a tree’s elongated umbra.
The tall rusty cypress unknowingly
casts a silhouette of a Christmas tree. Continue reading
By Bill Ramsey
Our hands eagerly drape
a shear cotton cloth,
a delicate canopy
over an unassisted rise,
warm tent of challah.
Underneath, tepid water
raw sugar and new yeast
compose an unheralded
first hint of challah. Continue reading
By Bill Ramsey. May 1, 2016.
Dad and Dan, an unlikely pair
to walk across heaven’s threshold
a week apart, a world apart.
Way back when Dan’s burning action
kindled my conflicted conscience,
radically realigning my course,
Dad foresaw impending danger,
a tableau of “G-men” ascending
his steep suburban driveway
in pursuit of his willful son. Continue reading