With plenty of time to kill before Charlie’s early morning vet visit, we hike the trail at Yantis Park, overlooking Milton-Freewater, amid light rain and cloudy skies (obscuring the sunrise).
We arise early, departing in light rain and near-darkness for a trip to transport Charles the Invincible to an appointment with his vet in Milton-Freewater (pop. 7,000). The first leg of our journey involves on-the-fly windshield photography, riding shotgun:
Stay tuned for our arrival in M-F.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been reading the daily poems, with a special thanks to those who have offered their comments. You are a small but selective readership, and highly appreciated. However, I have been contacted by a member of the Trump administration and asked to write and deliver a poem at the 2021 inauguration. As you can imagine, this is a great honor and I will be spending all my time and creative energy in the next 21 months composing this poem, and won’t be able to continue writing daily poems. Some of you may ask if I have a problem participating in that inaugural, given comments I’ve made about the president in the past, but I know you can all understand that there are times when expediency must trump principles. Thank you again.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
Almost got in 10K steps today. Walked to two parks, around the Whitman College campus, across downtown, and back home. On the way:
Automobilia:
Dogs, Everywhere:
Coffee/Self-Portraits (for the Edward Hopper homage project):
Miscellany:
How do you tell someone you love them?
How do you express that ardor
Without taking the easy way out
And using those letters–L O V E.
It’s not a matter of finding a synonym
In a thesaurus, it’s a matter of finding
The color, the sound, the tactile quality,
The aroma, the sense of being lost
In a place where you and that person
Are the only residents, a place where
Silence is music and movement gives
Forth an unbearable heat. It will melt
You into a state where you can be
Poured into each other, hot potions
That will cure indifference and banish malaise,
And make the world, for just one moment,
The dazzling gift you have always believed
That you deserve.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
Who are you? Why don’t you speak?
Didn’t you heard the whistle of bombs,
The staccato of bullets,
The cry of a mother whose child
Lies buried in smoking rubble.
Are you blind? Can’t you see the
Red stains in the dust of the road,
The ribbon of earth that must be owned,
Controlled, subjected, pacified.
Can’t you feel it shudder?
You say we are the lucky ones.
Where others die without warning,
We expire peacefully, the breath
Leaving us in frugal gasps,
When we are old and wise.
Where are you going? Do you know?
The road is smooth and wide,
The sky above is deep and placid,
But who are those people trudging
Along like domestic animals
Herded to an unremitting fate?
Are you one of them? Do you taste
The hollowness in the air,
The flutter of the leaves that
Drop, one by one, to the astringent,
Ravaged ground.
© Dennis Hathaway
[return to POTD index]
Early Saturday morning, headed to the downtown workspace. Come across activity at the old Walla Walla Candy Company Building. Turns out that its boarded-up windows are being replaced by vinyl mural art, part of an Artwalla public art project, with contributions from some Whitman College artists and students. Intended, I’m told, to express the history and nature of the Walla Walla Valley in visual terms.
Walking around downtown.
Some passing automotive trivia, including some captured as one-handed no-look action while driving in traffic.
An afternoon drive into the rolling farm country north of town.
