Scioto Snow

Prints cross ice;

imagine a doe

coaxed to the river,

enveloped in lust

and white.

Gloved fingers,

breath exhaled

like anxious chimneys;

all of me

in your pocket.

We thrust low,

confound the cold,

unable to see beyond

the crosshatch of blue ash

and sycamore.

Wonder how

this flux can survive;

fresh unbodied rush,

metallic, more feverish
than spring.

tk/November 2014



Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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American

Convict me of dandelions

and large puddles of ketchup,

the June scent of Scioto rain.

At breakfast I get drunk on Bach,

with a chaser of Copland and Joplin,

hotdogs from a cart, by noon.

Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink,

ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries―

you shotgun, me in a Stetson.

I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July―

come at me with sparklers, buckeyes,

those little American flags stapled to sticks.

I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness,

but there's something you should know―

I love A. Lincoln, shamelessly.

tk/May 2013 


R.A.D. Stainforth...a rare step out of his black and white world...

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Leatherlips Curse

Time for the Annual Muirfield Memorial PGA Golf Tournament in my neck of the woods. It is said that Jack Nicklaus built his course on Wyandot Indian burial grounds, and that the tournament is cursed by Chief Leatherlips. It is certainly peculiar that every year, golfers and spectators are drenched with pounding rain. Could it be that Central Ohio just gets a lot of rain this time of year? Possibly. 

  

Leatherlips

Wyandot warrior 

There were signal trees,

bent, tied as sapling maples,

marking the sacred burial ground

of the Wyandot.

They grew into silent curled trunks,

respected by the Sells brothers

and their settlers;

words were their bond.

Two hundred years later:

no one remembers.

The chief sings a valedictory chant,

song of the living dead,

laughs as he calls wind from the Scioto,

rain to avenge his people.

Strident golfers run for cover

in shiny Range Rovers;

spectators under umbrellas

watch torrents of answered prayer. 

tk/May 2014



Masterfully read by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

Secret Scioto

Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent

The Scioto reclines,

exposes the withy brush

between sycamore-scattered bends.

A bough dips to touch herself,

bleached before an overcast mirror.

Muddy stillness resonates;

waters bubble and breathe

over unturned limestone.

Every wind echoes a low moan,

opens the buttons of her gown.

Those who are gone now

wade in the shallows,

scribble small notes

in the gravelly sediment

of her parched summers.

She does not share secrets,

rises and falls in mysteries

of moss and willowherb.

Sighs fog native banks. She laughs―

pays the voyeurs on the bridge no mind. 

tk/ November 2013


Exceptionally beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth: 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Self-evident

Convict me of dandelions,
large puddles of ketchup,
June scent of Scioto rain.

At breakfast I get drunk on Bach,
chasers of Copland and Joplin,
hotdogs from a cart by noon.

Find me guilty of eating at the kitchen sink,
ordering drive-thru McDonald's fries ―
you shotgun, me in a Stetson.

I pretend to hate mosquitoes on the Fourth of July ―
come at me with sparklers, buckeyes,
little American flags stapled to sticks.

I want to pursue our life, liberty, and happiness,
but there's something you should know ―
I love A. Lincoln, shamelessly.

tk/May 2013

Thanks to  R.A.D. Stainforth for this excellent read.

Lighthouse Dandelions by JamieWyeth 

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Ides of March

March Morning, the Scioto River 

On this Ides of March eve, I contemplate change. In the original Roman calendar, March was, very appropriately, the first month of the year. By this time, snow has melted to pre-spring neutral. I adore everything winter ... the snow, fresh cold air, woolly clothes, and the comfort food that goes with. But this year, even I am anticipating green. I have a new-found appreciation for all things pink. It's still a bit on the chilly side, but I have a window open in the Willow Manor kitchen, and a big bunch of pink tulips. I may even take the Christmas wreath off the front door, in celebration.

limpid gray

Scotio River today, Dublin, Ohio

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! 

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! 
Earth of departed sunset―earth of the mountains misty-topt! 
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! 
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! 
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! 
Far-swooping elbow'd earth―rich apple-blossom'd earth! 
Smile, for your lover comes.

― Walt Whitman

Dublin Crew

click to embiggen

One of my favorite things to see, in my neck of the woods, is the Dublin Crew kids rowing on the Scioto.  They practice on the river, and travel to out-of-town regattas.  I love the precision of the team, the graceful way the shells skim over the water.  The cox sits in the stern, facing the rowers, steers the boat, and coordinates the power and rhythm. If I had to choose, I would definitely be the cox.

The etymology of the word "regatta" is debated.  Some say it is derived from the Italian "riga", line, for the starting line, and others consider it derived from the Latin "aurigare", to race.

This kind of competitive rowing has been around for eons, first noted in Egyptian inscriptions in 1430 BC. The first known "modern" racing began with competition among professional watermen that provided ferry and taxi service on the River Thames.

Doggett's Coat and Badge by Thomas Rowlandson

photos by Lisa Aurand

Are rivers male or female?

 rain-swollen Scioto River, March 2012, Dublin, Ohio
(click to embiggen)

Is there a difference between a boy river and a girl river? Are there guidelines for determining the gender of a river? The English language has no masculine or feminine articles, our nouns are neuter. But some genderizing in the river naming department is going on, like “Old Man River” for the mighty Mississippi. 

Many times if a river is rushing, powerful, dangerous, it is thought of as male.  On the other hand, if it is a gentle, curvaceous, easy on the eyes, it is considered female.  In this case, most would agree, the lovely Scioto definitely qualifies as female. 

Things aren’t always this simple. There are no cut-and-dry rules about river names and genders. Names vary by characteristics, culture, geography, and history. Many river names have no gender, like the Nile, at 4,130 miles, generally considered the world’s longest river.

The next time you encounter a river, ask a local if it is male or female. The answer might surprise you with interesting culture of the history of the river or region. Just one of those random things I like to think about...

No man ever steps in the same river twice, 

for it's not the same river and he's not the same man. 

― Heraclitus 

everything there is to be known

Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge 

and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, 

you will suddenly know everything there is to be known. ― A.A. Milne

Scioto River view from the Dublin bridge 
Dublin, Ohio