Farm Silos

Silos were first used on farms in the 1880s to store silage, a moist and fermented fodder made from a variety of plant materials and primarily fed to cows. Silage had higher energy and protein levels than dried hay, making it possible for dairy farmers to keep their cows in reliable milk production during the winter months and provide year-round income.

Storing silage for several months involved keeping moisture levels high while keeping oxygen levels to a minimum so fermentation could take place. Round wood silos became popular because they minimized air leakage. Their vertical staves were held tightly in place by iron bands, equalizing the outward pressure and eliminating interior corners where the silage could spoil.

The fermentation process unfortunately produced silage acids that gradually deteriorated the silo. By 1900, wood silos began to be replaced by other materials that were more resistant to deterioration from silage seepage like masonry, steel and even glass. These newer silos produced better results but don’t have the visual appeal of the early wood silos.

Broken Barn -- Littleton NH

Northern New England still has many of these lovely old barns along it's roadsides. When an old barn falls out of use, it's not long before it falls altogether. I want to capture images of as many as possible before they disappear.

Discouraged and Despondent

at the selfishness and avarice in the world,
narcissistic world leaders who destroy lives
and families and even societies for no other reason
than to sate their voracious appetites for power,
opportunistic politicians who lie and cheat
their way into office and then use their position
and influence to line their pockets,
predatory international corporations that justify
their exploitation of the world’s finite resources
and the public as their rightful prey,
wealthy individuals who look down on their less
“successful” fellow citizens as inferior
and somehow less deserving of happiness,
and even average American families who
feel unconditionally entitled to indulge
their selfishness at the expense of
starving families around the world.

Coffin Nails

I’m now almost ten years older than my father was when he died from a heart attack and emphysema caused by 50 years of smoking Camel cigarettes.

He was one of those guys who always looked debonair with a cigarette in his hand. There was something about the way he held the cigarette between his fingers with his wrist at a jaunty angle. Some other men and a few women could pull off that casual but elegant pose, but most of them died young like my father.

Because I wanted to be like him, I started smoking Camels at fifteen. Full of teenage bravado,I called them coffin nails.

My children shamed me into quitting after learning in school about the dangers of smoking. “Stop smoking, Daddy. We don’t want you to die,” they pleaded. And it worked.

That’s probably why I’m almost ten years older than my father was when he died.

Once Upon a Time

“The sky is falling. The sky is falling,”
said Chicken Little to Henny Penny.
Cocky Locky believed her and told
Ducky Lucky who told Goosey Loosey
who passed it on to Turkey Lurkey.
But Foxy Loxy was hungry.

We’re so traumatized by knowing
the end of civilization could be near,
that we can’t bring ourselves to do
much of anything about it.

We keep passing it on to our friends
on social media who pass it on
to their friends on social media
who pass it on to their friends.
But the politicians are hungry.

“The air is dying. The air is dying,”
said the scientist to the politician,
who kept his mouth shut so his
oil industry donors would keep giving.

“The species are dying. The species are dying,”
said the naturalist to the politician,
who kept her mouth shut so her chemical
industry donors would keep giving.

“The soil is dying. The soil is dying,”
the farmer said to the politician,
who kept his mouth shut so his
big ag donors would keep giving.

This is not a child’s bedtime story.
This is a horror story about the fate
of your grandchildren and
great-grandchildren.

Artistic License

We scorn but secretly admire those creative geniuses who
care only for their art and selfishly indulge themselves
in whatever keeps their creative juices flowing.

The musician who soars in heroin-induced improvisations.
The artist who paints nude portraits of his young mistress.
The writer who drafts crime novels from an alcoholic haze.

We fantasize about their freedom and envy their ability
to engage in wanton artistic expression that brings
artistic gratification but not happiness.

On-line petitions

We love to sign on-line petitions.
It makes us feel like we’re doing something
when in reality, we’re submitting our names
to on-line marketers who can then
dun us for contributions.

It’s like masturbatory civic engagement.
It feels good, but doesn’t amount to much.

Real civic engagement is physically getting involved,
talking face-to-face with those of similar view,
challenging those with opposing views,
communicating our views with those in power
and not hiding behind feelings of powerlessness.

But I'm just too busy today.

The History Book of Lovers

In the big history book of lovers, we’ll be on page fifty-seven.
That’s the page where they talk about the couples that weren’t supposed to last,
but defied the odds and overcame the differences.

We’ll also be mentioned on page one hundred and twenty-nine,
the page where they talk about the couples that cared enough to help each other
carry the baggage they each brought along for the ride.

You'll find us on page three hundred and five where they talk about
the couples that remembered their marriage vows in spite of infidelities
and periods of disenchantment.

And we’ll be there on page eight hundred and thirteen,
where they talk about couples who learned and grew from each other,
that started out with little but ended up rich in loving memories.

We’ll also be listed in the index on page thirteen hundred and forty-one
under couples that were stubborn enough to earn
the comfort that comes with a lifetime of love.

Failed poets society meeting

They sit hunched over in the circle of metal
church basement chairs, clutching scraps of paper
and reading their pitiful poetry to the others,
each voice hungrier for praise than the last.

The long silence at the end of each poem,
is broken by an awkward comment on
the meter or the metaphor or the alliteration,
salve for wounded and bleeding egos.

Poetic Injustice

I sit with fingers poised over asdfjkl;
waiting for a metaphor to come to mind
that illustrates the way I feel.

Nothing happens.

I search my random access memory for
a keyword that will trigger a long-forgotten
experience from my childhood.

Nothing happens.

How is it the big-time poets can
always recall some prophetic image
that happened forty years ago?

With me, nothing happens.