A little reading

More that I’ve been up to at The Montclair Times is below.

New in the On Our Minds mental health series:

MC_Massage02_090513_mt_tif_- Connections made through loving touch (Sept 5 edition)

- The hidden scars of child trauma (Aug 15 edition)

- Start earlier, stay healthier (Aug 1 edition)

New in the Carpe Caffeam column series:

Mea culpa, ad infinitum (Sept 26 edition)

- The funnybone connects to the wishbone (Aug 1 edition)

Book/poetry articles:

- The diary of a 20-something (Sept 19 edition)

Spoken word poets to lead workshops in Montclair (Apr 18 edition)

Non-profit/outreach articles:

Turnout high for domestic violence walk (Sept 12 edition)

- Breaking the cycle of violence, starting fresh (July 25 edition)

- Merchants in bike-friendly mood (Aug 22 edition)

Arts/music articles:

‘What is one billion? What is real?’ asks Robert Barry (Sept 26 edition)

- Montclair Times Arts Editor Joan Finn to retire after storied career (Aug 22 edition)

- No ‘swing-a-ling’ in these jazz charts (May 30 edition)

Major update.

I’ve been working at The Montclair Times since March, as the Community Editor. Whee!

Plenty going on there. Plen-tee.

Here’s a few things:

— I started a column; it’s called Carpe Caffeam (ykno, Seize the Coffee). It’s about life and trying to be okay with it all. So far I’ve written two; a third is on its way. Here’s #1 (What a day a coffee makes). Here’s #2 (Less practice makes imperfect).

— I started a series; it’s called On Our Minds, and it’s about mental health. So far I’ve also written two; a third is coming down the pike. The first: “Are we there yet?” The second: “Crazy talk: Language matters in mental health.”

— If you want to keep up, I’m sometimes tweeting and instagraming on this kind of stuff. I’m pretty easy to find.

— Other than that: ::: : I’ve written about a soup kitchen getting extra-healthy (here); Rainn Wilson on spirituality — news story here and interview transcript here; a single-parents support group; farm camp; the capture of a young black bear; a local jazz composer and band co-leader; the first-ever Montclair food and wine festival; Dr. Richard Besser’s new book; the passing of composer Dean Drummond; Montclair Film Festival coverage: The Brothers Hypnotic, Zipper: Coney Island’s Last Wild Ride, Valley of Saints, and Computer Chess; the Montclair Public Library’s ambitious strategic plan; and more.

It’s been fun. Looking forward to what’s ahead.

Take care!!


lying by the riverside
the pages turned
blown against the wind,
it happened again
the new beginning wrote itself

kingdom come

It’s like the fingerprints in the ice blocks melted away

and i went stargazing into the purple canyons

where i found in the wet depths of the river the

letters of my name floating around.


what the devil of all hell is this.

there is a chicken coop in the

canyon creek,

with the letters of my name floating around.

stupid banana jesus and mary magdaline,

what the devil is all of this.


my hair curls around the letters

as i go swimming in the lord’s funny business

working my way through the sun gas waterbeds


i am completely beholden to this trove.


The rivers are swelling,
spilling down the water wheel
against my breastbone.

It shares a glow with the moon’s thin air,
treads softly, aching and
creaking around.
No matter its trickle, it
brings the water through.

Tonight, though, my heart is crying,
Its tears swelling upward, to my throat.
Its memory, its print, shines far
beyond this one land, this one time,
To distant places, other spheres.
It does not speak — no. It turns, gives, receives,
Round, and round, tugging the edges
But moving round the center,
Dousing its panes for ever — for who would
stop this embrace?

These hearts — all these crazy, fiendish,
joyful hearts — are winding water around the wheel,
Breathing life to the little homes aside the
river, and beyond, where our love dwells.

– Sept. 2012 –


We create

   visions under the microscope

   centers of blue-green harmonica

   oysters in the trap dust sand

   The Nephilian giants

   stand far above the burial mountains

      of Ireland

   As the people look and wonder,

   Where does it come from?

    The turtle pushes off and floats away.

– 2010 –

With unquiet pause

The spitting embers of refined madness
Glow particular, with unquiet pause.
Behind the paper, 99 percent of the world is
reaching out to me
And I know the worst might be ahead.
There is no stopping the
business of being alive
Rocking, back and forth, back and forth,
It waits til the time is ripe.
When it goes, it lights
Up, heat, fire, smoke,
The pills like rain try to stop the thing
But fire and earth are too strong
I would like to know
What it feels like to sleep in this bed
Without the eyes of the clock
Staring down, daring me to stare back.
My old friend, the demon of the poem-book
Picks a fight with me.
Color me an idea, he beckons.
Red, beware. Orange, proceed with caution,
Yellow, check again, amber threads of ambiguity
Green, oh green, of great and ancient spirits, those
Who protect the gates
To what can truly be known.
Blue for protection and pride
Purple, the priest, deity alive
Into the mist of silver, black grey high night.
It is true that my house speaks.
It is true that God speaks.
– KAE, 2011 –

For Francesca and Kelson — Aug. 11, 2012

In a chestnut grows a peanut
little, brittle, sweet and warm
Glowing with life almighty,
Shoring up against the storm.
When weeks turn to bring the arrival of
the beast of a holy day,
the embers of a beating heart
burst glory through the bay.
Forget the tumble drum of
every-everyness till then.
Be still, be wise, be gracious,
find your will to carry them.
Tender the touch to feather that
fine hair in palm of hand.
The wishing-be of righting she, he,
brings you to fertile land.
Cry, baby! Cry! Cry wide open
the will to live alive.
Feel the breath, the air, that humble stare
Toward your chestnut’s eye.
It will come to pass,
Life goes on, at last
For moments quake sometimes.
It’s good to be where one can see
Past all that looking-glass.
Draw your love from sea-wells, tree-wells,
be-wells, day and night.
Yes, moments quake, and life won’t wait.
Sweet creatures, now, alight!


The fascination of what’s difficult

The fascination of what’s difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood
Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

– W.B. Yeats