“Buddy” by Keven Bellows

I sometimes think the Jim he is becoming
may be the Jim who was. Buddy
swinging on a fence
around a New England clapboard
with a wide porch, where
his grandfather rocked rain or shine.

Summers in Still River away from parents–
Buddy’s happiest hours. When not
sitting with the man in the rocker,
retired by alcohol long before his time,
he was practicing his swing
with a found golf club
on the course behind the property,
scrounging balls to earn pocket change.

Always easiest on his own, Buddy thrived
in this odd company that included Emerson and Thoreau,
favorites of his wellborn grandfather,
a 19th century gentleman, who left him
an abiding affection for men of few words—
memories undiminished through eight decades.

More boy at the gate
eager for adventure,
than the grandfather he now is,
Jim’s reservoir of resilience is Buddy,
whose arrival incites the onset of summer,
lazy days lengthening, lure of tall grass,
leaves turned inside out looking for rain.

Unfailingly courteous, grateful
for love that surrounds without confining,
the solitary boy reclaims the man,
makes us comfortable on the porch,
while he makes for the fence
across an invisible lawn.

Keven Bellows

Photo by VC Ferry

© 2011

“A Winter Dream” by Arthur Rimbaud



In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage
With cushions of blue.
We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits
In each corner too.

You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,
Grimacing shadows of evening,
Those snarling monsters, a crowd going past
Of black wolves and black demons.

Then you’ll feel your cheek tickled quite hard…
A little kiss, like a maddened spider,
Will run over your neck…

And you’ll say: “Catch it!” bowing your head,
– And we’ll take our time finding that creature
– Who travels so far…

Arthur Rimbaud

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Photo by VC Ferry


© 2011

Sarah Teasdale – Photo by VC Ferry

“I Am Not Yours”

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest

of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

Sarah Teasdale

VC Ferry


“all the way home” by Thayer/Ferry

he just kept playin’ and blowin’ his blue notes

into the echos of his emptiness

hitting notes of all our


as we listened to our heart strings

and our matter of factness

being  pulled back

we would forget what time it was

cause it stopped mattering

as his belly blew the melancholy

reaching right through us

reaching deep into us

reaching each other

as he took us

all the way home

L. K. Thayer

Photo by VC Ferry

© 2010

VC Ferry

“The nature of life is one of fleeting irony. We hold ourselves high, humans, people. The truth of the matter, is that we are no different than any other living thing. Our life depends on a series of reactions, of events. Every minute, second, micro-second. We breath, eat, sleep. Yes, while it’s true we think, we are conscious, this consciousness does not mean we are immortal. A child’s hopes and dreams can be shattered, ended, by a wrong step and a absent minded driver just as easily as each of our steps can break a blade of grass. A man’s early retirement can be cut short by an ill timed swim and a nasty undercurrent just as easily I just ended the life of a mosquito that just landed on my arm. We aren’t supreme, just blades of grass, weeds, blowing in the wind. All just waiting for the single gust that knocks us down.”

Photo & Quote by VC Ferry

© 2010

Dylan Thomas

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Photograph by VC Ferry

© 2010