Saturday, November 11, 2006

Veteran's Day - Remembrance

Wichita, Kansas - July 1945

Vivian dashes in from thunder,
newspaper soaring over her head.
She stands in the kitchen, dripping,
laughing. She kisses me.
Her fingers are inky, her face printed
with news.

Ardennes - January 1945

The hardest thing
was sleep - that cold.
Cold enough to crack stone
You couldn't lie down
in it - or even sit.
Even the springs of the rifles

Ardennes - January 1945

You wouldn't believe how beautiful
it was. In the night the fog would freeze
and in the morning everything
was soft with it - ghosts of trees.
We advanced into open fields
the colour of apple blossom,
delicate with blue shadows.
Against that snow we stood out
like deer.
And then
the shelling would start.

Ardennes - January 1945

Midafternoon in some nameless town
a door bangs, a woman comes running,
arms full of folded white. One sheet
flies out behind her like a banner, and
they understand. She's giving them linens,
winter camouflage. With no language,
he thanks her, and she presses to him,
weeping. When she runs he lifts
his hands and finds
a table cloth. Not lace, but that stiff stuff,
cutwork. He cuts it
with his bayonet.
Pulls it over his head. Inside,
he smells the starch, the ghost of iron.

-- Erin Noteboom

via Gary - elemming blog

Monday, November 06, 2006


(photo by Rich Jamison)

We are stunned to hear of the passing of a
dear old buddy, colleague, amazing chiropractor
Gary Horwin. In the waves of Cancun, he crossed
over, at 56, too soon. I still hear him laughing!

It is with heavy heart that we must share with you news of the unexpected death of Gary S. Horwin, D.C. on Tuesday, October 31, 2006.

Gary was the immediate past president of FSCO, serving from 2001-2005 in addition to having been a member of our Board of Directors, and a past treasurer. He has also served as president of the Chiropractic Fellowship of PA since1999. Gary graduated from Sherman College of Straight Chiropractic in 1978, and has practiced in Lansdale, PA since 1979. He was named Sherman College?s Chiropractor of the Year in 2005.


Our lives will not flash before our eyes.
Light travels the curved walls of time
like a train whistle that lowers
in pitch while diminishing.
But when the train doesn't swerve
at the turn, or a girl, sleepy, looking for
the bathroom door, falls between cars - the light
does not intensify. There is no inward curve, no
Her parents hope she didn't see,
didn't feel the bare rail, the clutch
of wheels. Still, they wish
they'd kissed her again, pressed
every bone to their hearts,
like a fern making a fossil in sand.

They store her suitcase
in an upstairs room, an atom, intact.
Below, the clock sounds like the clack of ties.
For those on board there is no
relativity: the shriek
of the whistle does not fade.

Jane Hilberry
Body Painting
Red Hen Press Posted by Picasa



Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

Friday, November 03, 2006


We have returned from a week in southeastern Pennsylvania, visiting friends and relatives, enjoying the beautiful fall colors and the scenery, and finally attending a family wedding.

You can check out the pics under "Pennsylvania Visit" in my new Picasa web albums: Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


Horizon by horizon, the sea had dropped,
and dolphins, quick stitches riding folds of brill,
proved the world could end again; he'd seen, remember,
giraffes' heads bobbing on the swells like flowers

and the last mountain, turned slick last stone,
pitch off its goats. By now the mice, dynastic sailors,
were roistering next to pooled stubs of candle
and the last handfuls of corn. Soon the future would frill

each beak, and his wife, still mucking out stalls
though the others were pressed into portholes
like designs into buttons, would rainbow above him again

as he's hungered a month for her to do. Then this too
would be lost, like the silence just after the rain stops
when all views seem empty, all balance true.

Terri Witek

Noah at Halloween