Monthly Archives: April 2025

Another one bites the dust.

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The other day I was thinking about some of the fun adventures I had in my younger days and the partners with whom I shared them.

An exceptional one was a three-day camping trip in the Adirondacks when I was 40 years old. A born and bred city girl, I had never been camping in my life, and this trip included portaging among three lakes and camping out under the stars. It was in June, and the mayflies were out in abundance.

There were six of us — three couples — the guys all Adirondack guides, expert in managing the challenges of such a camping trip. It was their tradition to each bring a date to their annual excursion, and it was their ritual to have one night when the guys wore ties and the females wore skirts, and we drank wine while the guys cooked the fish they caught.

While canoeing across the last lake, a storm began to brew, and by the time we made it to shore and a primitive lean-to, we were baragged with hailstones. We all hunkered down, built a fire, drank some more wine, sang some songs, and made the best of our last night. Except for a mayfly bite or too, the adventure was a rousing success.

As I enjoyed the memory, I remembered the name of the guy with whom I camped, and I decided to google him. I turns out he passed away in February.

I decided to check out some of my other romantic (and also dance) partners from over those early years, and all but one have passed away.

In memory of Jerry Passer, who introduced me to the magic of the Adirondacks, I share this poem I wrote back then.

Adirondack Rite

The mountain man lies beside me,
shadow and stone
in this moonlit grove.

Silently we listen for coyotes
howling in the wilderness,
the echo hoots of bears
searching for mates.

He promises to take me where
dark marsh grasses beckon
at the water’s sheltered edge,
where wind-washed scents
of wood smoke and rain breathe
ancient magic into the air,
where a pair of knife-winged hawks
inscribe the clouds with holy forms
and then ignite the sky,

He is silver in the starlight,
in the firelight, a whisper
like the oar’s wake in water.
He turns to give me a name, rooting
my spirit to this sacred place
and buries my sleep under dreams
as potent as the wilderness wind.

ponderings on a typical April day

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NERO FIDDLED; TRUMP GOLFS

History says that the fall of Rome was caused by a number of factors, including internal corruption, trade issues, wars over expanding territories, and incompetent leadership. Legend says that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. History will report that Trump golfed while American democracy collapsed for those very same reasons as Rome’s demise.

BOREDOM
“A desire for desires.” That’s how boredom is referred to in Chapter 8 of Anna Karenina. I can identify with that these days. I wish that there were something that excites and motivates me, that fills me with a desire to create, to imagine, to become involved with. I desire to have a desire. Instead I watch a lot of tv and sleep. And play brain games on my Amazon Fire Tablet, Word Chums with a friend, and Words With Friends with one of my former college profs. But I have no energy. Even getting out for my African Drumming class has become a chore. I keep doing it because it’s the last thing I have that gets me out of the house, despite the lower back pain that makes it hard to carry my drum. I have no more interest in knitting or sewing or any of the crafts in which I engaged for decades. I need an adventure, but I have no idea what that might be. I am bored to the extreme.

ENTROPY
It looks as though this will be the year that parts of my body start falling apart. I just had a thyroid biopsy and will get the results this Friday. My sacroiliitis has flared up again, and so I’m off to the Pain clinic later this month to get re-evaluated so I can get another series of injections. I broke a clasp on my partial denture and have to get a new one, although it never is going to fit perfectly because of the location of my missing teeth. I need new glasses, unless I get my cataracts removed, but I’m not sure I’m up for one more medical procedure. I guess I’ll wait and see what the results of the biopsy are.

ADOLESCENT ANGST
I found this old poem I wrote when I was about fifteen. I guess I was depressed even back then.

I hear the dreary, mournful refrain
Of the steadily falling downpour of rain.
Not the rain of a wild and stormy night,
With furious streaks and flashes of light,
With tormenting winds of passionate force
And eerie outcries from an unknown source.
Not the kind of rain that rises from hell
And holds all the world in its magical spell.
Not the kind of rain that’s so torrid and splendid —
That you still stand in wonder even after its ended.
And still not the rain that’s mellow and mild
As sweet and refreshing as the smile of a child.
Not the shower that calls all of nature to waken
With gentle caresses that leaves all unshaken.
Not the rain that makes every creature feel new.
Not the rain that leaves the world sparkling with dew.
But a gloomy depressing curtain of gray
That covers and hides all the brightness of day —
A shroud of depression, a mist of despair,
A cloak of discouragement, everywhere.

“plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”

Two April Poems

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It is foolish to think you can fool April
with bright balloons and colorful plans,
gatherings of eager hearts.
April still knows snow, disdains
the hopeful smiles of children
who wait in vain for sunny play.
Rain is April’s message, prolonging
the held breath of May, promising
only a fool’s failure to remember.

OTHER APRILS
Tank tops and shorts
on the first warm day of April,
sprawled on the dorm lawn
in adolescent abandon,
air smelling of
baby oil, iodine,
and sweet spring sweat.

Boy child and ball
on the first warm day of April,
laughter on a learning curve
stumbling in wet grass,
air smelling of
new mud, wet pine,
sweet sun after rain.

The Eiffel Tower
on the first warm day of April,
arm locked with arm
among the winds of Paris,
air smelling of
wine, tulips
and a lover’s sweet caress.

Contemplating the dappled shade
on the first warm day of April,
glider swing creaking
its soft lullaby,
air smelling of
lavender, memories,
and sweet seasoned dreams.