Trails - Part IV

Forest primeval

floor of hunter green moss

and mountain laurel

towering oak, old when the

earth was young

maple the color of wildfire

and ferns, shoulder high

the fuzzy tips of their tongues

curled in whispered sneer

surround me.

A solitary beam of golden light

peers through a hole in gilded cotton sky

the color of slate,

reaching, like a lonely finger

through a tear in space and time

as if to spotlight my wanderlust

and transmit its findings

back to the mother ship.

The piercing sliver seers my retina

only to take cover in the ghostly mist

before it can be taken and held prisoner below.

I hear the crisp bark of a red fox

somewhere below, toward the valley

a she-fox, I deduce from the

from the cacophony of tiny yelps

that follow the initial snap.

A muted rustle of leaves

precedes, if only by moments,

the sudden shower of acorns

and impudent chitter of rebuke

from the tangle of heavy limbs

above my furrowed brow.

The chittering ends abruptly

when I presume acceptance

and join in laughter at the joke

only to be answered

by sounds of tiny, clawed scurrying feet.

I amble on,

ignoring the trusty compass

strapped to my wrist,

I travel by instinct to a place

far distant from whence I began;

a destination unknown to me

but felt with a yearning

that crowds that place

of obsession steadfastly defended

by lost sailors and woodsmen

in the cinema of my dreams.

A siren’s whisper promises

in echoes in my mind

that the place to which I journey

like love, will be known to me

when the final step is made.

E-Books and the Big House Publishers

After being a holdout for a long time, relatively speaking, I decided to take the plunge.  I purchased an e-Book reader.  The Sony Pocket Reader 300, to be precise.  I also purchased the hard back cover with built in reading light because honestly, who only reads during daylight hours, or where there is adequate ambient light available?  Certainly not me.

It has proven to be a good move for me.  Mostly.  I currently have forty titles installed, if I include my own work.  The booklet says it will hold over 300.  Right now this pocket sized device contains the equivalent of  about three shelves of the bookcase in my living room.  Additionally, I have a handicap that makes it necessary for me to require both hands to read a book and turn the pages.  E-readers let me accomplish the task single-handedly.

I subsidize my income by writing book reviews, primarily focusing on self-published, little known, mostly local writers.  Many of them are willing to give me a copy of their book in exchange for the review.  I am not an easy reviewer.  In fact, I tend to be very critical, especially where editing is concerned, but that’s another topic already covered here.

A new trend I am seeing is that self published authors have already locked into the idea of multi-format e-Book publishing for their work, with mediums like PayPal^® for remittance.  An increasing number of writers are sending me their books in e-Book format.

Pity that the big imprints and national chains don’t get this.

Last night I was browsing Fictionwise,  Barnes & Noble’s only outlet that does accept PayPal^® for payment.  But there is a catch, and that’s point one of this commentary.  The lion’s share of the better known authors are only available in the locked B&N exclusive ‘free’ reader format.  The Lost Symbol, for example, by Dan Brown, was not available in multi format.  What that means is that while I could still purchase and download the book, if I wanted to read it, I was locked to my notebook computer.  That sort of defeats the purpose of getting an e-Book reader.  Oh, I could get the book from the Sony e-Book store, but Sony doesn’t accept PayPal^®.

Part two of the rant is pricing.  It is mostly based on hardcover retail pricing.  In most cases e-Books sell for about half to two third of the hardcover price.  The absurdity here is two-fold.  First, once the original electronic copy from which the hard cover books are printed is coded for e-publishing,  any additional cost to the publisher to make it multiple formats is negligible.  Second, if you’re patient enough to wait for the mass market paperback edition, the book can be purchased for between 25% and 35% of hardcover.

I’m not arguing that e-Book should be a free medium, but personally I’m more inclined to pay $8.00 for a paperback than I am to pay $15.00 for the same book in electronic reader format.

Trails - Part III

Jack Frost has preceded me

whose sparkling brush has painted the edges

of green mountain fern and freeze dried leaves

arrayed in faded colors and brittle spines

like fallen soldiers of some long forgotten battle.

Fog the weaves a trail of its own

as I pant staccato rhythm to keep my pace

fades into the milky haze of highland mist

and beads of salt flavored effort

drip from the waterlogged band of my hat

tracing tiny rivers of exhaustion

each brackish trickle

begs me to suspend the journey

even if only

to quench my thirst

and sate my hunger.

I pause long enough

to still the temporal cry for sustenance

and return to the trail, the demons

of hunger and thirst sated

while other demons

darker

colder

unrelenting

demons of the heart and soul

suffer me no such relief.

War drums from centuries long dead

the cry of warriors ling since

returned to dust

the smoldering memory of

smoke and ashes assail me at every turn

and with every step.

I hear the weeping of souls

who linger, balanced on the precipice of eternity

afraid to proceed, unable to turn back

their destiny mixed as if in blood

dotting the path I wander aimlessly upon

afraid to proceed

unable

to

turn

back.

Trails - Part II

II.

Frosted  promises

hint at what lies ahead

the clear sky warming towards

magenta as the sun dips

behind the ridge on the far side

of the sleepy, deep valley.

Beneath  the first twinkle of starlight

I stretch my bed between

two low hanging oaken cloak hooks

high enough above the tiny clearing

to look down on any midnight passers by

but low enough that should nature call

in the inky darkness, and I forget

where I am, the fall won’t do permanent damage.

I drift into the sky-borne oceans

of Captain Hook, Mr. Smee, and the Jolly Roger

as they set sail

second star to the right

and straight on to morning,

as the soothing song of the whippoorwill

night owl and mountain cricket

blend in harmonious symphony

I catch a different sound in the ghostly wind,

as the distant drums of Chippewa, Cherokee, and Choctaw

fill my restless dreams.

I wonder if the path before me

steals through stealthy lanes

silently trod by feather clad Iroquois

in midday hunting raids

or Algonquin in search

of white man’s scalp.

Would my careful steps

further bury the ancient remains of

a shattered flint arrowhead

or the elk horn handle

of an knife that once skinned

hare, deer or black bear.

Did the small clearing

beneath my canvas loft

once breath with the regal discourse

of tribal elders as they sat around a fire

turning meat on a spit

and passing the still smoldering pipe.

Are the tell-tale signs I think I see

in the broken twigs and pressed moss

signs of night visitors

or simply the improvisations

of an overly active imagination?

My bag repacked,

breakfast of deer jerked some season passed

boiled chicory root for drink

and my canteen refilled

from a nearby weeping rock formation

the time has come to leave this place

of brief but solemn respite

and continue the endless journey

to that place

I seek

but
do
not
know.

Trails

Trails

By David Roth

© 5^th November, 2010

One step

two

three and more

each melding into the next.

Ancient canvas backpack

buckled to the rigid aluminum frame.

Compass on my wrist

Swiss knife on my leg

canteen clipped to the old

webbed belt

with the pressure clamp buckle

broad brimmed hat

to keep the sun from my eyes

and a six-foot length of

weeping green poplar

for a walking stick

as uncertain as its carrier.

Deer, perhaps,

or maybe elk or bear

but probably raccoon or chipmunk

blaze a path through virgin pine

and not quite ripe elderberry

laid out on a blanket of dried leaves

mouse droppings

and velvet green moss.

Boots laced above my ankle

eyes darting, nostrils flared

and wildly imaginative ears

search the forest around me

wondering if hunter or prey.

Stepping toe to heel

careful to shield

the sound of my passage

masking the unknown with

anxious awareness

of the invisible world

hidden in the brush.

Things that growl.

Things that creep.

Things that slither.

Tip-toeing headlong

into a foreign universe

where one poorly placed step

could land a thousand feet below

I am without hope or understanding

but that the trails

wherever they may lead

 beckon.

Bearing the accumulated detritus

 of my life

in a canvas bag on my back

I

must

follow.

I

have

no

choice.

Shadow of the Arch - Review

The story you are about to see (read) is true.  Only the names have been changed to protect the idiots.  I mean innocents.  Not many people my age can forget hearing Jack Webb’s deadpan iconic voice utter those words in the persona of his Sgt. Joe Friday character each week at the start of every new episode of Dragnet, or his equally deadpan drone “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

I was carried back to those days of the small, circular black and white screen of my youth while reading former Saint Louis Detective Ken Dye’s book, Shadow of the Arch, ISBN 978-0-9821654-0-9, ©2008 by Ken Dye and Peppertree Press.

I’m not saying Ken’s characters, modeled after himself and his former partner, are really anything like the almost lifeless, no-nonsense Friday and Gannon.  To the contrary, all they really have in common is that they were cops, the stories in Dye’s book, like those on Webb’s show, are real, and also like Gannon and Friday, Sloan and Falimoso, the names Dye gives himself and his partner, live to get the bad guys.  I mean, really live to get the bad guys.

And as for the stories, forget Mickey Spillane.  Forget Alex Cross.  Forget Lucas Davenport.  These guys are the real deal and not figments of a creative fiction writer.  They lived it, and danger aside, loved doing it!

Ken has a flair for making mundane cop work interesting and even a little fun.  If I were 30 years younger, I think reading Shadow of the Arch would make me want to be a cop.  His stories are alive with the real insider’s perspective on how the job of keeping the bad guys off the streets really gets done, and Dye doesn’t take himself too seriously in the telling.  In fact, sometimes he’s even a little irreverent.

If there is a problem with the book, I found it in only two areas.  First, numerous editing errors.  Second, while I love a good running gag – I mean really love a good running gag, and Ken has two of them, there was one too many.  “God Bless You Lad” in all its iterations never got old.  The bit about Nate and the smoke from his “cheap cherry flavored pipe tobacco leaving the office smelling like a heard of buffalo had just run through it and left calling cards behind,” got old after about the third time, and especially where it appears in consecutive paragraphs.

Other than that, I have no complaints, and would love to read more of the adventures of St. Louis’s favorite Narcs.

Shadow of the Arch, by Tampa writer Ken Dye gets 4 of 5 stars from this writer, and can be found at the Author’s web page and Amazon.com.

And, as Falimoso would say, “God bless you, Lad.”

Snowbirds

The first Snowbird of the Season stepped out to get her paper this morning and saw her shadow.  That means seven more weeks of Autumn.

We had ten Trick-or-treater’s yesterday.  Must be old farts don’t bother dressing up and begging for candy down here.

We were the ‘old farts’ back in Pittsburgh.  Down here we’re actually the young upstarts.

We do get snow in our area in the winter, if you count the color of the hair on the heads of the Snowbirds.  Those who still have any.

There are two seasons in Florida.  Hurricane Season, and Snowbird Season.  Hurricanes are only slightly less predictable, but Snowbirds in tricked out Escalades are probable more dangerous.

Tomorrow is Election Day in the US, and The Day of the Dead in Mexico.  I might have that backwards.

If Democrats wait until Wednesday so they avoid long lines at the polling centers, their votes count twice.  Not certain about Snowbirds.

Dear Wife’s Ninja Farting cat thinks any unattended glass of water anywhere in the house has been left there for her.  Today’s lucky pot at the end of the rainbow was sitting on my computer desk, where Stinky Cat knows she is not permitted to lollygag around.  After her visit, I drained about ¼ cup from my keyboard by tipping it on end and blowing it with a can of air.  Several keys still don’t work.  For them, I must reach up to the Notepad computer to which the $50 Microsoft Ergonomic Keyboard 4000 is externally attached.  Sort of defeats the purpose of the easier to use keyboard.

Killing the Ninja Farting cat isn’t really an option.  She belongs to DW, and the MIL likes her.  I’m outnumbered unless she has some sort of unexplained freak accident, like falling asleep in the microwave or something.

How in the world does one loss drop you 9 places in the polls when one win only moves you up two or three?

Steelers with Little Ben aren’t as good as Pittsburghers think they are.  They were 3-1 under Charley Batch, and 1-1 with Little Ben.  They would have been 0-2 under Little Ben but for some very favorable calls from a Pittsburgh based officiating crew at the game in Miami.

Snowbird officials will screw it up every single time.

It looks like I’m stuck with the old Device OS for my Blackberry.  T-Mobile does something that makes the device not compatible with the upgrade, so they won’t support it.  RIM won’t support it because T-Mobile won’t support it, even though it runs just fine on the same devices when sold to Verizon, Sprint, AT&T, etc.  RIM says I can download the upgrade from their web site, but if it kills the phone again, they only support they will offer is reverting it back.  That took about 13 hours last time.

T-Mobile says they’ll sell me a device upgrade for $80 with a two year contract extension.  That will cost me about $3,100 over the life of the contract.

Support reps I spoke with are located in Colorado (T-Mobile) Ontario, Canada (RIM) and Newfoundland, Canada (RIM).

Snowbirds.  Kinds figures, doesn’t it?