Peter Meinke, my prof and the Poet Laureate of Florida. "Marine Forecast:

My professor from Eckerd College.  A fantastic instructor and mentor, and now the Poet Laureate
 of Florida.  Peter Meinke!!!!!



http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/peter-meinke

August Heat

August is finally over with, but this tale could be told on a day like today.  Round the corner comes a new gate and for this man it leads to his murderer.

August Heat

by W. F. Harvey

---

PHENISTONE ROAD, CLAPHAM.
August 20th, 190--.

I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.

Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.

I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness.

By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and--white work to satisfy my necessary wants.

My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.

The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.

I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude's struck four.

The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done. It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat---enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper- coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

It was twenty minutes to seven.

When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription--

CHS. ATKINSON. MONUMENTAL MASON.

WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.

A sudden impulse made me enter.

A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.

It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.

He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.

He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.

I apologised for my intrusion.

"Everything is hot and glary outside," I said. "This seems an oasis in the wilderness."

"I don't know about the oasis," he replied, "but it certainly is hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!"

He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.

"That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of," I said.

He shook his head. "In a way it is," he answered; "the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big flaw at the back, though I don't expect you'd ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn't mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone."

"Then what's it for?" I asked.

The man burst out laughing.

"You'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you it's for an exhibition, but it's the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know."

He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.

I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.

I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.

Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.

"There! what do you think of that?" he said, with an air of evident pride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this--

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT.

BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860.

HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY

ON AUGUST 20TH, 190--

"In the midst of life we are in death."

For some time I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.

"Oh, I didn't see it anywhere," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?"

"It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine." He gave a long, low whistle.

"And the dates?"

"I can only answer for one of them, and that's correct."

"It's a rum go!" he said.

But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning's work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.

"And it was only the day before yesterday," he said, "that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!"

Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.

"You probably heard my name," I said.

"And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?"

I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.

"Come inside and have some supper," said Mr. Atkinson.

His wife was a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.

I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.

We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. "You must excuse my asking," I said, "but do you know of anything you've done for which you could be put on trial?"

He shook his head. "I'm not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that's all I can think of. And they were small ones, too," he added as an afterthought.

He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. "Twice a day regular in the hot weather," he said, "and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?"

I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home.

"It's like this," he said. "We'll look at the matter straight. If you go back home to-night, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there's always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders."

He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.

"The best thing we can do," he continued, "is for you to stay here till twelve o'clock. We'll go upstairs and smoke, it may be cooler inside."

To my surprise I agreed.

* * *

We are sitting now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.

The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window.

The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.

It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.

But the heat is stifling.

It is enough to send a man mad.

---

I am the Autumnal Sun

And so as we round the corner into September; a new season is brought forth.  Autumn.  Beautiful, bountiful, colourful autumn and Thoreau leads us onto the path with this:

I Am the Autumnal Sun

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.

I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief... 

Henry David Thoreau

Here is the full poem from which "Round the Corner" is from.

Roads Go Ever On

by

JRR Tolkien

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

"Round the Corner"

"Round the Corner" is the new title for my blog which was originally named "The Journey". I was inspired to take this new title from a quote by JRR Tolkien: "Still round the corner there may wait a new road or secret gate". "Round the Corner" is a continuation of "The Jouney" and will be filled with short stories, folklore, history, book reviews, music, recipes, and discussions concerning all the roads, gates, doors, walls, whatever, we find as we go "Round the Corner"

“Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.” 

Hope you enjoy this new format and have fun with it!  

I See...

Today is June 20,2015.  It's the last day of spring.  Tomorrow brings the first day of summer and in the US the celebration of fathers.  A little information for you is that the week between June 19 - June 25 is known as Midsummer and June 24th was designated by the Christian Church as being St John the Baptist's Day. This year Ramadan has fallen in this period of time as well, from June 17th - July 17th.  This moment in time is special for so many for entirely different thoughts; yet, I find myself sitting here, thinking over the events and discourse which grips us all.

Time, of course, continues to move however swiftly or slowly it is perceived by each individual.  Every second ticking by provides us with motivations, changes, experiences, decisions, and multitudes of other reflections of life.  We find ourselves deluged with information the media gives us to which we respond with gripping horror, enthralled wonder, or bored indifference among the gamut of emotions we reciprocate with.
This period of time has been filled with it all which I have been reflecting upon in order to find some sort of explanation for.  Religious faith has bloomed with love; at the same time, it has writhed with convulsions spewing hatred and venom. Some politicians have expressed compassion and abhorrence; others seem indifferent or at best, dismissive of the devastating murders in Charleston.  Rage is displayed by all, but for totally different reasons.  Blame is barraged around from the suspect to the victims.  Hatred boils forth as love enfolds.  Answers are sought; yet none provide comfort.  Many condemn, others cheer.  Prejudice flies forward while respect and diversity envelop and shield.

The murders of 9 worshipers within a House of God by one angry individual has impacted not only the US, but the world.  Nine black Americans slaughtered by a white supremacist man has escalated the concerns, fears, and outrage of a country all ready reeling from racial disparities which have flooded across the nation with killings of black Americans by those sworn to protect all citizens; with the disregard and malice toward Hispanic Americans; with antagonism and animosity toward Muslim Americans; with ridicule and contempt toward Asian Americans; with abomination and acrimony toward the LGBTQ community; with loathing and enmity toward non-Christians, with grudges and bitterness toward the poor; with antipathy and disapproval toward anyone who is deemed different from the so-called norm of society.

I cannot help but wonder if the 9 are the catalyst to begin change and discourse; that their lives were not lost to be construed within a statistic.  I ponder on how their murders have been politicized by those whose hatred gushes and leaves one feeling bereft of empathy and tenderness.  Then I look at the news and see the murder of a New Orleans police officer.  I see the dehumanization of the homeless.  I see the loss of innocence of a young girl as she watches her father kill her mother in front of her.  I see the manipulation of women being perceived as the  culprits rather than the victims of sexual assault.  I see man subjugate religious ideals to overpower and bastardize faith by enforcing and fear mongering their followers.

Now I look around and look toward a different perspective.  I see the families of the 9, one after another forgiving the man who took the lives of their loved ones.  I see vigils being held at houses of worship for the 9 and for those of us who are trying to comprehend this cowardly act of murder.  I remember the young black woman who threw her body over the white supremacist in order to protect him.  I see the two young boys who raced into a burning mobile home to save the life of two babies.  I see the college students gathering around a 52 year old woman protecting her, showering her with love when a religous fanatic insults her, as she stands and protects the love of Christ over his rhetoric of hate.  I see the people who search for the senior citizen suffering from dementia who has wandered away.  I see the ministers who stand, link arms, and march for love, equality, and protection. I see the parents, friends, and family of children cleaving away the shackles of genderizing. I see the Olympian and the struggles ensued as she embodies her identity of transgender.  I see the Muslim women in a restroom at a theme park reacting with fear as two white women walk in and then the smiles of love and gratitude when they are shown respect and caring.  I see young men protecting a lesbian from the name calling of homophobics and I see love between two gay men as they marry one another.

I smile and acknowledge that which is a universal truth.  Good does triumph!  Love does overcome!  The light shines bright within the darkest of nights.  It is time which marches ever forward.  It is this moment and the next which conveys to us the right.  It is we who create the change not by being inert or stagnant, but by being active and pursuing the good for all of us, not just the privileged few.  It means leaving the comfort zone and standing up for human rights.  It means not arguing, but informing.  It means not violence, but comfort.  It means justice guided by truth and compassion, not coldness.

Finally, I reflect on the meaning of Father's Day.  I think of the chiildren whose fathers have been taken away by violence.  I think of the fathers whose children have been massacred by hatred.  I think of two young women I know whose father died and how much they miss him and would love to spend tomorrow with him.  I think of my friends who; although we are in our 50s mourn the loss of their fathers.  I think of fathers who seem to have distanced themselves from their children and wonder at the pain they have suffered to have done this.  I think of the single mothers who are both father and mother to their children who are constantly besieged by politicians, religious organizations, and individuals at how they are horrible parents and how much their children deserve fathers; and I wonder if any of those condemning and judging have ever thought that maybe, just maybe being supportive and compassionate would be welcoming.  I think of the single fathers who love their children.  I think of gay men who wish to adopt and be fathers to so many children who have no parents.  I think of fathers who feel that since it is Father's Day tomorrow they can do what the want on "their day" and I think of their children and the mothers of these gifts from Heaven who just want to be with their dads.  Most importantly, I think of fathers every where who work, protect, teach, and love their children and show their children how much they love the woman who gave them the gift of being a father.

Time keeps moving forward and; yet, we are given moments to define and engage in.  It is up to us to prove Shakespeare wrong when he wrote in A Mid-Summer's Night Dream:  "Lord, what fools the mortals be! (3.2).  It is we who have the ability and the power to join together rather than be pulled apart and hide in the shadows of anger and fear.

So, I am at peace.  Contentment has come to me as I move forward with this thought "It's not how many years you've lived...but how you've lived them.  Someone once told me that time is a predator that stalks us all our lives.  But maybe time is also a companion who goes with us on our journey, and reminds us to cherish the moments of our lives...because they will never come again.  We are after all, only mortal.  (Star Trek Generations  185, Picard).

Horror stories or Reality.....which is worse

Hi there!  Yeah, I Know it's been awhile; unfortunately when the notebook decides not to work well, I can't do as much as I want.  Today, I am hoping it will keep going for me.  Enough of that, instead, how's your day going?  Mine is pretty good actually.  It's been raining which means a great day for reading horror stories.  I am into one and find it interesting.  A number of normal horror attributes; you know, an enormous Gothic style asylum; a dark gloomy night; new person starting a job there; and the old employee who can't wait to tell you all about the grisly history of the place.  A great beginning so typical of many horror tales, yet, one we love to read over and over again.

I admit it, it's grabbed my attention. I'm enjoying today.  It fits with the dark, moisture filled clouds hovering in the sky right now.  A perfect read for csa perfect day.  Then, I started thinking.  "Why is it always the dark secluded Victorian aged (or older) mansions used as the settings for horror.  The history of the house or town even, is important in staging the reaction of the mind's imagination."  You have to admit, it usually is.  Some creepy looking place to project the mood.  And we fall for it every time.

"Now", I ponder, "What would happen if we changed all that.  Suppose the story takes place in a middle-class suburb.  The homes are filled with 'normal families',  going about doing 'normal family things'.  Like taking the kids to sports practice, grocery shopping, heading to a mall, barbecuing, talking to the neighbors, going to church, and all those other 'normal activities'. "

I sat there thinking about this.  It's been done, but what do we always prefer:  yeah, the good old creepy abnormal places.  Then I began contemplating the monsters which we all know fill horror stories.  You know the ones:  the lunatics, serial killers, ghosts, whatever.  Horror stories are bursting with these stereotyped monsters.  My muse was awakened.  "The monsters of horror are traditionally those who are considered by society as deviants,  Individuals who reside in the boundaries or margins of our perceived 'normal relations' in our communities.  We all know this is a ruse to stop us from realizing that the monsters reside right next to us.  The ones who are 'normal'.

Yeah, the monsters are the people we live by or even with. They go through the motions of 'normal society'.  They become our friends, our loves, our family.  They grow in our hearts and we never suspect.  They attend church further promoting the propagation of their 'normalcy'.  Then, when we are caught within their tangled tendrils of falsehoods, we are confronted with the truth.  A light ignites within, but is squashed as we discover the naked realities of these monsters.  So and so, is molesting your child.  You know who, beats the spouse and children.  That wonderful friend is a drug dealer, telling you how he/she wants to help you, urging you to take the pills he/she tries to convince you to take.  The sweet neighbor is a thief and prostitute, hiding in the shadows supporting a drug habit.  A church acquaintance revels in exclaiming hatred toward homosexuals, wanting them to be killed.  A family member spews racial hatred with foul and abhorrent constancy.

"Yes", I shudder!  "The truth is the monsters are among us all the time and in the end we must choose our path in this 'normalcy'.  Do we move to bring our the truth or do we in turn become monsters ourselves, slaves to the evil which permeates throughout our lives?

Just a little fun.....

She stepped out of the car and stared at the scene in front of her.  A winter wonderland tableau held her captive as though it had just been created for her.  The tree lined drive ended in front of a three story Contemporary architectural house.  Its smooth lines and walls curved away from the central entryway impressing an illusion of rounded hills and curved valleys which the house was surrounded by.  It seemed as though the house was a natural protrusion from the natural world around it.  The fieldstone covering the exterior walls contained large expansive windows creating a vision of openness and freedom. The central entryway was framed with lanterns whose soft glow in the early evening displayed the dancing of snowflakes in its wake.

She smiled at the sight and sighed.  "Finally, my own place to relax at".  Stepping back in the car, she pulled into the drive.  She pressed a button and a garage door slid open as she turned the vehicle down a ramp that led under the house.  As she passed through, the door closed silently behind her and lights flipped on in the garage.  Rolling to a stop, she turned off the car, and grabbed her purse from the floor.  She smiled as two of her companions waited impatiently to be released and three others began yowling at the sudden stop of music and movement.  "Okay, Bella and Booker, out you go.  The small female German Shepherd bounded out of the vehicle with the young Black Labrador Retriever right behind her.  As they unleashed their pent up energy chasing one another around the four vehicle underground garage, the three cats increased their caterwauling in volume and tone.  "Alright you three, just give me a couple of minutes".  She pulled their traveling carriers out of the back seat and walked over to the elevator which led to the upper floors of the house.  Placing two of the carriers on the floor, she headed back to the car for the third one who was screaming his dislike at having been left behind.  "Mikael, I'm right here".  She dragged his carrier out and headed back to the elevator.  "Bella!  Booker!  Come here!"  The two dogs stopped their playing, looked at her, and went back to their business of chasing one another.
"Do you want your treats?"  She asked.  The two stopped again, both cocking their heads at her.  Bella, with her right ear bent down and a smile on her face stepped toward the woman.  Booker, loped behind, his mouth nipping at Bella's tail trying to get some more play time in.  "Come here"! She called again and led the two pups, plus the spitting Mikael into the elevator.  As the door closed behind them, Bella went into a guarding stance staring at the door.  Booker imitated her and let a low growl loose.  "It's okay you two.  You will get use to this".  Both looked up at her, wagged their tails, but did not move from their guarding positions.

The door opened and she led the pups into a hallway which led to another door.  At this one she entered a code which unlocked the door and disarmed the alarm.  "There you go". She told the two who promptly lowered their noses to the floor and began sniffing the area around them.  She went back down the hallway to where the cats were screaming in chorus and brought them into room with the dogs.  Opening the latch to each carrier, she left the cats to come out on their own, for as usual the minute the carriers were open and they could get out, they naturally moved to the back of it and yowled some more.    She sighed and headed back to the elevator. "One good thing, at least the lights turned on when I unlocked the door, so we can all see in here.  I'll be right back!"

Back at the car, she opened the trunk and began pulling luggage out and piling it into the elevator.  Then she grabbed two pans from the back seat and chuckled.  "The cats will definitely want these."  Next to the pans went cat litter, cat food, and dog food.  Finally, the car was empty of everything she had packed in it and she was busy stowing away different items in the kitchen. The dogs came running into the room and Booker slid across the floor as he tried to slow down.  Bella came to a stop beside her mistress, cocking her head to the side with her tongue hanging out sideways from her mouth. Booker finally stopped as he slid into the wall, bounced off, and came toward Bella with his tongue lolling out as well.  The woman shook her head at them and laughed.  "You two are hilarious!  Your food bowl is here and the water dish is right beside it".  Both dogs barked happily and as Bella dug into the food, Booker lapped at the water.  Then they traded places.

Still chuckling at the antics of the pups, she put away the food she had bought in the last city she had gone through. She wasn't hungry yet; and decided she wanted to explore the rest of her new home.  She had sent the rest of her luggage up to the third floor which still awaited her attention, but as for now it was time to see her vision come to life.