Saturday, August 12, 2017

Don't look back; Candlelight; Mosquito aide ode; Collection of one; Hanging on in quiet desperation it's the English way; Grandson Michael Dix, edge strider



Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk
to worship the moon rising
like a yellow filling-station sign
on the black horizon,
you feel the faint grit
of ants beneath your shoes,
but keep on walking
because in this world
you have to decide what
you’re willing to kill.
Saving your marriage might mean
dinner for two
by candlelight on steak
raised on pasture
chopped out of rain forest
whose absence might mean
an atmospheric thinness
fifty years from now
above the vulnerable head
of your bald grandson on vacation
as the cells of his scalp
sautéed by solar radiation
break down like suspects
under questioning.
Still you slice
the sirloin into pieces
and feed each other
on silver forks
under the approving gaze
of a waiter
whose purchased attention
and French name
are a kind of candlelight themselves,
while in the background
the fingertips of the pianist
float over the tusks
of the slaughtered elephant
without a care,
as if the elephant
had granted its permission.

"Candlelight" by Tony Hoagland from Donkey Gospel. © Graywolf Press, 1998


Mosquito Aid Ode
 Here’s a toast I want to give
To a dear friend
Calamine lotion

For mosquito bites and hornet stings
Folks think you’re just the potion
Your fame has spread
Just like a rash
From here to the great land
Of Goshen

To poo-poo your
over-the counter
Let no one take a

We swab you
On the part of us
That’s harmed by sting or bright sun
Then lay back and feel your chalky pink
Commence the soothing

How could we make it through
The summer
Without your balm
that someone
Way back when thought up for us
The extremist
Of all itching unction

So lift those glasses, yes
Lift them high
To Calamine you deserve rank
So thronely

We would in fact quaff a pink
Drink to you
If you weren’t for
External Use Only



Collection of One

The red veined thing I hold as in my hand
Was  hard to collect
involving  snags and cuts and cracked bones,
seasons of taking  it for granted
It brittled, turned in color,
 too soon to be approaching nature’s compost
It may be dying, but I am only 80.

Now, I see this single one
in a proper perspective
 as only one in a billion
But it’s my one in a billion
Standing out from all the others
 I ponder it, top and bottom
So radiant still,

beating all, beating
others in a fuzzy background
even at a pulse of only 2 pixtels
  it’s clear enough for me
to win a contest if I could get to it

I do hold it

the nurses and doctors
listen for signs of life
It reminds me of a fallen leaf
So fragile
I’d press it, if I had a big enough book
of gentle poetry

Ye shall find it still
flexing in this manger
A small but once mighty engine.
A leaf, a fire, my heart.

[David Dix, 2005]


Adventurer, with his KM buddies an Extreme Man,
 Grandson Michael Dix

Mike practices ski-board flip
with KMHS buddies


What's happening now
climbing in Utah where he lives

Mike ascending Utah mountain

Mike makes vertical climb

With his brother Chris Dix

salutes with friends

Mike and his mom
a very patient mother
Sue Peters-Dix

[Her father, mike's other grandpa,  was  Berlin WI's CRAZY RALPH
so Mike is multi-endowed with zane]

Mike wears seaweed

At brother Chris's Carroll graduation
with mom, dad and sister, Melissa

On family vacation in Colorado
Uncle Dick, David Jr., Mike, Chris

Mike and his Uncle Lee Dix
play with an early computer

Who knows to what other heights Mike will climb?

For sure he'll be with Us and Them:
the Dixes and his buds


Note card to Alaska Kari's sent 8-12-17

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Old friend visits Odd Fellow; I wants to get an Airstream; Album; All that we have is now

A Druid, clair-voyageur, seer
trekked under the blue awning
 waterfall overhanging the Odd Fellow hall entrance
to call on an old friend Wednesday.

This time he brought another gift
beside a half-head of cabbage
from his wife's garden
which was later that very day partaken of
and enjoyed. 

His own offering was a vial ~ or phial ~
his own formula of an essential oil
he uses prior to putting himself down nightly for bed.
A method he uses to zone-out and put
the days care's and business behind him.

A restful mode overcomes him and he then sleeps
His host did not inquire why he had brought
this gift.

Conversation flowed unhindered by 
any solicitations of prayer
yet some divining hand seemed involved
in the spoken zig-zag.

Other gifts have issued from Mystic Mike.
He brought an Escher cardstock solid
to his friend when he was laid-up.

It rests at the top of a basket of get-well cards.

Seen at a dessert table is
the Druid's wife Bev.
She too is kindly, sharing, for example, batches
of rhubarb cakes from her garden:



Album of history

at the Three Brothers
Tom, Wis, David
circa 2014


All that we have is now


Interfaith Power and Light

from Rev. John Helt, ret'd

Religious activismFaith grows greener in the era of Donald Trump

An equal and opposite reaction to the eco-scepticism in the White House

Americans working at the interface between religion and care for the global environment have a new spring in their step these days. The reason is a paradoxical one. Donald Trump’s decision to pull the country out of the Paris accord on climate change has galvanised green-minded congregations, and even those who have not hitherto been especially green, to think harder about what they can do for the planet.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Rumba S,C,D; John Tyson; Three Brothers cont'd; Cinnamon and apple sauce

Girl from Guantanamo



Dance through life



John Tyson Vignettes

Carroll College art professor

b. 1930 - d. 1982

(a brief review on a dear friend:)

John Tyson and Wis Guthrie at Carroll College
Many years - we say again - before Dee came to Wisconsin
from Maryland I had a friend, now deceased,
named John Tyson, who was an art professor
at Carroll College. It was not university then.

John and I were fans of Jose Feliciano.
We liked, really grooved on his singing of Little Red Rooster.
I bought that now ecclesiastic rooster bird featured below
in memory of John and that song.
John has been written up in the raccoon previously.

This article appeared in a forerunner of The Sewer Raccoon News, a pioneering effort of this editor using a mimeo machine - remember them? - a periodical called Vulcan Weathervanes. It was called that because in 1981 when this article ran, yours truly was playing with F-I-R-E.

Playing with oxyacetelene fire, making and selling weathervanes. (And other firey engagements.)

A long-term friend, now deceased, was John Tyson. We should make that 
J-O-H-N   T-Y-S-O-N
one of the best friends this fire-player ever had.
Until shortly before his untimely death at age 52- of a heart attack - John was an art professor at Carroll College. He inspired me. I learned to weld because of him, and I learned to let my sculptures and other metal products rust because of his own rusty work. One day we took one of his large rusting steel mobiles and hung it in a tree at his farm and punctured multiple holes in it with a .22 caliber rifle.
At the Milwaukee Lake Front annual art festival he was juried permission to show, and he took ONE (1) pot, what he considered his best. He set it on the hood of his rusty pick-up. All the other artists had their customary partitions and tables loaded with saleable merchandise, but John Tyson took only his best effort, and sat in his folding chair next to the truck.

When drinking Harvey's Bristol Cream once in my living room, he accidentally spilled a little. A smigeon. Calling him on it scoldingly, he looked at me and took his glass and emptied it on the carpet, totally. We exchanged a long direct gaze, and then nearly ruptured our spleens with laugher. Over time, but too little, John Tyson taught me a lot.
The day he died he saw me passing on the road and waved.

The above ceramic dish molded in John's hands
holds the water of a just-watered houseplant.  Here his 
hastily Sharpie-scribbled black signature
is bone dry in the NW light of our bank of Odd Fellows windows.

Tyson pot 1968; KD cat 2016



Three Brothers, Bayview WI
2414 S. St Clair St


Milun Radicevic,  3 Bros. founder

Photo by Zoe Middleton

Our son Leland Dix at the Three Brothers with Zoe 

photo by Zoe Middleton


A favorite midnight snack

very simple fare
but cinnamon is contained
in our late mother Ruth's
Japanese bee hive keeper

Saturday, July 22, 2017

Stars fell on (Alabama) Bayview WI; Three Bros beef burek from Lee and Zoe; Caring electric scooter rider; Lead therapist; Malaguena

A starry night...

"She never planned in her imagination
a situation so heavenly..."

(Family gathering, 2013)

...what an experience 
a trip to The Three Brothers
Serbian Restaurant in Bayview WI
would be like...

...until Leland took  her
(Zoe Middleton) 
- a world traveler -
to our favorite ethnic eatery
 last week while she was here from the home she shares with Lee in Houston TX.

Leland. steeped in appreciation for the Starry-Nighted restaurant
now in his own right, wanted to show his girlfriend a special time
in Milwaukee.

They brought us back a beef burek which we (Dee) correctly
reheated and served for dinner last evening.

My memories of the establishment and its fare came flooding back
as the crispy philo-doughed offering met my palette.


This was the philo beef burek from The Three Brothers
that Dee set before me last evening.

My friend the late Branko Radicevic, impresario of  the 3 Bros
smiled upon me once more...

  Unsung hero works the music venue
at Friday Night Live
recently zeroing in on a piece of trash paper with her grabber tool
and deposits it in her bucket.

Seen from our Odd Fellows window.


Our lead therapist at Linden Grove rehab, 
who with her therapy cohorts there took us from simplicities like using a grabber in our wheel chair to, in the end, walking out of the place. Temporarily on a walker. Broken hip is mended.

Tammy (lnu), Occ. Therapist, Linden Grove Communities, Mukwonago WI
Kindness radiates.  Photo from  a found public Linden Grove brochure.


Never blind to his music

Jose Feliciano


More Jose

and to finish this post ~
catching the flavor of the regional origins of the Serbian 3 Bros
who had this number on their juke box
years ago, ZORBA THE GREEK

~ or ~
notice Jose's faithful seeing eye dog at his side

~ or, and this really IT now ~


Lights off, writing over