Pierre and I exchange our Christmas gifts tonight as a personal celebration of the New Year. This morning we were in the local FNAC shop - THE shop where one buys books, music, and electronic equipment here in France.

While he was searching the store for I don't know what (yet) I played with the new MacBook and composed a small poem in French to wish those people happening upon it while themselves playing with the same demo machine, a Happy New Year.

Here are both versions. I translated it a few minutes ago. Nothing extraordinary, just a simple idea. The first line of the French has a play on words with the verb to count and to tell a tale which are pronounced the same way: compter and conter. That particular word play is lost in English, so I had to make that line go one way or the other.

le temps est conté
seconde par seconde
jusqu'au bruit des célébrations
de la foule, des amoureux
de la vie même
et pendant une fraction de seconde
tout s'arrêtera avec un baiser


         time unwinds its story
         second by second
         until the noisy celebrations
         of the crowd, of lovers
         of life itself
         and during a tiny moment
         everything stops with a single kiss


         the final midnight
         [2009.31.12…a]

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU HAPPENING UPON MY BLOG TODAY OR TOMORROW.

May 2010 bring Health, Love and Prosperity to you and yours.

Grieving is like Special Kay's blog title: A quiet kind of Chaos. Yep, that fairly well sums it up for me. Pierre isn't supportive at all - he asks no questions if I talk to him about my internet friends. He understands you have become important to me, but when one of you disappears in the natural order of things, he leaves me to grieve in my own corner. Thus the chaos in my heart must remain quiet, unspoken and censored.

I feel old. And not particularly wise. The feeling of uselessness fades quickly when I'm with my students, but otherwise it's fairly present. In my mind, I'm caught in a labyrinth walking in circles, rarely lifting my head to see what time of day it is. I might be caught here forever, I don't know. Or I'll snap out of it and start being beligerent because I can't say what I want to say to the people around me.

It's hard when there are no arms to comfort me when I go through a moment of solitude, of doubt, of mourning. I wonder if Pierre is truly the mate I need at times like this.

It's Christmas time, I've got to put on a happy face for Pierre's family so that they won't think I'm completely antisocial and rude. But I don't want to. I prefer just staying in Lyon and building a fire in the fireplace and staring into the flames.

Today the sun is shining. We turned in at midnight after watching the first episode of Narnia on the TV. Excellent film. I slept maybe two hours, and because I'm not at home, there wasn't a lot for me to do other than follow my sleeplessness hour by hour.

Today is rush day. The last day we can buy those last items left on the bottom of our lists, a trip to the coiffeur for me, wrap presents, etc. etc. etc. Tomorrow we go to Chambéry where his mother will have her concerns and last minute lists that only Pierre can deal with. The afternoon there is traditionally a day I twiddle my thumbs, looking bored. I am. We're not sure if a computer will follow us on our Christmas travels. The only restaurant open in Chambéry opens its arms for our tête-à-tête dinner which is always a nice moment. However, because he's so disorganized, our presents are exchanged at New Years. I force him to have one package ready for Christmas day so that we can exchange at least one gift together with all the rest of the family.

So this is my opportunity to wish everyone who's secretly, or not so secretly, reading my blog a Very Merry Christmas. We'll certainly speak of New Years next week.

Ken Rhodes, aka Carolina Blue, NC_Penman, a great friend who possessed a heart capable of expanding itself to include so many people, passed away yesterday afternoon at 5:00 EST.

I don't have any words right now, except those I find through poetry to express my grief. I recently noticed Ken's last photograph gracing his FaceBook home page. It inspired the following poem.



maybe you knew…
when someone snapped your last photo
and the smile caught illuminating
your maroon colored shirt
was your way of sharing the peace
you’d found

in your conversations with God
and even with his angels
I’m sure whiteness played
an important part
of your dialogues on the purity of love
of falling snow even, or the plumage of doves
and that final vision of light…

now I am left speaking a monologue
with your ghost covered
in my own white-laced memories
I can no longer rhyme with
the rich sound of your voice
I heard so few times, yet I imagine
your wise verse encouraging me along
my own rugged path towards friendship
towards belief, towards eradicating
my personal fear of dying alone

you will greet me one day when I too
discover that particular hue of light
and I will try to tame my impatience
for if parting be the greatest sorrow
the reuniting of kindred spirits
be the quietest of the last miracles

maybe you knew about these final moments
and kept their secret, except for the light
in your eyes bathing the ruddiness
of your cheeks and gracing your smile —
maybe you knew that angels from every
corner of the world would come to your bedside
and hold your hand as you gathered
strength to bid us farewell

and in that one instant of a camera’s flash
taken to immortalize
one special day of thanksgiving
maybe you knew our eyes
would always cherish the goodness
we found nestled deep in your heart
and even while courting the angel of death
you remind us, as our new eternal troubadour,
that wherever we make our hearths
your friendship will forever warm us
with the reflection of peace
we found deep in your blue eyes


the color of peace
[2009.20.12…a]
In Loving Memory of Kenneth Rhodes
© alfred booth

I have been distressed by the recent hospitalization of our friend and colleague Kenneth Rhodes, aka Carolina Blue . I have been unable to write anything for him, or in homage of him until an hour ago. Yet another sleepless night has besieged me and the following prayer wrote itself.

This is not Ken's life, but the words of your humble servant, a mere troubadour, as he looks on his friendship with him and imagines this particular moment in his life. It is a moment which will come to us all.

Here is my first text for Ken. I hope and pray that it will not be followed by anything similar for years to come.



Father, I am tired of the pain invading my soul, infringing
upon its delights, where only your joy should be present,
a gift of sunlight, moonlight and the songs of nightingales
carried on the winds. Father, I wish to relinquish the turbulence
occupying my tired body, to elevate myself beyond these base
physical considerations. Father, I am tired. Love has not
forsaken me; I have fathered children, in my youth I have
enjoyed the passion of mistresses and pleasure of my adoring wife,
I have collected a lifetime of friends for fireside discussion and mentors
to show me other paths to other wisdoms. Father, these brave people
know not how I have suffered, rarely daring to speak of sentiments,
those precious bonds that unite one being to another. Father, I have been
discreet, where I would have allowed myself to howl like the west winds
upon the plains of my heart pining to be overthrown by human emotion.
I am but a man, Father. In your image, possibly, this, among other essential
deliberations, I have doubted for many years. And Father, I have doubted
also the goodness nestled deep in my own heart. Father, upon my deathbed
I whisper through the prayers sent to me by these great people having
touched my life. I would laugh again. I would spin tales for their amusement
and if I could let my corporal suffering abandon me, I would let
my heart open to rejoice with those souls who have come to know and
appreciate me. But to never look upon the eyes of my sons, of my wife,
of my mistresses, of my friends, never to grasp a hand in appreciation,
in thanks, in need, never to feel tears of joy and sadness wet my cheeks,
this, Father, frightens me. And I must choose now, between living and
remembering. Between living fully as your image of me would grant,
and being forgotten slowly, like a monochrome photograph aging in
the sunlit hands of those I have known. Father, I am tired.
The whiteness of your wisdom beckons me. Bathing in that light,
my last act is a choice. To live. To refuse the suffering of my body’s
weaknesses. The voices dear to me are not silent. Their tears
are eloquent, yet they offer me no solution. Father, will your arms
welcome me with all the past generations of love I too have forgotten?


prayer on a cold Carolina morning
[2009.19.12…a]

In these times of trouble when many people can no longer turn to their own families for help when they find themselves truly down and out, it's a time to give thanks for what we do have.

I have fond holiday memories of my childhood Christmases, in spite of my holiday snarkiness evident in my blog lately. Over the years, my family has found the way to make me feel like a persona non grata. So my snarkiness is a protection device to keep me from hurting too much inside. I adore the holiday seasons, the decorations, the togetherness. It's a family time and in my two family-in-laws here in France I've never experienced the communion I often knew in my own family. But I don't have a lot of people close to me in my daily life to share this with, so I kind of pretend I'm oblivious to it. Of course I've been away from the States for almost 30 years now, but if my family really wanted me home for Christmas, they certainly could have found a way to pay the plane fare as a combined birthday and Christmas present after all this time. It's hard no longer getting gifts from one's own family. We don't even exchange snail mail cards any more.

Enough self pity. It does no one any good. Maybe another sleepless night is responsible for my maudlin attitude this morning.

So, thanks to Special Kay allowing me to discover "Straight No Chaser" here's a rather appropriate video of their vocal excellence in the extended barber shop quartet formation.

We've missed two Proper Days of Christmas. Two Turtle Doves, which had never been written, and the proper Four Calling Birds, instead of the mistaken "Four Turtle Doves." I changed the first stanza of said turtle doves, because I liked the poem and it's now a proper 12 Days of C. acrostic, as the series is known in my computer. "Four calling birds" is completely new.

Here are both. The Partridge Poem for the First Day of Christmas is currently found in my P.(tree)Log at the following address:
"the first day of Christmas..." 


triumphant, she perched proudly
within the imaginary grip of utopia
orange-red stalks a sulking horizon

trite golden illumination casts
uncommon shadows on grey hues
rustling high on maple bookcases
tresses of feathers
litter nonchalantly her boudoir
eiderdown for a princess

Dovey was his endearment for her
only she was not enamored of him
verily. my sweet lady, I have
every richness ---
save my love, she cooed


two turtle doves
(2009.4.12...a)



fabulous winged griffins
opulently painted gold and silver
upset common notions of religion
rightfully so, icons do not beget fear

chatter fills human ears
along the road to holiday festivity
lest Santa’s lists get waylaid
lingering as scribbled ideas on pages
inscribed during TV commercial dreams
nimbly we sit on his lap, whisper in his ear
gilded birds fleeing from cages stained with coal

but we have forgotten childhood midnight mass
instead our hearts consume desire for cotton candy
ripping at our souls like a quartet of gargoyles calling
do we really believe in something other than
season’s greetings, arms laden with packages


four calling birds
[2009.13.12…a]

No, Anyea, this will not be the last text. But I haven't invented more than 13 Bloody Merchants, 14 out-of-phase Pages, 15 Court Jesters, 15 Shrunken Queens and 16 Tyrant Kings... Which, of course have nothing to do with the Holiday Spirits. Unless one has partaken of too many!



twas ten nights before winter solstice
when not even a mouse, or a grouse
eleven o-clock gold rings tintinabulate
like a cymbal crash against the walls of tradition
villainous merrymakers kidnap Scrooge
entertainment is snowmen and mulled wine

drumming resounds upon the sanctity of holidays
righteous speakers thump on hymnals and bandwagons
underneath which lords and maidens cavort
mutter about geese, pipers and naked pear trees
munch berries, walnuts and chocolate soldiers
enter the percussionists, accompanied by Pied Pipers
red -nosed cardinals chant fervent alleluias
suddenly, I’m dreaming of a white…


twelve drummers
[2009.11.12…c]

OK, troopers. We're almost at the end. Twelve drummers tomorrow and I'll leave you in peace. On Earth. Good Will to our Fellow Men. And Women.


wisdom has it that bagpipes are like magpies
handle carefully — they clutter, clamor
and chatter gleefully, if not untuned
tempting a song from the heritage of noise

eleven of these players are legally
liable for disrupting the peace in public squares
even if the neighbors prefer wooden flutes and dulcimers
vehicles more suited to lullabies for gentle ears
exorcising the gaudy dance from soul music
newborn babes in mangers must sleep in godliness

piped in muzac aggravates holiday shoppers
imitating the best songs with individualistic voices
perhaps more suited to karaoke’s subliminal messages
enticing the perfect state to intone Silence at Night
Rudolf and his Cousins, or Twelve Days of True Love
surely such spiritual revelations will last a lifetime?

don’t forget midnight at Times Square where players clang melodies
on brass drums while they Wreck the Halls over loud speakers


what eleven pipers do
[2009.11.12…a]

I'm up in the middle of the night again, writing a blog entry after writing today's acrostic. Anyea asked me what I'll do after this project is finished. I'm not a good enough snarker to rewrite holiday songs like Catherine is doing (and a damn good job she does of it) and I'm feeling right maudlin tonight. This morning. Hell, what time is it?

I slept a few hours. Then stopped sleeping. Stupid ghost in my bedroom again. I wish he'd find a way to really communicate with me instead of depriving me of sleep. This week I feel like my apartment is haunted. Well, it is.

Can someone find a way to tell him that I don't want him here right now? That if he wants to rattle the second chair in the kitchen while I'm there eating breakfast, he'd be more than welcome but I NEED MY SLEEP.

Not my best effort, but I forgot about writing during my nightly episode of insomnia, playing instead games on my new iPhone. I'll rewrite it eventually, but the theme of maidens become ladies only capable of spending money and not devoted to charity was the only one I could relate to.

Here goes:


never failing, they will dance and prance gaily
in store aisles, chatter at checkout counters
never numbed by spending astronomic sums
earned by their nouveau-riche husbands

lovely, luscious and lascivious, their only
attitude it to fill their mansions with packages
dutifully, but eagerly, they acquiesce at night
incapable of refusing their husband’s rights
expressing thus their gratitude for Things
seemingly artificial, so necessary to their wellbeing

down in the parlor on a special once-a-year morn
an evergreen tree sparkles with tinsel and flashing lights
new objects that await their selfish impatient children
clutter the floor beneath, wrapped brightly in
iridescent non-biodegradable papers from the best shops
nothing deters these lovely ladies from their happiness —
great numbers of people have nothing, but who cares?


nine ladies dancing
[2009.9.12…a]