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Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2024
It was January 4th 1778, and once again the General had not slept well. He rose before dawn and as was his practice, he wandered down to the southern banks of the Schuylkill River.  Valley Forge had been particularly cold since New Year’s Day, and he was awaiting any word about new supplies being smuggled out from the friends his Army still had in Philadelphia.

The Congress had recently been moved and sheltered in York which was about seventy miles due West of his current position in Valley Forge.  The British had taken Philadelphia and were rumored to be encamped in the heart of the city.  Many residents had fled the Capitol just before the British arrived.  Fresh off their success at the Battle of Brandywine, they did not receive the warm welcome that they were expecting when they entered the city.  According to European standards, when you capture the capitol city of your enemy, the war is then over.  The problem with Philadelphia however was that this was not Europe — and Washington was no ordinary General.

Standing alone by the river’s bank, the General thought he saw something move in the tall grass to his right.  His first instinct was to draw his cap and ball pistol, but for a reason unexplained, he did not.  He called out in the direction of the movement, but no sound was heard.  As he turned to walk back to his tent, he saw a branch move and heard the same sound again.  Slowly, a figure about six feet tall emerged from the river brush.  As he walked slowly toward where the General now stood, it was clear this was no combatant, either Colonial or British — this was an Indian.

He walked directly up to the now still Washington and extended his hand.  He said his name was Tamani, and he and his people were living on three of the islands located in the middle of the Schuylkill River about two miles East of where they were now. The Lenape were a branch of the Delaware Tribe that had originally migrated South from Labrador.  They had populated almost all of southeastern Pennsylvania and especially those lands that bordered the Delaware River.  

The British had inflicted tremendous cruelty on the Lenape during their march toward Philadelphia and had driven the entire tribe from almost all of their ancestral lands.  The Colonists had been much kinder and had in fact been interacting peacefully with the Lenape back to the time of William Penn.

Tamani spoke very good English, and General Washington knew how to ‘sign.’  Sign was the universal language spoken by almost all of the indian tribes and was conveyed with a complex series of hand gestures.  After Tamani saw that the General could understand his words, he discontinued his ‘signing.’  Tamani told the great American leader that his people had been driven from their native lands along the banks of the Delaware and were now in hiding inside the treeline of three remote islands just a short distance down the Schuylkill.  

They would leave and go ashore every night to hunt pheasant and deer but always be back before dawn so the British scouts would not discover them.  Tamani was bitter and angry about what the British had done to his people, and he was also upset that the British had commandeered many of the Colonists homes in the city. The displaced were now living in rustic shacks along the banks of both the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers, and many of these Colonists were his friends.

General Washington asked Tamani if he had seen any British troops in the last several days.  Tamani said he had not and in fact had not seen any Red Coats any further west than Gladwyne or Conshohocken.   Washington asked Tamani how he could know this for sure.  Tamani said that he and his two sons knew of all British troop movements because there was a secret path on the other side of the river that ran all the way from Valley Forge to the falls at Gray’s Ferry.  Gray’s Ferry is where the British had a built a bridge that floats (Ferry) across the river this past winter, and it was their primary way to cross into the city from all directions South.

Washington was more than intrigued.  He asked Tamani how many members of his tribe knew about this secret trail.  Tamani said just he and his two sons.  Tamani had two sons and a daughter by his wife Wasonomi, but only the two boys had been down the 17-mile trail that paralleled the river on the far bank.  He also said that the trail could not be seen from the water because it was so heavily covered with native Sassafras and Poplars.

The dense brush made the northern bank impossible to see from either a boat or when viewed from a quarter mile away on the southern shore.  By keeping this trail a secret — Washington thought to himself — even the Indians knew that loose words sometimes trump the loudest canon.

Washington told Tamani that the only information he had received was from the few brave horse mounted scouts that had tried to infiltrate the city at night. They would then flee before morning with whatever local knowledge the remaining loyalists to the revolution could provide.  Lately, he had been losing more men than had been returning.  

Tamani told the General that by using the trail, he could pass totally unseen into the city on any night and return along the same route without the British noticing.  From where the trail ended at Grays Ferry, he and his oldest son had climbed the tall poplars and watched British troop movement both in and around the city.  The General now extended his own hand to Tamani and said: I need you to do something for me.

I need you to take me along this path and show me what you have seen. Tamani stood frozen for a moment as if he didn’t believe his own ears.  Here was the Great General of the American Army, the greatest general that he had ever heard of, wanting to make the 17-mile trip to Philadelphia virtually alone and unprotected by his troops.  Washington also told Tamani that he could tell no one of his plan.  

To ensure this, General Washington took the plume from his Tricorn Hat and presented it with great ceremony to Tamani.  He said: Tamani,  you and I are now brothers, and we must keep between us what only brothers know.  Tamani sensed the importance of the moment and handed Washington a small pouch from the breechcloth he was wearing.  Inside was the Totem of his family’s ancestry.  It was a small stone with a Turtle inscribed on one side and a spear on the other.  The General took the stone in both of his hands and placed it over his heart.  Both men agreed to meet again along the river’s bank at dawn of the second day.

For most of two days, Washington thought about his narrow escape at Brandywine and how these British had menaced him all along the Delaware River to this isolated field so far from where he wanted to be.  He had heard from one of his own scouts that there was British dissension within some of Howe’s troops, but he wanted to see firsthand what he might be facing.  At daybreak on the second day, he walked to the riverbank again.  This time he again saw no life or activity only a small fox with her yearling kits heading down the steep bank to drink.  

After twenty minutes, the General turned to walk away when he heard a whistle coming from the same bush as before.  He approached cautiously and there stood Tamani, but he was not alone.  He had two young men with him that looked to be about a year apart in age.   These are my two Sons, Miquon and Yaqueekhon, Tamani said, as he pointed downriver.  It is just the three of us who know the way along the river that leads to where your enemy sleeps.  Washington greeted both young braves by touching them on both shoulders and then turned to Tamani and said:.  I would like to take the path to the British, and I would like to take it tonight.

Tamani said that he and his two sons would be ready and waiting and that they could leave as soon as the sun was down.  Washington said he would like to leave earlier than that and that he would meet them where the river turns when it is the deer’s time to drink.  During the winter months that would roughly be 4:00 in the afternoon.   With that, the three native men turned away and disappeared into the trees.

Tonight, Washington would alert his men that he would be working and then sleeping at the Isaac Potts House, (better known as Washington’s Headquarters), instead of in his field tent which was his usual practice. He needed to be alone so he could slip away unnoticed along Valley Creek to where the Schuylkill turned and where he would then meet his three new friends.

The General had been spending most of his nights with his troops sleeping in his field tent high atop Mount Joy.  It was here that he was provided with the best views to the east toward Philadelphia.  He had felt guilty about sleeping in the big stone headquarters with the comfortable bed and fireplace for warmth when so many of his men froze.  Tonight though, there would be no sleep and no guarantee of what the morning might bring.  

With all the risk and challenge set before him, he approached it like every battle he had fought up until now.  This would be a fight for information and one that just possibly might allow him to formulate a timetable and a plan for his next attack.  He lit the candle in his bedroom window — as was his practice — and locked the door from the outside.  He then slipped out the side door of the big stone house and headed for the bank. It was now 3:45 in the afternoon and already starting to get dark.

As the General arrived at the bend in the river he saw two canoes pulled up on the bank and covered with branches of pine.  Standing off in the trees, about fifty feet from the two craft, were Tamani and his two sons.  Tamani greeted Washington as his brother.  He explained that they would take the two small boats downriver for what the whites called five miles, and then cross to the other side to begin their walk.

Washington was in a canoe with the older of Tamani’s two sons Miquon.  They paddled quietly for over an hour until Tamani ‘signed’ back something that Miquon quickly understood. From where they were now, on the right (south) side of the river, he signaled for them to head directly across the Schuylkill to the bank on the far side.  This was what the Delaware Tribe had always referred to as Conshohocken.  

As they reached the far bank, Tamani’s two sons quickly hid the canoes in the underbrush.  As Washington started to walk toward Tamani, Miquon took a satchel out of the first canoe and handed it to the General.  For your feet, said Miquon.  Washington opened the satchel and found a large pair of Indian leggings with Moccasins attached at the bottom.  These will help you to walk faster, said Tamani, as Washington sat on a log, removed his boots, and strapped them on.  In two more minutes, the four men were walking east on the hidden trail just ten feet from the north bank of the Schuylkill River.  They had 12 miles still to go, and the surrounding countryside and river were now almost totally covered in darkness.

I say almost, because there were a few flickering lights from lanterns on the far southern bank.  The four men listened for sounds, but heard nothing, as the lights faded and then disappeared as they progressed downstream.  Miquon told his father that they needed to get to the British War Dance before the moon had passed overhead (roughly midnight), and his father grunted in agreement.  Washington wondered what this British War Dance could possibly be but figured that he would wait for a more appropriate time to ask that question.

For two hours, the four men walked in silence.  The only sounds that any of them heard were the breathing of the man in front and the ripples from the approaching current.  The occasional perch that jumped in the dark while hunting for food kept them alert and vigilant as they continued to visually scan the far bank. The going was slow in many places, but at least the terrain was flat and well worn down.  Someone used this path on a regular basis, and the General couldn’t help but wonder not only who that might be but when they had last used it.

Tamani stopped by a large clump of rocks at the river’s edge and reached behind the smallest of the boulders.  He pulled out a well-worn leather satchel and laid it on the ground in front of the other three men.  Miquon reached inside and handed a small ball which was lightly colored to the General.  Pinole, Miquon said as he placed it within Washington’s open hand. Pinole, you eat, Miquon said again.  Tamani looked at the slightly perplexed General and said, Pinole, it’s ground corn meal and good for energy, you eat!  With that, the General took a bite and was surprised that the taste was better than he had expected.  

They lingered for no longer than five minutes on the trail and were again quickly on their way.  Washington marveled at the speed and efficiency of his Indian guides and again thought to himself: "The Indian Nations would have been very hard to beat if they could ever have come together as one force.  We could learn much from them."

The moon was almost directly overhead when Tamani raised his right arm directing the others behind him to stop.  There were lights up ahead and voices could now be heard in the distance.  Tamani told the General: One more mile to ferry crossing.  With that they proceeded at a much slower pace while increasing the distance between each man.  Tamani and Miquon had made this trip many times, but this was the first time that Yaqueekhon had been this far.  For Washington, the feeling of being back in his beloved Capitol, coupled with his hatred of the British, had his senses at a high level.  He felt an acute awareness overtake him beyond that of any previous experience.

Looking across the river toward ‘Grays Ferry’ reminded Washington of the many times he had played along the Rappahannock River in Virginia as a boy.  He moved to ‘Ferry Farm’ in Virginia when he was still young and when his father Augustine had become the Managing Partner of the Accokeek Iron Furnace.  Those days along the Rappahannock were some of the happiest of his life, and he secretly longed for a time when he could mindlessly wander a river’s banks once again — but not tonight!

Miquon now pointed to a tall clump of trees directly ahead.  They were right along the river’s edge and there were large branches that protruded out as much as twenty feet over the water.  Tamani said: We climb.

From this location, the four men climbed two different trees to a height of over forty feet.  Once situated near the top they secured their packs, looked off toward the North, and waited.  From this position they could clearly see Market Street and all of the comings and goings in the center of town.  Washington noticed one thing that gave him pause … he didn’t see any British soldiers.  Tamani told the General in a hushed tone that almost all of the soldiers were in German’s Town (Germantown) with only a small detachment left in the center of the city for sentry duty and to watch.

Why Germantown Washington asked?  This had been the site of our last battle, and he was surprised more troops had not been positioned in the center of town to protect the Capitol.  Too much food and drink, Tamani said.  It took Washington a minute to process the words from before. The British War Dance.  The Indians also had a sense for satire and irony.

                               The British Had Been Celebrating

Is it possible, the General wondered, that the British could still be celebrating their last victory at the Battle of Germantown, and could they have let the King’s military protocol really slip that far? Washington knew that General Howe was under extreme criticism for his handling of the war so far, and there were rumors that he might now be headed back to England to defend himself before parliament.

                                    When The Cat’s Away …

Washington’s impression of what he was now facing immediately changed.  He believed he was now charged with defeating a British force that had tired and lost faith in the outcome of the war.  In their minds, if capturing the new American Capitol had not turned the tide, and men were willing to freeze and starve in an isolated woods rather than surrender, then this cause was almost certainly lost. In that mood they decided to party and celebrate in a fait accompli.

                           A Revolutionary ‘Fait Accompli

For three more hours, they observed Philadelphia in its vulnerable and seemingly de-militarized state.  Many of the houses were empty as the residents had left when the outcome of the Battle of Brandywine was made known.  Washington closed his eyes, and he could see Mr. Franklin walking down Market Street and talking with each person that he passed.  He then saw a vision from deep inside of himself showing that this scene would be recreated soon.  The British couldn’t last in the demoralized state that they were now in. He knew now that it was more important than ever, for he and his men, to make it through the rest of the long cold winter, and into the Spring campaign of 1778.

Washington signaled to Tamani that it was time to go.  Before he left, he asked if he could borrow the Chief’s knife.  After climbing down the big poplar, he walked around to the side of the tree that was facing Philadelphia and inscribed these immortal words  — WASHINGTON WAS HERE!

All the way back along the trail, Washington was a different man than before.  If he had ever had any doubts about the outcome of the war, they were now vanished from his mind.  He asked Tamani and his two sons if they would continue to monitor the trail for him on a weekly basis.  They said that they would,and would he please keep their secret about being encamped on the three islands in the middle of the Schuylkill River.  They also pledged their help as scouts, in the coming spring campaign, against what was left of the British.

Washington pledged both his secrecy and loyalty to the Lenape Tribe and continued to meet with Tamani along the banks of Valley Creek until the winter had finally ended.  The constant updating of information that Washington had originally seen with his own eyes allowed him to formulate a plan that would drive the British from the America’s forever.  He was forever grateful to the Lenape people, and together they kept a secret that has remained unknown to this very day.

With all the rumors of where he slept, or where he ate, there is one untold rumor that among Native People remains true.  Along a dark frozen riverbank, in the company of real Americans, the Father of Our Country stalked the enemy. And in doing so …

                                            He walked !



Kurt Philip Behm
Craig Verlin Feb 2013
I've had the same view
here in the city
for awhile now
the banks of the schuylkill
the art museum
rocky balboa himself
its been 6 months
the same window
the same view
so many lights
always on
occasional cars
I can hardly see
last nights snow
littering the ground
7 stories downward
one hell of a fall
the glass is too thick
don't worry
no cleanup today
only me
watching the snow melt
and the cars pass
and the life
of everything
drudging slowly onwards
as it has for six months now
here on the banks
of the schuylkill
the tempo is all off
a terrible pace
in a terrible place
Kerouac did a year
up in New York
6 months more
then maybe I'm out
of here
on the road
to mexico
cheap liquor
and cheaper love
the heart beats
quicker there
stooped up in
some backwards
bordello
paying dime a dollar
for another round
then off to san francisco
where the beat stomps
and stutters under that
spotlight
or maybe the blood red mesas
of el paso
where the young broads
dark as honey
can taste just as sweet
but only just a while
its that thrill
you long to have
one more time
breaking a sweat in
the backyards
sneaking love
under fences
and desert floors
just to be anywhere else
where the beat is quicker
than here
I'm growing deaf to it
here in the doldrums
here in the city
of brotherly love
on the banks of the schuylkill
watching the same view
from the same window
as rocky balboa stands tall
moving faster than me in
that forever celebration
C S Cizek Dec 2014
My mom tried to sweep
clean the cigarette burns on the armrest,
and turned the plastic-cracked
lampshade away from rare houseguests.
The arrow-shaped gap melted
at the middle and leaked down
the shade like a stopped-
up gutter. Climbing out her bedroom
window, she knelt on the rotten
mint shingles and tossed matted
maple leaves as indiscriminately
as rock salt onto the glassy sidewalk
drinking in the overhead halo
of Penelec Electric and pine needles.

Needles—

The red biohazard suitcase
in the dining room is packed
full for distribution
in a Philadelphian switchyard.

City of Brotherly Burning Barrels
and railroad-tie benches—
but not for dressing up suburban
meditation gardens, or housing
yellow jackets and half-melted
Army men. For sitting, sleeping,
and supplying calf splinters
for small talk along the Schuylkill
River, watching the cell lights
of Eastern State get swallowed
whole by the systematic tall grass,
one by one, thanking some blessed
something for their freedom
in the boxcars, their *** and Lucifer
matches, and each other.
(route 76) both heading into
(and a small number of hours later
exiting) center city Philadelphia
to Schwenksville on May 19th, 2024.

Yours truly (a doodling Yankee), and the missus
went to town, NOT riding on a pony,
NOR did I stick a feather in my cap,
but we walked at a brisk pace
unwittingly set by our eldest daughter
from her three bed apartment
at 405 south 22nd street
to a museum housing
an awesome breathtaking eye opening place
called The Magic Garden
located at 1020 South Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19147.

Herewith follows a blurb
copied/pasted courtesy Google in general
and Wikipedia in particular.

Philadelphia's Magic Gardens is a non-profit organization, folk art environment, and gallery space on South Street in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. To date, it is the largest work created by mosaic artist Isaiah Zagar. The Magic Gardens spans three city lots, and includes indoor galleries and a large outdoor labyrinth.

Initially, we (thyself, the spouse,
and averred twenty seven year old heiress
to the Harris misfortune).
intended to ride SEPTA,
but the bus driver quickly pulled away.

So trio comprised of the Mister and Missus
and their city smart grown daughter,
who earned the appellation "star student"
for her superb academic performance
(quite evident even when
she started kindergarten)
and voluntarily enrolled
in advanced placement
after she got promoted to sophomore year
at Harriton High School.

After our energetic hustling
only a short distance
(courtesy "rubber express"
id est sneakers), the papa bear (me)
he experienced relentless dehydration,
and struggled with impossible mission
to generate saliva, hence dry mouth
afflicted hokey pokey man,
who brought up the rear.

Upon determinedly trekking without complaint
circumstances found urgency forcibly tapping
into immediately realized heretofore unknown
potential emergency reserve
whereat solar plexus witnessed hyper boost
setting body electric of mine in overdrive
increasing heavy huffing and puffing
ever so glad to complete
rightly striding twelve plus city blocks,
whereat pace of mine got perceptibly slower
as the end point got nearer,
and what an amazing sight to behold!

The sprawling conglomeration
held together analogous to fortification
against invasion of architectural conformity
haphazard juxtaposed linkedin naturally
poetic/prosaic rhapsodic traditional
vaulted xenotime zaniness.

Isaiah Zagar, the brainchild
American mosaic artist
based in Philadelphia
notable for his murals, primarily
in or around Philadelphia's South Street.

After three years in Peru, the Zagars moved to South Philadelphia in 1968 where they opened the Eyes Gallery, a folk art shop on South Street. In December 1968, the Eyes Gallery was the site of Zagar's first mosaic; Zagar mosaiced it as a way to create a folk art environment for the art they were selling.

After perusing the sacred structures in relative silence
thru these myopic eyes of a skeptic
echoing blood, sweat and tears of said artist,
which perambulation evinced the Great Tribulation
in Christian eschatology a period
mentioned by Jesus in the Olivet Discourse
as a sign that would occur in the time of the end.

At Revelation 7:14, "the Great Tribulation"
is used to indicate the period spoken of by Jesus.

No blatant religious symbology,
yet the invisible hand of divine spirit
gently, minutely, and subtly
ordained, intruded, experienced,
and anointed yours truly
challenging, condemning,
and curbing profane thoughts
subsequently inviting rumination
linkedin with inspiration to witness
my own slice of palatable spiritual awakening,
which served me in good (home) stead,
a sexagenarian awash with discombobulation
when amidst the beauty
of inexplicable fabulous creation,
clashing with personal paganistic paradigm.

Belief in guardian angels
became pronounced when entrusting
orienting myself behind the wheel
of our 2020 Hyundai Elantra
accessing the (oxymoronic named)
high speed thoroughfare
iterated in initial lines of this poem,
cuz bumper to bumper traffic
on that late Sunday afternoon
found atheistic dogmatism
severely put thru the paces,

particularly when resigning
being sorely tested to drive
after twilight (cataracts exacerbate glare),
hence hitching a wish to return
to Schwenksville
without getting into a serious accident or worse,
which impromptu wing and a prayer
spurred whim to exit at Lincoln Drive,
following hairpin twists and turns,
which anxiety precipitated
increasing need to urinate.
Yup, you red correctly,
     this noggin must go
     perhaps donated
     to the Salvation Army, or Good Will
cuz, said atrophied cranial
     horridly styled comfortably numb skull,
     the source of immeasurable

     beg hot ten woe, from dawn to dusk
     nothing boot eve ville
hollow cavity mainly comprised
     of wooly webbed weaving waste,
     uber sawdust, sans Schuylkill
     River effluvium and runoff rotten rill
hence, e'en a think tank

     designated as Abby Normal
     formerly atop a body named Phil
lip, or Wright winged Orville
one half brotherly duo,

     the other sibling Wilbur,
     whom both made a mill
yen legends getting airborne their lil
mechanical contraption

     atop Kitty Hawk,
     North Carolina with bi sic ****
mechanical aptitude,
     when born aloft **** Devil Hill

synonymous making fin hushed
     blue prints emulating
     flying fish, whose grill
like cartilage backbone

     precursor to Evil
Knievel, who soared
     on his motorcycle a devil
lush daring stuntman,

     whose helmeted crown
     full pursestrings muted cavil
ling critics with legitimate enterprise
     earning gobs of legal tender,

     whence aye aver
     his mugshot ought to appear
     on common denomination bill
and/or honoring throughout
     the entire month of April.
Kurt Philip Behm Nov 2020
The fire’s gone out
in the last wooden hut
Fresh snow has been falling,
cold hunger abuts

The Red Coats emboldened
in far Germantown
The wind carries stillness,
with death all around

A General stands watch
on the farthest of hills
His heart never waivers,
his anger instills

The firewood gone
but the embers still burn
O’er forests and rivers,
to Paris in turn

The Schuylkill runs quiet,
Lenape scouts have returned
“Our enemy grows fat, Sir,
in taverns that burn”

The outcome awaiting,
its body count high
Where cabins though frozen
—the stars and stripes fly

(Valley Forge: November, 2020)
danny Nov 2019
something about waxing poetic about a playlist restarting at the beginning as i drive by your house (again)
“And i thought that i would miss it while still wishing that i didn't”
a bag of someone else’s clothes in my backseat
a mindset that i wish i wasn’t still holding out for a “want to take the train again? for old times sake? come home, babe, it’s time we take that hatchet and throw it in the schuylkill”
a no longer flickering light near the cemetery
i can still see myself teetering on that edge, reaching for a short term hand
i don’t know what to do with this
i’m the only one that still drives home
How ideal to luxuriate
supposed divine right frill
maximizing climate control
with matter of fact bravado
creature comfort pang to fulfill
consequent flagrant portent

to exercise freewill
beware controlled environment
pays hefty bill
cracking heat as
temperature gets chill
cumulative destructive

ecological footprints generated,
thus advisable to swallow
figuratively bitter pill,
herewith suggested
binary/digital quill,
cuz unchecked energy

consumption will
necessitate fossil fuels
subjected to frack and drill
invariably contribute
render moot no rhyme
or reason for Jack and Jill

to hastily clamber uphill
fetching pail of possibly
tainted, ruined, polluted... water
evidenced courtesy eutrophication
algal blooms, decimated krill
aquatic flora and fauna stockstill

meaning... untenable for life
perhaps percolating, spewing, zapping...
seepage from landfill
nsync with detritus
many industries spill,
not necessarily directly

linkedin to cranking thermostat until
warmth ideal for barenaked ladies,
who cavort, frolic,
viz yule eyes imagistic poetic skill
veritably lighting boathouse row
reflections shimmering, scintillating,

glistening off Schuylkill
deceptive brilliant appearance
unsafe toxic drinking water courtesy mill
yens flowing electrons to power
industrial secretes no longer confidential
public knowledge and awareness critical

to stem tide allowing, enabling,
and providing juice to sustain treadmill
ever faster rat race pace of life cozily housing
**** sapiens hermetically sealed against
extreme temperatures,

ye must adapt experiencing chill
bundling layers of clothes -
case in point yours truly,
who also keeps windows ajar
refreshing brisk air lungs to fill.
Skylark 12 Nov 2024
I:

I searched an hour for my pjs
so that I could go to bed .
Quarantine has blurred my days
and wreaked havoc with my head.
A quick glance in the mirror,
I see my sanity foregone.
The pajama search abruptly ended.
I already have them on.

II:

My office space keeps moving
as I go from call to call.
Piano practice sends me upstairs
behind our bedroom wall.
Then in comes mom with Ana
to put her down for nap.
So I descend the stairs again.
End this quarantine ASAP!

III:

I’m rowing down the Schuylkill
in a race against a crew.
The art museum is up ahead
and the Rocky statue too.
Now I run across a mountainscape
and through an Alpine town.
Such fantasies! They fill my head.
I hate exercise in lockdown.

IV:

Go out to eat and see a show
the Governor just said.
It’s back to normal and back to school
so get out of your bed.
Stay in your house or six feet apart
is no longer the rule.
I dream of this most every day.
Oh! Today is April Fool.

V:

Office life is underrated
with meetings face to face.
You can criticize a job done poor
and put them in their place.
But in quarantine while on the phone
you dare not scream and yell.
The boss, she’ll hear you acting up.
She’ll come and ring your bell.

VI:

“Thank God it’s Friday,”
has lost all of the appeal.
For tomorrow will be like today
without a different feel.
I wonder did we lose,
the weekend or the week?
Is boredom about to go away?
Or is it even close to peak?

VII:

Log scale graphs are useful
for showing change in rate.
In visualizing the second derivative
they really work out great.
But if you want real people
to understand your math.
Please use less than/greater.
When you project contagion path.
After dark every Halloween
since living social in Perkiomen Valley
for seven long years,
a shrill whistle train whistle
(often compared to the sound
of a bird's call, particularly
a large bird like a hawk or a crane,
due to its piercing, high-pitched
and long-lasting whistle-like quality)
soundcloud heard
from afar clear as a bell,
yet nary a train present
since locomotives stopped running
through Schwenksville, Pennsylvania valley in 1976,
when Pennsylvania Railroad
gave up its rail assets
to Consolidated Rail Corporation (Conrail).

However, some passenger "rambles" took place
from Reading to Schwenksville in the late 1960s.
Matter of fact beginning at the junction
of the Schuylkill River Trail in Oaks,
the trail uses much of the former rail bed
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.

The Perkiomen Trail
created in 2003, often called, the “Perky”,
the trail rolls down the valley
of Perkiomen Creek,
which may have been a reference
by local American Indians
to the surrounding cranberry bogs.

The northern end of the trail begins
at Morrow Pavilion in Green Lane Park,
where trail users can find parking and restrooms.

The 20-mile Perkiomen Trail
follows the route of the Perkiomen Creek
from Oaks to Green Lane Borough.

It connects to the Schuylkill River Trail
and the Audubon Loop.

For most of its length, the "Perky,"
known by many, uses the former rail bed
(as iterated earlier)
of the Perkiomen Line of the Reading Railroad.

Every other time of year
outer limits of the twilight zone
spread dark shadows,
which creep along the edge of night
startling a driver unexpectedly
yet instinctually to veer
away from harm's way
courtesy a nocturnal creature,
now ghost rail activity heard to scare
the living daylights
out of atheists like myself,
who quickly utter a prayer
immediately afraid then jubilant,
cuz prevarication (housed within
a ghastly fashion) my métier,
which brilliant notion
sparked immediately, née instantaneously
after discerning unquestionable choo-choo
within a kiloampere,
a unit of measurement equal
to one thousand amperes.

An ampere is defined
as the amount of current
that flows through a conductor
when one coulomb of charge
passes through it in one second.
Spectators warmth thawed
ICE knoll hunger see stagefright chill
despite this groundswell
of cheers and hearty goodwill,
(though embarrassed by the adulation),
yours truly revered accolades dill

levered heart warming une bill
heave able ecstasy analogous to imbibing
deep draughts of swill,
nonetheless modesty questioned
unexpected praise more
uncomfortable than mill

stone weighing heavily
around my neck, jill
ting joy cuz hermitage existence
finessed fitful eave ville
extant throughout mein kampf,
one long life brutalized, desecrated, pill

lore reed, and excoriated, hence
monastic seclusion inured
like an all encompassing invisible umbril
vehemently hashtagging me,
no matter, this harmless as a falafel
swiftly styled harried tailor

(by trade) "FAKE" ******,
a quiet natured enfant terrible
named T.R.A. Bill
extreme suspicion accepting invite
tubby feted fortunate not
asked to distill

the Mueller Report (unredacted version)
which I memorized at a glance,
electronically scrolling over virtual hill
and dale whew...came close to ****
deer near mauling me, yea along Schuylkill
River way up at headwaters remote...

controlled beast - argh something offal,
thru teaching said creature to use quill
and while killer deeply engrossed
bolted with all dogspeed till
arriving at designated venue,

yes Abbott flush and vulnerable as krill
which highly adrenaline Russian state
found thyself vulnerable to Kremlin
head to foot when humongous Duckbill
U. Crane (albeit friendly) named Doctor Phil
gently snatched these lovely bones of mine

claws dug deep into ill
Eagle lees contractual gibberish
yet experienced no fright during
as if mma mind subjected to piercing drill
excellent preparation (H.) heaving nil
panic attack when staring at bajillion eyes!
(thus forever experiencing craving to eat cheese)

Nothing but gridlock traffic
(far as thee eye could see)
heading east on Schuylkill Expressway
(oxymoronic name for quickest route
into center city, albeit Philadelphia),

yet this papa promised eldest daughter
freshly minted University
of Pennsylvania graduate
hoping to make amends
prior to first born heading

of into blue, (...er rather green,
asper legal tender) beyond
(without doubt experiencing more
financial security than yours truly,
whose penurious crisis

tantamount to being self ostracized
within luxe MainLine,
where one percent flaunt their wealth
disparage dirt poor folks like this sir
meaning husband, his spouse

plus attendant two biological kin
reinforcing feeling inferior,
among those earning or
inheriting fistfulls of moolah,
said offspring also lodged opprobrium

citing slovenly housekeeping
amidst generations (Zison heirlooms)
yielding barely ample space
our family of four analogous
to sardines in a tin packed to the gills,

which pennilessness exacerbated
since neither mama nor papa (me) worked
reasons squarely linkedin to mental illness
asper myself - chronic anxiety, panic attacks
with concomitant courtesy benefits;

adrenaline maddeningly coursing thru veins
palms sweating profusely, racing heart
irritable bowels syndrome, nausea, vertigo...
physiological symptoms

played offal, nasty, malicious
cruel version of knick knack paddy whack...
with these lovely bones
severely disabled me to function
academia, employment, socialization...

imperiled satisfactory existence
learning, working, commingling
felt like butchered bovine
at slaughterhouse five.

bonhomie within beastie boy here
in short supply, an understatement,
now impossible mission to recoup
sabotaged, jackbooted, atrophied....
blissful happy go lucky little boy

blessedly energetic innately
nervous tensing up,
manifesting cringing pose
no matter parents lenient
though father bellowed stern rebukes

perhaps interpreting paternal rejection
sole son less gifted prowess with smarts
in short, no weigh,
shape, or form, a polymath
cultivated, habituated, ossified

once playful quirky little rascal
set tilled under veritable weathered
sedimentary stagnancy for peat sakes
psyche got bogged down
into impermeable metamorphic hardrock.
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2018
I always felt
  when it was time to die

The Muse would know
  before you or I

The hours borrowed,
  the moments loaned

Return to feelings
  and verse unflown

With eyes never clearer,
  or heart so bold

I make my exit
  —with words untold

(Schuylkill Expressway: February, 2016)
Before scant opportunity
to make amends totally tubular slips away,
I (one generic doubting thomas)
reach out across cyberspace without delay
jumpstarting and kickstarting reflections
linkedin with fifty plus shades of gray
snapchatting and twittering
do you know the way to San Jose?

A random destination
I imaginatively mosey
lackadaisical bridging divide to Oakland,
whereby poor excuse for papa doth pray
ye will accept mine attempt

to mend figurative fences - slay
the beast of burden oy vey
once for all under woes
to paternal parent who cares -
singing yippie yie yay!

Impossible mission to banish and  
vanish woes that didst zap
thee when yours truly (delinquent dada)
fictitious and/or transgressions
he doggedly, cruelly, and blithely
years gone by did yap

pained fallout across precious progeny
alienation doth still wrap
hermetically sealed darling daughters
none other than yours truly fell prey
to his self made abominable trap

scheming adulterous liaisons
just barely avoiding marital mishap
though irrevocable psychological fallout
heavily impacted metaphorical didst kneecap
father/daughter relationships annihilated
with ear splitting emotional thunderclap,

thus only apology offered accursed philandering
soiling restitution, whereby
reparations forever swallowed
into a figurative (bay sic) wide
gulf course teed off handicap.

No matter probable (understandable) aversion ye
experienced toward lame casanova wannabe
unfaithfulness tarnished potential virtue thee
need never invite papa
into your confidentiality prithee

regarding filial rapport with Zayda
(my father) forgiveness key
as I too grieve since grim reaper will emcee,
when labored breathing ceases and Boycie
joins grateful dead.

Awareness pronounced inevitably his passing will
(does) sadden heart and soul of indomitable gal
regarding said lass, (who brusquely reciprocates)
possessing academic energetic,
italic opportunistic skill

cuz, I recognize
no vibrant rapport exists between us,
nor could or would I impose
to beget profound sharing when nil,
née nonexistent bond prevails

never knowing mine dad's mein kampf,
a moost bitter pill,
hence quite so many decades in future
when basic life functions analogous to uphill
battle, grandpa Matthew Scott
witnesses rigor mortis, which sets mine
once upon a time washboard abdomen
into matted, flaccid, and bloated flesh
as if drowned in the Schuylkill.
Ink roached infestation didst derive within mice elf

Minor emendations to following
just posted verse
oversight to correct dissatisfaction,
yours truly I do curse
ah... methinks if hands of time
can be made to go in reverse
a more exemplary version
to appease acclaimed unnamed wordsmith
cause he feels alarmed
crafting poem worse
than ChatGPT artificial intelligence
app can write
will find him superfluous.

Thus writer of these words
forever mus lee experiencing
craving to eat cheese,
a milk product
eternally preserved within
annals, chronicles, epistles,
et cetera of human civilization
and it's discontents
analogous viz ode (old)
as time itself and lustressly
buttressed on a Grecian Ode frieze
linkedin to Sosibios Vase inductees.

Carp diem bespeaks moment to seize,
whether above memorialized chaste lovers
or emblematic, iconic and opportunistic
actresses Thelma and Louise
the 90's film of female rage
an adventure road drama
caper they did stage,
but aforementioned seminal wage
courtesy Rameses II
begat robust lineage
synonymous with sturdy anchorage,
whereby said prolific *******
endowed legions of sons and daughter
to carry on heritage.

Nothing but gridlock traffic
(far as thee eye could see)
heading east on Schuylkill Expressway
(oxymoronic name for quickest route
into Greek translation
center city of brotherly love,
albeit Philadelphia),
yet this papa promised eldest daughter
then freshly minted University
of Pennsylvania graduate

hoping to make amends
prior to first born heading
of into blue, ...er rather green,
asper legal tender beyond
without doubt experiencing more
financial security than yours truly,
whose penurious crisis
tantamount to being self ostracized
within luxe MainLine,
where one percent flaunt their wealth

disparage dirt poor
festive folks like this sir
meaning husband, his spouse
plus attendant two biological kin
reinforcing feeling inferior,
among those earning or
inheriting fistfulls of moolah,
said offspring also lodged opprobrium
citing slovenly housekeeping
amidst generations (Zison heirlooms)

housed within residence
at 1148 Greentree Lane
yielding barely ample space
our family of four analogous
to sardines in a tin packed to the gills,
which pennilessness exacerbated
since neither mama
nor papa (me) worked
reasons squarely triangulated
linkedin to mental illness

asper myself –
unsung hero of tom tom club
chronic anxiety, panic attacks
with concomitant courtesy benefits;
adrenaline maddeningly coursing thru veins
palms sweating profusely, racing heart
irritable bowels syndrome, nausea, vertigo...
physiological symptoms
played offal, nasty, malicious

cruel version of
knick knack paddy whack...
with these lovely bones
severely disabled me to function
academia, employment, socialization...
imperiled satisfactory existence
learning, working, commingling
felt like butchered bovine
at slaughterhouse five.

Bonhomie within new riders
on the purple sage foo fighting
beastie boy here
in short air supply,
an evanescent understatement,
now impossible mission to recoup
sabotaged, jackbooted, atrophied....
blissful happy go lucky little boy
blessedly energetic innately

nervousness found
yours truly tensing up,
manifesting cringing pose
no matter parents lenient,
though father soulfully
bellowed stern rebukes
perhaps interpreting paternal rejection
sole son less gifted prowess with smarts
in short, no weigh,

shape, or form, a polymath
cultivated, habituated, ossified
once playful quirky little rascal
set tilled under veritable weathered
sedimentary stagnancy for peat sakes
psyche got bogged down
into impermeable metamorphic
igneous hardrock.

— The End —