The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.

Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,

their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.

On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.

And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.

One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.

In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,

while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.

Every era that has ever been
Has engaged in the auto-dissection
Of their yellowing underbellys.

Yes, every generation has predicted
that the end is nigh,
That god is on their side;
But the devil has a crowbar
And is busting out of the basement.

Each decade is a mimicry of the last.
Different fashions, same trends
And always, with a fool on the hill.

A lonely steel harmonica can pierce the airwaves
Across space and time,
Through the grooves and crackles
To enthral an audience,
And to beguile that every generation
Into believing in their autonomy,
Their solitude,
With a fate independent of all those centuries past.

Through every disembodied spew of Dylan lyrics,
Or the corporeal and common alienation
Sympathised in every Wilde reference,
Comes the same fury at the chaos of a world
That is no more than indifferent at the plight of the people it houses.

Indeed,
Every generation has sought to either
Cure the ills of the Earth;
Or else set lighter fluid to the lot.

This stretches back to the first blood-spattered edition of the Bible,
And further, much further.
To all of the captains,
The heroes,
The anti-heroes,
The road gritter,
The malevolent dictator,
The schoolteacher,
The emancipated woman
And the borderline feminist.
To every young child who is reluctant to take the spotlight,
Or look you in the eye,
Ask questions, or speak out.
For every one of those who at some point were labelled
‘maladjusted’.

And so the Pharaohs and Caesars are all but gone now,
Replaced by the big-wigs,
The fat-cats,
The purple hearted,
The playboys -
The men in suits.
But they are all the same.

The same behind the decadence of
A solid gold sarcophagus
Or an Armani pair of shades.
They all built their empire on shifting sands.

And so we will all kick and scream
To our own tone and our own time
At the indignity of the world.
At our bespoke knowledge
To deal with all inconvenience
But that which privates the preclusion
Of any and all major slaughters of justice.

As for that young child,
With the lack of eye contact -
And all that he will become:
He will sit. And he will type.

He will type until his words fall beyond that
Of the spiralling noises inside his mind
And blossom into something pure and ugly and beautiful.
He will sit and he will write

To forget.

Love is a bit of comedy, so be rough with love.

He arranges her one way and then another,
in itchy dissatisfaction. She surrenders to the role
like a silent bystander, a plaything in the hands
of impatience - what does he want?

“Like this,” he says in a schoolteacher’s voice.

The imbalance of power, the almost impersonal
manipulations, the momentum toward surrender,
and then the shocking, primal desire - to meld -
like a gunshot in a canyon long thought empty.

the middle life of hands

say poverty could possess a doll whose favorite and only outfit a schoolteacher mends while picturing

     two pieces of chalk which become the late life ******* of the ghost mother who cannot cradle the crucified yet travels to the many scenes of crucifixion to lade the Christ pale glove onto the hands men think they’ve touched.    



sibling talent

my sister rubs cigarette ash onto her palms.  her lips could kiss a mime and get away with it.  I can’t walk on my hands at night without having my father come home mid-day to find my mother on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor with circus cloth.      




husk bearing*

the bath a baby pool for the barren.  I turn the knobs, hear nothing, and call to my mother.  call with *ma, and then ma again.  most made of one silence but she of two.  my right ear at the door and my other patient.  her knees sound like my father’s cheekbones.  the tears in them he says are shrapnel.  of course I don’t believe this.  when I wanted to paint my treehouse yellow mother straightened me and asked for stillbirth yellow.  then poverty yellow.  for another example you would have to believe my bout with chicken pox left a yellow basket stranded on the still river of my tongue.  

     listen.  the buzz on a delay

but bee
arrives.

why do you talk like that?
like a schoolteacher
like your friends
like all the other twentysomethings

like you moved to a big city and here i am in a small town

i've known you your whole life
and now you tell me twice
you grabbed a drink last week

i could sense the tone as i read
it was not the you i knew

and i told you to get real

she said to me:
you've been reading too much of that guy
who wrote catcher in the rye

and i went silent and you were ****** right

We had a most horrid schoolteacher,
And us children did all hate her,
She’d shout at us for no real reason,
And threaten to see us later,
She had a dip on a Florida trip,
And was swallowed by an alligator,
But only crocodile tears were shed,
‘Cos we were all just … gladiator!

If I survive the next few years, I may wish I'd written more about this time. My self is certainly transforming, but it's such a minimal bother to document it. It's 7:10 am. I worked at the bar until about one. Bill came by unexpectedly, and I went to his house and bought twenty grams for five hundred, as well as fifty worth of **** for Gillian. I suppose I've been high since about 11 o'clock.

John says that Bill is certainly the most intelligent man he's ever met. I used to feel that way about people. I spent the rest of the night at the bar, and then at the couch, talking to Sarah and Liz. Liz's last name is Oliphant. Sarah is Croatian. Liz is prettier. I would like to kiss either of them.

This **** may be better than last time, I'm not sure. As usual, as is whenever I get high, everyone leaves me in the early morning. It was around five this time. Maybe five thirty. As usual I thought to watch TV but Andrea looked so comfortable curled up on the couch in reception and I hadn't the heart to bother her. I learned a new word today: gallow, I believe it was... meaning to frighten. Or gallowed, meaning to be very afraid.

As is not usual, this time after I got in bed I did another line. Two in fact. And the largest I'd done all night. Because oddly this is the first time in the last month that I've stayed up all night without having anywhere to be, or otherwise any obligations the next day. I was going to go to the markets and buy pants. But I suppose a day in bed will justly stall that need for another turn at least.

And it had been a while. Actually I can't even remember when. The last time I was high by myself, and not overly drunk, and able to just stare up at the bunkbed slats supporting the German or French or Dutch fellow now above me and feel the unmoderated effect of the dear drug itself as she works through me. I know I'll regret this. I always regret it. But I was regretting it already and so to stall the regret and stare upwards for a few hours, treating myself to a little selfish time, seemed not the lowest of sins.

And I work at four. Four to eight thirty. So even if I don't sleep a wink and even if I continue to defy conscience and maybe do the one more line thing again, I can still power through. Can still sit leeward on the barstool and listen to 90's alt rock hits and putter through the motions of making it past eight. I can do that. And I can spend 30 minutes in this exaltation and then stare listlessly at the mattress above me and all its cartoon moons and stars while I debate the uselessness of my life and all the strings I've severed when I came here to drown.

Because this is a true story. It doesn't wrap up, or nicely. And there's no twist, but ongoing turns I guess. I'm a newborn, dripping with womb in a way and without even language or very many clothes: I feel much like one indeed. And I tried to buy a phone card today because it's something I need but the man told me to go somewhere else, gave good directions, and I didn't really understand. Likewise it seems will fail my dream for today to get out of this room, and buy new pants.

I can accept my grandfather dying. Every time I've seen him I've said goodbye. And he in his humble way, or maybe faith, always hints at see you soon. My grandmother sure. If anything somewhere maybe I expected the grief would take her. Or afterwards the dire space left between caring for her husband's ailing pains. But I always thought I'd know well before my mother would go. And now won't. And honestly never considered but now dramatically realize: I'll never be an uncle to my brothers' sons. Never see my sister find her place. Never see Brandy become the quiet dark eyed schoolteacher she is in my dreams. And also she will die and I won't see that, either. Not even anyone will call on the phone.

So I start with, "if I survive the next few years" because regardless those years will mean loss. Either loss of those loved, or more likely loss of that complex potential of mind... that once made space to love them. Or maybe better lost the own bitter instrument. And I say it all without condolence because each those ways feel, to me, tragic. Each way feels to me like something bright once in the world, that had to perish. I go forth with some sadness into the dark.

say poverty
could possess
a doll

a friend and shape
less
doll

whose favorite
and only
outfit

a schoolteacher
mends

while picturing
two pieces
of chalk

     the whereabouts
of her *******

The inner ciity school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and ovewhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She would break an adult meetng
to  tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by  the open window  of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and poet
that had spawned
from her class.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last

And the band played waltzing Matilda
by
jude kyrie

First of all y ou have to know me.
I am not wild or adventurous girl.
I read, and go to small get togethers.
so grounded so conservative.
A girl from new New England.
A schoolteacher I get lost
in the shadows at parties.

I was nothing  like him at all
Not like the tall strong rugby playing
adventure seeking Aussie man
with the wild Aussie accent.

We met when he visited Boston
I am on walkabouts
he said to me in the book store.
I asked him if he Did not have a car.
He laughed
No darlin I mean I am travelling
The world I got restless in OZ
and they call it walkabout.

He took me for coffee
I had never seen such a big
Beautiful man as he.
Every other word
Was right mate
or no worries love..
But for some reason that
I shall never understand.
He liked me

and he would not take no
for an answer.
I felt like a little girl in his arms.
He could pick me up like a feather
Lifting me over his head
Your a bit of alright Darlin.
.he would say.
Or ****** love
you are a *******..
Whatever that meant

I got used to him being around.
He made me laugh.
He always cheered me up
Why I married
him I will never know.

I worried about his giant
frame towering over me..
But. I should not have.
He was the sweetest kindest man
I have ever known.
He treated me like gold.
Always, So gentle so loving.
He made me so happy.

I know he missed his Australian home.
But he never complained.
He said I love you Darlin.
We will get back home one day.
I don't think I have ever been as happy
as that time with him.

I thought giants lived forever.
But they don't.
They are just as frail
as us small people.
When he became sick.
He made little off it.

******,
I will shake it off in a fortnight.
No worries love.
Give us a kiss.
But I did worry.
...I knew ...I knew..I knew.

Finally at the end he said
I got a last request honey.
Honey ..his only American word.
I kissed him.
Anything Anything my love.

Spread my ashes on Australian soil
It don't matter much.where.
Just  Anywhere.
but have them sing
Waltzing Matilda for me love.
When I lost him
My world was not as bright.
But I kept my promise.
I took his ashes back to OZ.

There was a huge
Australian football match
With half of  Sydney there.
As a hundred thousand people
singing his beloved
Waltzing Matilda.
At the football match.

I Let his ashes loose and free
into a cool breeze that seemed
To know he was back home.
He flew away far into
the wide open Australian sky.
Where I knew he was happiest.

And I whispered
Goodbye my sweet
Australian gentle giant.

And the band
Were playing waltzing matilda.

The inner ciity school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and overwhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She wld break an adult meetng
to tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by the open window of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and poet
that had spawned
from her class.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last.

pedantically clean and orientated by monday march and morning? can’t be a poet, must be a schoolteacher of english - as it goes, chaotic on the poet’s bookshelf as inside a painter’s studio.*

the best poetry, i find, is done,
by the misappropriation of nouns:
just for the giggles
of that misplaced king o’ whisked
into pheasant pleasantries:
troubleshooting plato’s cave
in the panasonic flatscreen;
because - mighty internet - allows
my input too - isn’t a passive digit input
to get the cookie feeling of staring
en masse at “the most historic moment in broadcasting history.”

Rome was bustling that year
tourist and locals filling the old city.
She was excited four weeks to tour
Italy it was high on her bucket list.
the fight from Kennedy
was Nine hours but she was here now.
Her divorce was final
the assets split and
she was forty and free.
it had been a hard year
but it was over
she was ready to enjoy
the eternal city.

The little cellar restaurant
was perfect it was nine PM
Romans eat late
and when in Rome right.

waiting at the bar sat on a high stool
she slipped on a glass of Chianti.
she noticed an attractive man
he was alone and giving her the
once over. she still had it she thought.
but not for anything serious

her *** addicted ex had burned her badly.
it turned out he had ******* half the neighbors
and most of her friends.
no she was burned.
but a little holiday fling
well that could be appropriate.

she flashed him her prettiest smile
he took the bait and walked over to her.
hi he said
mind if I join you.
she smiled again
only if you don't get the wrong idea.

he was English his lovely soft accent
was pleasant to her new York ears.
definitely not pushy very gentle
and respectful. she found herself
liking him.

it turns out he was a schoolteacher
near London in a small village.
he was touring Italy on his summer vacation.
she told him of her divorce and the hard breakup.
a tear formed in her eyes as she unloaded.
he offered her a crisp white handkerchief.
who on God's green earth carried a handkerchief
any mora
. He laughed and said my mother
makes me carry one she says you never know
when you may see a lady crying
and a gentleman
should always be prepared.
I liked his mother already.

he said he was Twenty eight
a bit young for me.
but what the heck.
I lied and said thirty four.

he was so gentle so nice
I was getting way too attracted to him.
his lovely eyes grey as steel
and his soft voive. Oh My!

He told me he was single
his girl friend had got tired
of waiting for him to pop the question
and moved on.
I don't know why but I was happy
to hear of his breakup.

he said he loved my American accent.
I couldn't believe it he liked
my new York voice.

it was midnight
I wanted to stay but the bar closed.
I thought I can't let him go
he seemed shy to ask me.
But said look why don't I walk
you back to your hotel.
I agreed a bit too quickly.
he escorted me to the old fashioned
elevator in my hotel

And he kissed me goodnight.
he turned to leave me
but I held onto his hand
he looked up into my eyes.
and I led him into the elevator
and up to my room?

that was were I should have
let it go but he made love to me
gently like a new bride.
I wept in happy joy.
as he stole my heart.
I fell asleep in his arms
and felt as safe as a child
in her father's arms.

we were inseparable
for the next four weeks.
we toured beautiful Italy
and made love in every city.
Then it dawned on me
I was in love with him.
So much in love.

I had to fly back to the States.
my ticket was fixed my job
was expecting me back.
I said what I going to do with you jude.
he said I can't lose you Abby.
I will come for you to America.
he stood four hours
watching the taillights
on the jet fade into the horizon.

three months later

Abby opened the door of her apartment.
he stood there so beautiful.
A rose in his hand.
I got a visa for the states
I can stay.
Abby took him into her bed
and they never left it for a day.

A year later

they were taking a walk
down fifth avenue
the baby was sleeping
in the stroller.
the winter was starting
and some snowflakes
we're already flying.
Christmas Carols lilted
in the distance.
He held Abby close
and kissed her.
saying I love you so much honey.
Abby smiled her prettiest smile
for her englishman.
not as much as l love you she said
in their routine mantra.
And there in the busy street
full of countless people in a hurry.
He walked into her heart
and found a place
where fate had made for only him.
And a home where he would never leave.

The inner city school was big and noisy.
I remember being scared and overwhelmed.
When I saw her for the first time
a cornucopia of colors In her flowing sari.
She floated no sound of footsteps.
Her skin perfectly brown
oh she was the most beautiful lady
I had ever seen.
I think she loved teaching more than life.
She would break an adult meetng
to  tend to a childs needs.
.Saying we must reschedule
I have a very important
meeting with my student
I must attend to.
she taught us patience and respect.
To listen to each other and to learn
from each person we spoke with.
she brought animals to the school
and introduced us to new species.
Everone wanted to be with her
when she taught us the class was silent
and every swoosh of her sari could be heard.
she stood by  the open window  of the classroom
Once and said listen can you hear it
I said its just silence Miss
she smiled and said no
it is the most beautiful
sound in the world
it is the sound of learning.
she would ask
what new thing we had learned
since last she saw us.
A color a poem a book.
I think I learned how to learn from her.
She basked in her small successes.
Later she told us of the nurses a doctor
schoolteacher author and a poet
that had spawned
from her classes.
Now when I visit England I always try
to see her in her small retirement flat.
she pours green tea that she says comes from
the foothills of the himalayas still teaching me.
As I recount for her all the new things
I have learned in the years since I saw her last.

I always think of you.
I think of the color green:
the tint of old photos,
the lively dancing of your eyes,
your turtleneck in your
official schoolteacher portrait--
of summer--
the grass under my feet
as I run around the yard
so big to little me
and your wrinkled hand keeping me from running too far--
your curtains hanging in your dining room
when the sunlight peeked through them--
the cushions of the dining room chair
where you sat and talked and ate and
made funny faces
sometimes with curlers still in your hair--
the stems and leaves of wildflowers
that Grandpa picked for you
sitting in a coffee tin on the microwave--
the clover planted in empty ice cream pails
in the living room
and you telling me I was lucky
because I'd found one with four leaves--
the grassy **** blanket on the fold-out
bed in the living room where you
sometimes napped--
the bitter tea you drank
for your weak heart--
and the markings on the cannula tube
snaking up
to the oxygen mask
covering your smiles---
your laughing green eyes
on your last day.

She was pretty
She was curvaceous
Yet she thought there was something missing
She had a life worth living
A soap opera called high school
But one thing
One thing she was wishing
The boys were looking
At the ladies that got
The one thing that she does not
“I wanna be thick”
She said, with sass
She knew they were looking at girls with the ***
Little did she know she had plenty to offer
That is to the monster


She had biology class with me
Sat in the back
Talkative
Got my curiosity
Why?
In all honesty,
Her ample cleavage got me
Her lips and caramel skin
Got me too, you see
She had a tight body
She might have caught me looking
It’s ok
No 25 to life
Only did it once
Maybe twice


She said
“I want my ***** to be bigger”
From observation
She worked with what God gave her
She had communications class
Sat on the left
Real talkative
After all, everybody was
Even me
I think it was even in the syllabus
Speaking of it
We had a How-To project
Hers were how to do the
“Pop, Lock, and Drop It”

Football players had their eyes on her
Other boys did too
As she did the dance
And she liked the ****
Her ******* were Lace
Peeking out
She smirked
She liked it
She admitted it
I tilted my head
As she smiled
In my mind
I was curious
What’s going on behind that smile



The monster came later
In the form of a schoolteacher
Everything was cool at first
Then something told her he was disturbed
He touched her randomly
She shook it off
He touched her on the leg
She cursed
All of a sudden, she had a dilemma
After class, the monster forced her to have dementia
The monster touched her
With that look in his eyes
She looked in them
And felt every male look
And animalistic gaze
All over again...
All over again...

Why Am I Here ... ?

Well THAT's A BIG QUESTION ... !!!

I'm NOT A Schoolteacher ...
You're NOT IN A Lesson ... !!!

But ... Some Things I Say ...
Are ... REALLY Worth STRESSING ... !!!
Like Knowing That Life's ...
A Gift With ... Gods Blessing ... !!!

You May Not Believe In ....
..... Gods' Existence .....

But God Has MORE SUBSTANCE ...
Than ... Pound Notes or Pence ... !!!!!

I'm Here To ... " Suggest " ...
You Should Use Common Sense ...
and NEVER Use Violence ... !!!
Other Than ... In DEFENCE ... !!!

Defence Can Be Used ...
As A Form of ... Offence ...

NEVER ... ACT Tough ... !!!
As A Form of ... "Pretence" ... !!!!!
Cos' This May Result ...
in Your ... Very LAST Breath ... !!!!!!

Do You ... Get What I'm Saying ... ?
A ... PREMATURE Death ... !!!!!!

I'm Here Cos' I've Learned ...
To AVOID Being ... BURNED ...
By ... IGNORANT Street Kids ...
Who ... Should of Discerned ...

THAT ... Life Is For LIVING ... !!!

And Death Is For ... URNS ... !!!!!

This Poem's Saying .....
Make The ... RIGHT TURNS ... !!!!!

REMEMBER These Words ... !!!!!

"One good turn,
deserves another !"

Like ... ALWAYS Respecting ...
Your One ... " Natural Mother " ... !!!

And Showing ... Respect ...
To ... EVERY Young Brother ... !!!
REGARDLESS of Race ...
Religion or COLOUR ... !!!!!!!!!!

That's Why I'M HERE ... !!!!!
To ... CLEVERLY Steer ...
You're Attitude To ..
A Place of ... NO FEAR ...

Adhere To These Words ...
Before You See TEARS ... !!!

Tears From ...
Your ... " LOVED Ones " ...
Friends And ... Your Peers ...

Let's ...
Make This ... CLEAR ...
Bullies Are People ...
With .... "INTERNAL Fears" ... !!!

FEAR of .... EXPOSURE .... !!!
THINK ... LISTEN and HEAR ... !!!

HEAR What I'm Saying ...
TRUST ME ... I AIN'T Playing ... !!!!!

NOTHING In Life ...
Is EVER ... Plain Sailing ... !!!

But ... TRAINING Your Mind ...
Can Keep You From ..... HATING .....
And Acting THE FOOL ... !!!
Or ... CRIME Perpetrating ... !!!!!!!!!

Life AIN'T A ... " Plaything " ... !!!
So ........ Take Time ..............................................
STOP Racing ... !!!!!

Cos' Time Is The ONE THING ...
That WILL KEEP ON ... Ticking ....................................
  
Steer CLEAR of Veneers ...
Until Your Time's NEAR ...

LOVE Who YOU ARE ...
and LOVE Others Too ... !!!

But ...
ABOVE All of This ...

PLEASE ....
ALWAYS Be True ... !!!

These Are Some Words ...
To ... INSPIRE Herds ...

Have You Paid Attention ...
To Things I Have Mentioned ... ???

My Message Is ... CLEAR ...
For Those Who Will Hear ...

It's PEACE That I LIVE FOR ... !!!

This Is .....

" Why ... I Am Here "

As a student in Missus Grace Wells third grade 1967 class...
at Henry Kline Boyer School
a fairly prominent structure,
whose personage exemplifies
a storied history recounted below.

Henry K. Boyer

Early Life

Henry Kline Boyer was born on February 19, 1850, in Evansburg, Montgomery County, Pennsylvania. The youngest of two children to blacksmith Ephraim Boyer and his wife Rebecca Kline, Henry was raised mainly in Montgomery County, with his father at one point even being the official town blacksmith of Evansburg. He attended formal schooling in Montgomery County from a young age, with an aptitude for math and a love for English and history. Boyer later attended Freeland Seminary, which is now known as Ursinus College.

He completed his formal education at only sixteen years of age, and in 1866 became a schoolteacher at the public school in his neighborhood. Kline then moved on to other teaching positions, including ones with a “classical academy” in Philadelphia and a Quaker school in the Byberry neighborhood of the city.

In 1868, he received a grammar school teaching certificate and moved to Camden, New Jersey, to work as the principal of a school there. Boyer did this until 1871, at that time he left his position in Camden to pursue the study of law in Philadelphia at the firm of former United States Attorney General Benjamin H. Brewster. In 1873, at the age of 23, Boyer was admitted to the Bar in Philadelphia County, where he focused on civil cases.

Political Career Begins & Flourishes

Starting out as a lawyer, Boyer took up permanent residence in Philadelphia and practiced well through the 1880s, attracting political attention. He was an active member of the Young Republicans of Philadelphia, and “his growing inclination for public affairs led him in the Spring of 1882 to attend a meeting of Republicans … to (choose) delegates for the state convention.” He was announced then as a delegate for the Seventh Ward of Philadelphia. He received a strong showing but lost. In the fall, he then ran for and won his first race, for the Pennsylvania Statehouse. Winning handily, Boyer had gone from a lawyer to a politician.

Henry K. Boyer served as State Representative for the 7th District of Philadelphia County for six terms, both before and after his time as Treasurer. Boyer served from 1883 to 1890, 1893 to 1894, and 1897 to 1898. He became a powerhouse in the State Legislature, with some of his legislative activities involving being a driving force behind the bill that created the Pennsylvania State Board of Health, encouraging citizens to plant trees, and regulating pharmacies. His action on these matters during his first term did not go without notice, as on January 4, 1887, at the age of 37, Boyer was elected as the unanimous choice of the Pennsylvania House Republican Caucus to be the next Speaker of the House. He was elected Speaker again the next term, and for a third non-consecutive time upon his return to the house in 1896 after serving as Treasurer.

As Treasurer

The sitting Speaker of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives, Boyer was elected as Treasurer of Pennsylvania in 1889. The State Republican Convention, which less than 10 years before had denied his bid to be only a delegate to it from Philadelphia, unanimously selected him as their pick for Treasurer. Pennsylvania Senator Boies Penrose introduced him at the convention, with the Philadelphia Times quoting Penrose as saying that he knew of “no other man” for the job.

In his acceptance speech, Boyer said he was a “proud and happy man,” and that the party had “made a correct choice. … I assure you I will endeavor to merit your confidence.” Boyer was elected in what was the largest total majority ever given to a Republican candidate in a political off-year. When the returns were coming in, the Snyder County Tribune reported that “Well, we have got Boyer and are very happy.”

In the role of Treasurer, Boyer authored the extensive Revenue Act of 1891, and he saw to it that schools specifically received substantial funding. However, in 1891, Boyer was locked in a corruption scandal along with Auditor General Thomas McCamant. A Philadelphia politico had been discovered that year as being corrupt, so a sweep across the Commonwealth revealed allegations of corruption…as far as Boyer’s direct role in any corruption, it was written that he was “criminally negligent at best and corrupt at worst.”

The scandal ultimately did not lead to his removal from office after the Senate split on talks to oust him, although Dauphin County prosecutors charged him with the misappropriation of $600,000 in funds. Once again, it never got off the ground, and Boyer retired at the end of his term while immediately making another successful bid to the Pennsylvania House and Speakership.

Later Life & Death

Boyer went back to the House after his term as Treasurer, holding the Speakership once more. The Capitol burned down during his tenure, and Boyer led sessions of the Legislature from places like the nearby federal courthouse and Grace United Methodist Church. He resigned from the House on January 17, 1898, after being appointed as Superintendent of the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia. He retired from the Superintendent position in 1902, and after that, spent the rest of his life in various pursuits.

He was a fan of farming, especially dairy farming, and at one point through his retirement had a 130+-acre dairy farm that he worked painstakingly on. It was reported that at this farm, Boyer remodeled every single farm building, purchased the best farm implements, got everything up to date, and had some of the most fertile soil in Pennsylvania. Besides investing in his dairy farm, he invested in land and other buildings, such as an old hotel, and enjoyed planting as much foliage as possible around his many acres of land, just as he encouraged citizens to do in one of his signature bills as a state representative.

In 1910, he was living as a boarder in Collegeville, Pennsylvania, in 1920 he was living by himself in Lower Providence, Pennsylvania, and in 1930 Boyer was living in Red Hill, Pennsylvania.

Never married, and never having children, Henry K. Boyer died at the age of 83, days shy of his 84th birthday, on February 14, 1934, in Red Hill, Pennsylvania. He was buried at Chelten Hills Cemetery. The York Dispatch eulogized him as “one of the well[-]known figures of a past generation in politics,” and the Philadelphia Inquirer highlighted him as “an outstanding figure in Pennsylvania politics in the last quarter of the 19th century.”

His place of residence
currently repurposed into to Play & Learn,
formerly Boyer School, 35 Evansburg Road
as iterated above aforementioned building
constituted quaint grade school
(one classroom per grade),
wherein I still remember
The golden-rod is yellow;
the first line of a poem
titled September by Helen Hunt Jackson

memory of mine jogged,
when remembrance of things past
pertaining to my boyhood
at about eight (almost nine) years old
strongly instructed to memorize
and be able, eager, ready and willing
to recite said poem
(other classmates as well needed
to abide by assignment or else...)

despite being a diminutive lad
with a pronounced nasal sound
(courtesy of submucous cleft palate - split uvula)
approximately fifty seven years ago
reprinted here with permission of
Your Daily Poem
P. O. Box 14054
Greenville, SC 29611.

September - now follows suit
by
Helen Hunt Jackson

The goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentians bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook.
From dewey lanes at morning
the grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.
'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.

.          Self Sabotage


     I wrote a book which

     I'm editing by myself.


     **** the punctuation

    and spelling, I am not

    a schoolteacher, I had

  enough of their corporal

    punishment at school.


Do you know I’m dyslexsick.


  Are you going to publish

   it or not, I have titled it.


      “ Shelf Sabotage "