ON LOVE LUST YOUTH AND AGE

Marvell

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Apt line in the time of La Peste

COLLINS COVE - NEW HOME

Sunset at Collins Cove - Salem

     Our New Home

AMERICA'S BIRTHDAY

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Walt Whitman

SALEM

SALEM IS MY DWELLING PLACE

REFLECTION ON COLLINS COVE

The cove on most days, except for hot summer days when the regular beach goers congregate, is a solitary place where we can touch the sea's pulse, feel its immutable power and contemplate our place in nature. Such notions call to mind the words of Nathaniel Hawthorne in his, "Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore" where he wrote, "When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a necessity within me, I am drawn to the sea-shore, which extends its line of rude rocks and seldom-trodden sands, for leagues around our bay." Living not far from Collins Cove, it is likely this native son walked this cove's shores contemplating the life of Salem found in his writings. 

Musings from the Cloister - 14-06-2020

"The greatest misfortune is loneliness. So true is this that the highest form of consolation - religion - lies in finding a friend who will never let you down - God. Prayer is giving vent to one's thoughts as with a friend..."
Pavese - Diaries - 15 May 1939

REPUBLICAN CHANT Heard in the Cloister

We are the hollow men...

Our dried voiced, when

We whisper together 

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

or rat's feet over broken glass...

T.S. Eliot

Oh Mitch, Lindsay, Rubio, Scott, Paul 

How phoney - how senless

VERSES FROM THE CLOISTER

FOR MY FATHER AND UNCLES

Decoration Day

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
  On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
  Nor sentry's shot alarms! 

Ye have slept on the ground before,
  And started to your feet
At the cannon's sudden roar,
  Or the drum's redoubling beat. 

But in this camp of Death
  No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath,
  No wound that bleeds and aches. 

All is repose and peace,
  Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease,
  It is the Truce of God! 

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
  The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
  Your rest from danger free. 

Your silent tents of green
  We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
  The memory shall be our

Longfellow