“Time to take a short break…”

Go watch the now-near flooding St. Johns River on the banks of Sanford’s Lake Monroe.  St. Johns’ supposed original name – but no one asked who said first – was Welaka, supposedly meaning chain of lakes, and, indeed the lakes throughout The Saint Johns River are shallow and more like beads or pearls strung by the usually sluggishly slow (4 miles per hour) in its long wending way Northward from Lake Hell-N-Blazes (now debawlderized into Hellen Blazes) to its debouchement onto the waters of the North Atlantic at Jacksonville Beach.  From the headwaters at Blue Cypress Lake somewhat South of Hell-n-Blazes (as in where’s that: gone to Hell’n’blazes, that’s where) I enjoy the river’s continued overflow of its banks during clement times.  Reminds me of Song Thu Bon back in South Vietnam after Typhoon Kate which I partly enjoyed in a hilltop bunker with a squad of Marines back in late Fall of 1970.  With Song Thu Bon, Song (River in Vietnamese) Vu Gia the pair overflowed the 20-mile long six or so miles wide Arizon Territory, the valley between the high razor-ridged mounains of Charley Ridge and the Que Sons.  I am a river rat as much as a surf dog, perhaps even more.  I have seen bottlenose dolphins both bow-surfing off an attack transport in the Mediterranean and actual body surfing the breakers along both New Smyrna and Playalinda beaches and that still moves me to worship the author of this here mudball.

So I go to the river right now to renew.  Pardon the break: you may cheer as you will.

Yaskhan: more and more as dawn undresses…

I take a pause breathing in the chorus of nature’s movement I walk into the green of arching trees and twining brambles, my breath toasted by the delicate scents of hidden flowers. Shadows whirl against swirling treetops..glowing a golden roam guides my steps..i sit in a slow sunset Birds twitter into nectar misted dew warmed […]

via I take a pause — yaskhan


I left coastal Maryland sometime in my fifth year, and did not return but for a few mostly besotted-by-survival and booze that I escaped my surroundings, and, besides, all that was before Harbor transformation. I even recall St. Johns riverside downtown Jacksonville when it all was drunken late-night poolhalls featuring gum-smacking sharkies in fishnets, longer ash dangling, gumpopping wanna play a round and the sights and smells – and if unlucky – sounds of pukepainting the curbsides. I prefer Lu Terlikowski’s vision so much the more. Enjoy, all!

“No Sights To See, So…”*

No sights to see, so?

Entertaining blue blashes

herald ‘Lectric’s  Loss!


  • (Written just after dark on Sunday as Hurricane Irma begins its windy assault on Sanford, Florida; downgraded, to be sure, from a Category 4 hurricane to perhaps a weak Category 2 or a goodly-sized Cat 1, much of its wind and rain energy having been spent in its landward rush up from Southwest Florida.  The telltale Blue Flashes heralded the loss of tranformers mounted on large and small power poles across U. S. 17-92 from my 18th street open-front door perch just out of the rain, taking advantage of the breeze and the lightshow, but minutes later mine own power decides to leave about 9 p.m. and would not return for some 25 hours.  I did not have the drains stopped up in my brains to remember to get the candles, and, besides, I hate reading good books by candlelight, so I went to sleep on the couch before the big picture window, properly draped to catch any sharding glass, of course.  Thus went Sunday night.)

“Those Two Yellow Footprints”*

Those two yellow prints:

feet at forty-five degrees,

we would come to know!


  • (An ungentle welcome at 3 a.m. at Parris Island, South Caroline U. S. Marine Corps Recruit Training Regiment’s “welcoming” station.  We were cursed, cajoled and sometime posture-adjusted off that bus – no time to load a cattle car for us this was wartime and the “frills” were trimmed.  One drill instructor in the buss, one at the “hatch” (door) pointing to a third DI barking and shoving timid recruits onto the yellow footprints that seemed to glow on their own in a moonless night and the small yellow pools of light from anemic streetlights far away shed none there – but glow those footprints did.  And that was our first lesson.  Forty-five degrees, heels just touching.  The rest of the lesson ingrained as only a USMC Drill Instructor would and did. This written in conjunction with several other haiku between 3:18 a.m. and 3:58 a.m., each done separately as I lay abed on the livingroom couch awaiting Hurricane Irma’s continuous howls to puncture not just the night but any of several big windows just two days before I was to enter Marine boot camp some 50 years previously.  Why that memory surfaced no longer mystifies.)