Yesterday's poem was an audio presentation on Instagram and Facebook. Here is the text.

Guardian
 As published in Number One, Gallatin, Tennessee
​
She is the guardian, protector of the wilderness.
She circles round and round among the rocks.
Her belly swells with new life.
Transparent eggs open when expelled,
snakes born alive.                         
 
The young will have a rattle,
just like mom.
They warn before striking,
but beware their presence. 
Beneath flowering azaleas,
 or within a handhold on a rock face,
the guardian may be there.
 
“Don’t tread on me,”
the buzzing rattle warns.
This is her domain, assuring
the travelers go wearily onward.
 
So long as the guardians remain,
fewer travelers camp on top of wild orchids,
fewer wander off the trails. 

Day 3 of Previously Published Poems
Spirit Bird
Published in Number One, Gallatin, Tennessee

​Spirit Bird
 
Every time I see cranes
a door opens into the spirit world.
They arrive to bring news of winter,
depart with promise of spring.
They carry messages between worlds.
 
Their arrival is always anticipated.
Never expected they arrive and call.
Said to mate for life, they dance
when reunited after long separation.
Their longing calls fill my heart.
 
Departing this world,
I will know I am bound
for blessed realms
if cranes accompany me.

Day 2 of Previously Published Poems
From the journal Number One, Gallitan, Tennessee and republished in my chapbook, ​Healing and Conflict

​Rain
 
Like a love poem that fills the heart to overflowing
rain covered the mountain just after the New Year.
Murmuring rivulets covered once dry leaves,
intersected paths and muddied trails,
muddied shoes and trouser legs.
I plunged through fecund mud and leaves,
became a mud man devoted to sylvan gods.
 
Glen Falls became a roaring torrent,
deceived my ears.
Thinking it close, I forged ahead.
The cascade below the falls
became a booming choir.
Bases and contraltos reverberated
from hickory and oak.
 
I bowed before the splendor,
prepared to endure cold days ahead,
anticipated Equinox rebirth.

Water
As published in the Weatherings Anthology from FuterCycle Press.  
Look through our disguise.
Find we are water.
Spread us thin and cast for trout
among rogue molecules,
deuterium laced water.
 
Distill us and build a bomb,
aided by that heavy water.
Trap us behind dams,
generate power
as we fall homeward.
 
Use us to polish silver.
Expiate every blemish.
Leave a shine.
Sail hard to leeward
on liquid, once part of a star.
 
Drink us down
when you finish Pilates.
You too are water,
at least 98 percent, and
not enough to go around.

Rayz Reviewz Volume 1 Number 26

​If you missed the online sessions from Southern Festival of books, they are still available on their Youtube Chatnnel and the Facebook Page. My favorite with the American Sunrise session with Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo. 

Since taking on editing the newsletter of the Chattanooga Writers Guild and resuming editing the Chattanooga Chat for the Chattanooga Chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society I have not had much time for this personal project. I remain committed though to producing one issue per month. For October, I am pleased to present my Haloween themed flash fiction piece, "Aprodite." It appeared in a self publishied broadside I distributed several years ago, along with a few poems and two nonfiction pieces. I had the broadside printed on 11X17 page and folded in half. to yield four pages. Hope you enjoy this story. 

Aphrodite

“Hello?” The voice was decidedly feminine, like a woman inquiring who was there. I gave the man a questioning glance, for I knew he lived alone.  His only companion was Aphrodite, a small black cat with a diamond studded collar. On previous visits, I had seen Aphrodite bestow lazy yawns as she lounged about on the furniture.

​He met my glance. “It’s the refrigerator. It makes a sighing sound when the compressor comes on.” “Oh,” I replied. “Your refrigerator has a female voice.” “Indeed,” he said as he opened the package I had just delivered. His house lay at the end of my route, and I only had occasional deliveries for him. On the days I stopped there, his small packages were a welcome respite from the crates and heavy parcels I delivered to area businesses. Today I had brought him a rare book from a European distributor. “Yes, yes, I have been waiting for this!”

He gazed at the pages of the leather-bound volume. “Let me pour you a cup of coffee and we shall place this in the “Hall of Truth and Beauty.” He always referred to the room with bookshelves and framed art by that odd name. Art dating to the 1500’s adorned the walls above shelves that held the rare books.

I had no idea how he made his fortune to afford such treasures, but he had traveled widely. Israel, South Africa, Russia, and Japan were among the places he had mentioned. Always, his trips included a stop at the diamond district of New York. 

The thought of the diamond district brought the cat and her expensive collar to mind. “Where is Aphrodite?” “She inhabits the Parthenon with her father Zeus, no doubt…Oh, you mean my cat. She is likely hiding under the bed. She gets touchy the week before Halloween.” “
That is quite a collar you gave to her.” “Yes, she is very fond of those gems. You know, diamonds are coal, refined to brilliant clarity by heat and pressure, just as the human mind is transformed by discipline and study.”

I left the old man to enjoy his treasures. As I turned to open the gate, I glimpsed the briefest movement at one window of the ancient house. Someone had pulled back a curtain. From behind the glass, a woman with long black hair watched me. The moonlight glinted on her diamond choker.

​Yesterday I walked a portion of the Tennessee Riverpark that parallels South Broad Street. I began at the Wheland Foundry entry point and continued well toward before returning to my starting point. I saw no road marker at the turnaround point. The walkway begins at Chickamauga Dam.

On past occasions, I have walked from Curtain Pole Road to Amnicola Marsh and back, from Amnicola Marsh to Lost Mound Road, and from the Hubert Fry area to Lost Mound Road. I intend to walk all sections before the end of this year. 

​My photos of the walkway and surrounding area document a former industrial area somewhat reclaimed by public art and nature. 

The Southern Festival of Books opens tonight with a focus on fiction. At 7:30 pm, Ann Patchett, author of Dutch House: A Novel, will be in conversation with Yaa Gyasi, author of Transcendent Kingdom. You can view all the festival programs through the web page or through their app for mobile devices.
https://www.humanitiestennessee.org/sfb2020-schedule/

As this Nashville festival opens, I think of the Magazine, 2nd, and Church, which began publication in 2012 and went on hiatus after eight issues. All issues are still available on their web site. The publisher, Roy Burkhead, and his writers published a wide spectrum of writing between its covers.

My work appeared in three issues of 2nd and Church. The editors were kind enough to include two of my poems, my review of the Rick Steve’s book Travel as a Political Act, and my interview with Jim Pfitzer, a native of East Ridge who was, at the time, crossing the continent with his living history presentation depicting conservationist Aldo Leopold. Leopold is noted among conservationists for his book A Sand County Almanac.

The lifespan of Literary magazines is a tenuous business. The North American Review claims to be America’s oldest, with publication since 1815. Some last for only an issue or two, For a few years, Nashville was home to one of the best.

One of my surrealist poems which 2nd and Church printed was titled, “Salvador Dali Meets Gertrude Stein.”

Salvador Dali Meets Gertrude Stein
 
Nebulous nebulae nebulae nebulae nebulous
Negotiate nebulous nebulae, oversee
weather cloudy and serene. Serene sirens
negotiate nebulous nebulae with squad cars
of intergalactic police as we negotiate
a tapestry of weather symbols and barrel staves
in water inhabited by golden goldfish and
copper piranhas. Copper cop car piranhas
eat us out of house and home, house
and home house house home house home.
 
Ascend cirrus cloud cloud cloud cirrus stairs.
Find no piranhas here and chum for sharks.
Catch any sharks, chum? Chum chum chum
for tiger tiger burning bright, tiger sharks
pursue us on this journey with no destination
to love but the question itself of who
ate the last shark steak in the refrigerator.
Shark steak steak steak shark steak shark.
 
Man-eating shark has a stake in this tale and
has a tail to tell it with like Ferlinghetti's dog,
if indeed it is the shark that eats the man and.
not the man eating the shark stake, the SOB
took the last one. Gnash your teeth you
sharkless humans and humanless sharks.
Gnash gnash teeth teeth gnash human
teeth gnash on shark flesh irony. 

,Rayz Reviewz Volume 1 Number 24
​
The Southern Festival of Books returns with a virtual festival this year I will miss the live event in Nashville which I first attended in 2007 to read my prize-winning poem, Glen Falls Trail which appears below. It was just ten days after my Coronary Bypass Surgery, and the neighbor who drove to the festival thought the trip ill advised. Still medicated, I delivered an "unusual" performance. The pace of my reading was irregular at best. 

My reading took place under a canopy on Legislative Plaza as part of the awards ceremony of the Tennessee Writer's Alliance. It was not as well attended as the indoor presentations by notable authors, but I will never forget the experience, and I am grateful for the doors opening to opportunities as a result. I have attended several times since, reading on two of those occasions, and I have always enjoyed the opportunity to reconnect with authors from across Tennessee and beyond. 

One year, I heard local Nashville poets perform on one of the outdoor stages. That evening I read with some of them at Poetry in the Brew, an open mic at Portland Brew East, a coffee shop on Nashville's East side. They went on with their regularly scheduled program despite the festival. Covid-19 has brought a change to Poetry in the Brew and I have reconnected with some creative poets through their weekly virtual open mic. I had hoped to read with them again, but I did not suspect it would happen in this way.

This year, I will be content to participate in the Southern Festival of Books as a member of the online audience. Some old friends are on the program, as well as a few famous authors. I will, no doubt, offer thanks and congratulations to those with whom I am acquainted and enjoy the presentations of the rest. One evening though, my internet connection will be tuned in to an open mic still hosted by a Nashville poet but now with an international array of presenters. 

Festival and event information

Humanities Tennessee is the moving force behind the Southern Festival of Books. Their website has a schedule of events, author biographies, and information on how to access the streaming events from your computer or though the app on your mobile device. https://www.humanitiestennessee.org/sfb2020-main/ 

Parnassus Books is the official book vendor of the Southern Festival of Books. Historically they have created a popup bookstore on the plaza. This year, they offer sales at their store. They also have a preview of the event on their web page. https://parnassusmusing.net/2020/09/30/southern-festival-of-books-2020-preview-its-almost-here/ 

Poetry in the Brew streams the open mic through their Facebook Page.

The Poem I read at the Festival

Glen Falls Trail
 
I climb the limestone stairs
through an arch in rock,
into the earth’s womb,
pass through to a surprise:
George loves Lisa painted on a wall.
 
I wonder, did he ever tell her?
Did she ever know or think of him,
raise a brood of screaming children?
Did they kiss near wild ginger above the stony apse?
 
Did lady’s slipper orchids
adorn their meeting place
where deer drink from rocky cisterns?
 
Did their love wither
like maidenhair fern,
delicate as English Lace?
 
The symbols have outlived the moment.
There is only today,
only the murmur of water underground,
my finding one trickle into a pool.
 
I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot long ago.


​

Storm Poems
 A few years ago, Tornadoes ripped through Northwest George and Southeast Tennessee. Trenton, Georgia was hit especially hard, my neighborhood in Chattanooga barely at all. I worte these during the following days. The Nashville Writers Meetup published them in their book, Soundtrack Not Included. 
 
A Mother
 
dropped one off
at elementary school
another at high school.
She saw the funnel,
Sheltered in
a convenience store,
wondered
which daughter she
should go to first.
 
Texting
 
Tornado
N It
Me 2
U OK?
  
My Neighborhood
 
Flowers among rocks
Campfires and whiskey
Candles in the wind
 
Dedication of the Peace Grove
 
Officials give impressive speeches
Little boy rides by on tricycle
Brmm Brmm Brmm
Blah Blah Blah
Bye Bye
 
The Healing
 
The dance is not linear.
Forward and back
the dancers move.
 
Elaborate moves
heal the wounds
inflicted
by non-linear winds,
whirling in
their greatest power.
 
Tai Chi master
plays wooden flute.
Guitar strings vibrate.
with energy of peace
stronger than solid earth
which cracks beneath
a nuke plant.
Tsunami wipes out
coastal villages.
 
Homeless man stands
before the dancers;
backs across bridge;
seems to preside.

Announcement:
The Plug Poetry Project, Episode 2, produced by Christian Collier, features Poets Carrie Meadows and Earl Braggs. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixfSMBMB-Wg