California Haiku

One more snow cap peak
another icy river
approaching land’s end






Closed-down bars hotels
a hawk leaves a leafless tree
flies over the train






Wild west railroad bridge
a stone bison emerges
patchy winter fur






A frozen basin
the sun highlights ridge-back hills
places no one walks






The evening star bright
a final sculpted sundown
lonely Christmas lights






Magenta skyline
to indigo night-time
in thirty degrees






Lucid moon and stars
a moving wall of fir trees
open train window






In crystalline night
coming down from the mountains
slow snowfall of stars

Nevada Haiku

Nuclear test site
sun-burnt skeletal buildings
functional chapel






If these aren’t badlands
then I don’t know what would be
a graceful blackbird






In a narrow pass
anthropomorphic rock face
observes Mount Shasta






The ducks move sideways
in the rapid rail-side stream
the hills get furry






Two rock formations
one is black the other white
shaped like human skulls






Ghost mountain haunts me
keeps looking in my window
outside of Elko






Along the phone lines
insulators hang mid-air
trucks duel on the road

Saltair

Mystical mountains
a carnival of souls
the endless salt lake







An ornate ruin
on the frozen salt expanse
sudden art brut rock







Before emptiness
the Victorian ice palace
suggests infinite

Utah Haiku

One hour motionless
then the train travels backwards
the cold cracked the tracks






White peaks of Utah
roseate in a sunrise
we haven’t seen yet






Utah shows its backside
Salt Lake City bizarre
yet unremarkable






A small plane landing
summoned over the wasteland
a bulbous tower

Colorado Rockies

Series of tunnels
the vertiginous daylight
flashing on and off






A frozen river
between the peaks and the train
is made of milk glass






Before the splendor
animal tracks to water
a constant struggle






Snow-laden fir trees
in the twilight between peaks
occluded river






Wire fence in the snow
suggests a wild mountain tune
some furry ponies

Denver Haiku

The phantom Rockies
horizontal line of clouds
made of rocks and snow







Entering Denver
geese stand in a river bend
brilliant snow blows past







The winter Rockies
cow skull of the sleep-deprived
reverse train travel

Chicago to Denver Haiku

Fifty geese shelter
a sunny alcove windless
the marble golf course







Three gothic steeples
sign of the cross and a prayer
waning winter sun







Perfect neat farmhouse
spreading trees and a red barn
grain elevator







Snow fields are a sea
vast American pampas
railroad tracks to Venus







On the river Platte
factory in snow and steam
artificial star






Distant paisley cloud
the pink and blue empty sky
a moonscape with grass

New York to Chicago Haiku

The snow and the tracks
brush-stroke clouds on the Hudson
a school of painting







As night takes the hills
on the sky-colored Hudson
a few hundred ducks







First Christmas lights
a home alone in the woods
by the vast unknown







The river of night
battalions of streetlights
give way to darkness







The train uncovers
an island with castle ruins
in the last gloaming







From the railroad bridge
ghostly Albany in mist
the moon turned orange






Distant Christmas trees
the spirit is on the land
train passing at night






Erie Pennsylvania

Snow sweeps away all
at the silent train station
a plow’s constant prowl







In windswept snowfields
snow and crop stubble turn pink
red sun in the woods






Defunct trains obtain
in sunny snowy Elkhart
some contradiction







Fire on the outskirts
of a blanched-out dairy farm
no one is around






It all intersects
mirror buildings in the Loop
frigid and lucid

New York City Haiku

Checked my bag at Penn
kept my train slippers with me
a seat for this bench







Thousands of pigeons
converge on my snowbound lunch
squirrels steal behind







Yule tree in the arch
a cherry-picker trims it
park sparse in the cold

Washington Square Park

New England Train Haiku

Snow falls on Swansea
photographic Fall River
fades into the past






The snow train flumes down
from hilly Providence
to white salt marshes






Sun comes out at last
restores color to the world
passed this way before






Bright clouds on the sea
New England outlined in snow
gull on a statue

Ste Anne Shrine

December 2005

Glorious Saint Anne,

we think of you as filled with compassion
for those who invoke you and with love
for those who suffer.
Heavily laden with the weight of my troubles,
I cast myself at your feet and humbly beg of you
to take the present affair which I commend to you
under your special protection.
Amen

for my Mother

Interior of Ste. Anne church with statue of Ste. Anne holding the infant Mary.

This magnificent Dominican church was built by people who were of French descent via Canada. It has long been one of the city's great institutions with its own school and hospital.
It was the hospital in which I was born. There was no doctor present at that moment. My Mother said that I came out on my own volition, that I wanted out.
Ste Anne's was where she had her own baptism in the early part of the 20th Century and where she had her funeral Mass in January 2009.
In 2002 it was the last place my Mother and I attended Mass together. We were with my eldest brother who passed away in 2006. I thought about her and prayed for her there on this evening in 2005. All who labor and all who suffer come to Him and He will give you rest.
Snow was falling outside in December's early darkness. It was on the night before I planned to leave Fall River for the last time. In another four years this high ceiling would be the last one to shelter my Mother's mortal remains. And that is what came to pass.
Peace unto her. I am confident she is with Jesus in Eternity.













In the numinous darkness of the Crucifix photograph is a Christmas tree, almost invisible.

The doors were unlocked for a Mass later that night. I was there for nearly an hour and saw no other person. There was a vast quiet as I prayed, reflected, and lit a candle. To get a light for the candle, I had to carry a flame across a large oriental rug in front of the altar from one candle rack to the other. In the semi-darkness, it would conceivably have appeared rather dramatic to a sudden observer. I felt like I was in a film by the great Catholic film-maker, Luis Bunuel













Ecole Ste Anne AD 1923

This school was new when my Mother studied there in French and in English. It was where she first met my Father. Snowflakes fall another Winter over its striking frieze of Jesus, the Teacher.

South Main and Middle Street,
Fall River

The Reservation

November 2005

One dim-lit afternoon we drove out to the Freetown-Fall River State Forest and the Watuppa Reservoir. An untrammeled oasis of peace so near to Fall River's urban sprawl, it retains some of the ambiance of early New England life. At 15 square-miles it is the largest state forest, and it includes a Wampanoag tribal reservation, a continuity with even earlier times. In local parlance when I grew up the entire forest including the reservoir was known as the Reservation
As lovely as it undeniably is, the whole place does have a uncanny feeling to it. It's the aftermath and residue of the many sins that took place here or were dumped here; the occult cults that reputedly teemed here; and the usual supernatural legends concerning evil inhabiting-spirits that abound here.
As youngsters we heard tales of "Herkamire" a demented ghoul and permanent resident of these dark woods. He left an urban-mythic hook hung on the door of couples who tried to use the Reservation's unlit byways for lovers' lanes.
I like how the roads are barely maintained. There are no signs, no inducements to visit. In the time we spent there, only one or two other cars ever drove past. And there are blessed many places there where no cars go.



Leaning road through the Watuppa pond reservoir.

For several years this magnificent pond was my periodic salvation. There were always strictures against leaving one's vehicle even to walk in the woods, let alone posted prohibitions against all fishing and swimming. This was the local population's water supply after all, the clean pond would otherwise soon be over-run and despoiled.
Across an isthmus of land called the Narrows, lies another fresh water pond nearly as large, South Watuppa pond. We might have tried a few casts there as kids, but fish were quite rare in its polluted waters. This side was relatively, miraculously, still clean.
Yes, and I was a clean youth when I fished there. I let the fish swim away again after I unhooked them. You were in much better shape if the cops or warden caught you if you were without any catch. Most of the time you might ride in and out by bike and never be bothered.
One of the greatest moments of my young life was standing naked, up to my waist in the water while casting-out a fishing lure. I caught good-sized bass that raced through the water right past me in real fights. The experience of catching a fish in so direct way was exhilarating. It made me feel as human and alive as I have ever felt. Forty years ago.

After a few years, I left my clandestine fishing trips to the realm of fond memory. I would return on occasion to go swimming during the oppressive humid heat of summer vacations from college. After taking a bus to the end of the line, I'd walk into the reservoir environs. Swimming carried a stiff fine but so few tried that there was little chance of being caught.
With neither towel nor bathing suit, I could say I was merely strolling in the woods if I was stopped and questioned. I would only disrobe after an arduous walk along the edge of the pond. It would have been too much work for anyone to patrol such an area on foot. Once I'd found a spot, it just meant lying low and watching out for boats. Fortunately the boats couldn't come close due to rocky shallows. If they spotted you they would have to send a land-based cop to try to catch you-- but that never happened.
Instead, peace would come falling slow. I would find relief in a swim, a smoke, and a bask in the sunlight and shade of a secluded cove.

The fishing had long-ceased, and even these halcyon secret swims came to be a bygone thing. It became more of a place one would go for a drive. In the 60s we would wander through the Reservation for hours with as many as six in the car. Police were scarce there, so we'd go just to smoke pot for the lack of another cool place. It was relatively safe as long as you kept moving. We would also drive there just to get out of the house, to relieve cabin-fever on a winter night.
In subsequent years, the Reservation has always loomed in my mind as a symbol of sylvan respite. For the most part, it was exempt from the over-lit, noisy, over-populous world, so tedious and grim. The drive around Watuppa pond remained a pilgrimage for me on visits back for the past 30 years.



Paul at the confluence of two streams. He worked for many years as a land-scaper and chose this place for his portrait because of its splendid engineering. Note the two different streams on either side of him that meet here. Paul has studied arbor culture and instructs me in points of interest as we go. A native and life-long area resident of this coastal region, he always went salt-water fishing and had many of the local experiences I missed due to years at university and in cultural and counter-cultural pursuits. So he has long been a guide for me to my native woods and waters. Perhaps I serve as a mytho-poetic guide for him as well. We share many of the same interests in literature and music.
In October of 1978, we hitch-hiked to Lowell to visit Jack Kerouac's grave. We hitch-hiked to Boston to see Bob Dylan that same year, and also to neighboring Providence to see Talking Heads at Brown. I had hitch-hiked across the state many times was quite a pro. At eighteen he was a complete novice and, enchanting as it was, that may have been the extent of it for him. He later became a confirmed Cadillac and Harley Davidson man.
In 1980, when I flew in from California with Lucy, he rallied us to go and see Bob Marley at Brown the very next night. For me it was an almost bittersweet final concert by him, he was still moving but with diminished energy. For newer devotees Lucy and Paul it was a different sort of milestone, their only concert by him. Bob Marley died within a few weeks of that show.
The three of us spent time at the beach or around the wood-stove in my loft whenever we came to Massachusetts in the 80s. He remained a reliable friend as my visits became less frequent since the 90s. And we generally kept in touch by mail over all that time.

Blessedly, on this trip Paul also had a place for me to stay. I was passing through town once again, maybe for the last time.





Old family burial ground, Blossom road, near the Reservation. These early properties are among the last built on this road in the times before the state forest was designated. This family alloted a great deal more space for their progeny than was ever required. Note the authentic stone walls, characteristic of early New England. Note as well the tree house back there amid the bare branches of November.





Walking the wall. The Reservation, Fall River-Freetown.
A masterfully-built stone wall in a deep grove of piney wood.

Massachusetts Haiku

Marsh house built on stilts
delicate board bridge to it
empty in winter



















Pond on some farmland
Canada geese in big flocks
the snow line moves south



















Sunny summer beach
in the blasts of December
puffin-like seabirds

Westport

Fall River, Massachusetts

November 2005

Hometown, USA

After two weeks of train travel and hotel rest-overs, I needed eight days of rest in Massachusetts in order to face the Trans-America leg of my trip that still lay ahead.




Second Street, Fall River.

On this trip, I stayed with an old friend Paul at his apartment nearby this location. This Second-Empire style tenement building with a mansard roof was where I first had my own apartment. I rented it with friends while I finished high school in 1969-70. It was where I discovered such pleasures as taking a bath with incense burning and Thelonious Monk on the stereo. I began to cook in that apartment as well, the joy of making one's own pancakes. There was no television in our pad; we thrived on books, music, and conversation.
Second floor in the back, it looked out on St Anne's church towers visible in this photograph.
The house where the Lizzie Borden murders took place in 1892 lies just downhill on Second street.





Hipster slouch after long train rides.

Paul's back yard looking off toward the South end.
Everything seems so tranquil when compared to the hectic, over-populated Bay Area where I live.






My sleep chamber.

Rest-over was a dark, quiet room in Paul's apartment,
momentarily decorated with haunted objects from my old home.
It seemed the apartment's silence and darkness covered over some dark event in its past.






The Flatiron building sails under blue skies and scudding clouds.

Situated across Second street from where I stayed, this fine old curiosity was a landmark of my youth. It meant we were halfway from our homes near Maplewood park to downtown or to high school. I knew a folk-musican from Swansea who had a place there in the 60s. He invited me to play harmonica in his jug band. I held out for an electric blues band instead.
Even earlier than that, I used to get my Mad paperbacks in the old variety store on the street level. One of them Like, Mad featured beatnik cover art--I dug that special. Clearly the place has long had Bohemian appeal. I think there was even a head shop there once upon a time. There should be a bronze plaque there. The building itself in every regard is a weird time-traveler with an oddball profile. And it has an elevated location where Plymouth avenue meets the top of Second street.






Second street looking Northward from the Flatiron building.

Fall River's

Backyard Shrines

Fall River was a city populated by Roman Catholic immigrants. Each successive wave of immigrants undercut the last one by working for cheaper wages. This led to some amount of resentment and to separate churches for each ethnicity despite a shared faith. They were often built a stone's throw from each other.
Most of these ethnic groups do seem to hold one tradition in common. A custom by which the Irish, French-Canadians, Polish, and Portuguese faithful alike could express their individual Catholic devotion. It takes the form of personal backyard religious shrines. They are all over town. A popular method of building one is to use an old bathtub with the drain-side buried. Waggishly such displays have been referred to as "Bathtub Marys."
Since 1980, I have been photographing examples of such shrines whenever I got the chance. The neighborhood where I stayed provided me with the two remarkable ones that follow.










A home on Stafford road.

Jesus shrine under the stairs. The icon looks to have received at least one touch up with heavy white house paint on his face. Note the distinct color of his hands. The drooping paint manages to resemble the snow clinging to the votive shrubbery.
Add to this the free-style spray-painting of his tub-grotto and the rosary bead lights and you have a dazzling tableau ingeniously tucked away in an available space.








A fastidious yard around the corner from us on quiet Conant street.

Christmas lights festoon these icons of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary.
The image of Jesus, Man of Sorrows is hand-painted on Portuguese tiles.