Hi, friends. I went to a friend's house in the Hudson Valley this weekend, and we visited Locust Grove, the residence of Samuel F. B. Morse, a remote ancestor of mine on my mother's side. He was a respected painter and a supporter of other painters, who went to the Royal Academy. Like many artists, he had trouble making a living, and for years scraped out an existence traveling and doing portraits. Then he became obsessed with developing the electric telegraph, which he eventually did, going through tremendous difficulties before, during and after. He was part of the Hudson River School, but frankly, while I like many of the paintings of that school, his on the whole are not the ones I like. Still, I am glad to think of him as one of my forebears.

Here are poems from a couple of years ago.

JULY 4 NEIGHBORHOOD

No more parade; a shopping cart squeals

On a quiet avenue; next door

A brown dog complains over and over.

The distant fireworks we hear

Will be surrounded by excitement

For the makers of horns and banners

In an unfree country across the Pacific.

Somewhere, zeal will puncture people

Before turning the weapon on itself.

Somewhere, a child will play with fire

And blow off a hand or an eye.

But freedom together has become a rune

Whose key no one can discover.

We harangue one another over and over:

“Learn to be free!” rehearsing our speech

In an empty ballroom, a bathroom mirror,

While, below, the progression

Of tasks and pleasures grinds to a halt.

We should at least attend the wake

If we cannot make the celebration.

ONE SMALL NOTE

Some would say, why not give it up

Entirely, as just another fantasy –

The  notion of a god who cares, the universe

Holding together like one gigantic song,

The magical mornings when my pen flows

With mysteries I could not have concocted?

God, the creative, have served their purpose,

And now I could shed all my baggage

And learn about money and influence

And do a whopping charity fundraiser

Before my body collapses and is burned.

But then how would I face the song

Of a thrush, or the redbird’s flash?

How would I feel in the cold ocean

Or before an empty, silent sky?

The blood in my ears would accuse me

And the birch in the meadow would turn away its leaves.

Even the skyscrapers, even Liberty,

Those symbols of eager hope and pride,

Would stand witness against me:

That I had one small note to hold,

And just because I was tired, or hurt,

Or lonesome, or bored, I let it fall.

+

Happy Memorial Day.

Love, Barbara