Sea Breeze

After dirt and rock, piles of it, and shovels and wheelbarrows and sore back bending work with dust in my eyes, nose and mouth I sat down for lunch to this scene. A sea breeze blowing through the narrow passages that separated islands and made the tall summer grass bend low to the ground, grass yielding to wind recognizing the power held in its unpredictable gusts.


The Longest Day (of the year)

Half way through this year and headed toward the next, my soul turns inward and i write compulsively. Most of the words are disjointed, pieces of prose that mean nothing except to the writer. The past has pressed itself upon me with the passion of a long absent lover.

While heaving branches into the back of an old Coke truck i thought of the many people who have been a saving grace for me over the years. As i delved deeper into the memories of these folks it seemed as though these good souls had saved all the grace they had just for me.

A smile of wordless gratitude spread across my face as branches burned into a small pile of ash.

Its good to remember the goodness of others. Thanks upon thanks to all of you who i speak of, i hope you know how much you sustained me and given me hope.

And now a short poem.

Feathered white bellies
glide beneath a sky
that turns bluer
with each passing minute.
The blue turns to black
as the sun says goodbye,
and the sky weeps stars
to help pass the night away.




I am 26 years old
with earth stained hands
and tree scratched arms.
A face hidden by hair
some curly, some straight
others ranging in color
from pitch black to snow white.
Most days I try to smile
and laugh once or twice
Because as my skin grows older
I want it to tell the story
of a man who laughed and smiled
while passing his days in glory.

Lives in Bulk

Giant, silent, and foreign
their cold wind swept decks
hold steel boxes
full of stolen lives.
Sons and daughters
mothers and fathers,
manufacturing synthetic lives
for peoples across the ocean
who believe not the makers,
but the sellers pathetic lies.


Collecting Scraps

By nature, travelling tends to rearrange or completely change the rythem and flow of ones life. And while the traveller may not waunder simply for a change of sceneray or pace these two companions most certianly will be altered.

My coming to Orcas has introduced me, once agian, to the early morning hours. I wake at 6 a.m. to be ready for work by 6:55. I still walk or ride a bike just like i did in Seattle, although the roads and people are different than those of the city.

I am now the proud caretaker of a 10x30 plot of earth in the local P-Patch. I am also becoming fast friends with the director of this particular P-Patch, a gracious and energetic woman of 79 years old named Shirley.

On the job i work with some of the finest woodworkers on the West coast but you would never know it by talking with them. I learn about each mans skill only from the work they leave behind and the stories and boastings of other men. The houses they build are not ones that bespeak of haughtiness or haste. They are some of the most naturally beautiful dwellings I've ever gazed upon.

As for me i collect what little scraps are leftover and place them into black trash bags to be used later as kindling to heat homes during the wet winter months.

When the work for the day comes to an end i sometimes hike, read a book (Arabian Nights), or walk a few short paces down to the beach to watch the sunset beyond the Strait of Juan De Fuca.

I am working on buying a smaller camera and hope to have some pictures to go along with my words sometime in the near future. The move from Seattle to Orcas Island only afforded me the "bare neccesties", and a Canon 20D with two lenses was not bare enough.

Communication will be sparse as i am "Mac-less" and can only check my email at the local library. If you would like to send a letter my way fell free to email me asking for the mailing address and i will send it your way.

I have to go now as a book, a beer, and the beach all vie for my company. Ciao.