Tuesday, August 28, 2012

My Body Of Work

My Body Of Work

When my finger becomes a stump from pecking away
On my iPad, with just the right hand pointing one ;
I look at my body of work, shrug my shoulders, pray
That I'm not as lame in ability as thought by some :

Then gathering myself, I think, what the "Sam Hell"
Am I doing out in this arena of original thought ?
Me, a boy of the soil, with words pulsating to tell
Audiences about education's purpose, as it's taught :

And then, a Scottish Highland stubbornness invades
My innards and rescues an inbred arrogance for life.
If not me, who the hell will write of grand parades,
Of awakening flowers, children, theirs, and my wife ?

However menial the task, it's the full effort given
Which measures a person's metal, sung by the liven.

Ronald C. Downie
An English Sonnet

Sunday, August 26, 2012

I Love The Art In Stone

  I Love The Art In Stone

I love the art in stone as shown less, these days,
When hung framed on bare walls of homes, in ways,
Absent of a stone mason's style of art, he displays,
With hammer and chisel his love of stone, he plays .    

Gathering in fresh farm springs
Country creeks flow downstream
Eroding outcroppings of hard rock
Strata used as wagon crossings
Later becoming bridge locations .
Near these, built at creekside,
Stone walls rise four stories tall,
Deep window sills mark each floor,
At the peak a hoist beam extends .
Below is an arched stone mill race,
Where channeled swift water turns 
A huge drive wheel that transfers
Power by wide leather belts up to
The grinding floor where grain is 
Fed between a flat stone face and
Another stone face that is turning .

Flour feeds an early struggling Nation .
Cut stone seeks a past's artful relation . 

Mills, Roller Mills, Flour Feed Mills
Still stand tall, their art's in place,
Family named, silent, strong the walls.
Their need is gone, now long forgotten .

You. - cameras, You - pencils,
You. - water colors, You - oil pigments,
You. - Have you captured their souls ?

I love the art in stones when built as walls.

  Ronald C . Downie


Saturday, August 25, 2012

From Nature's Depth

From Nature's Depths

When a loved one plants a lush garden scene
To capture life forces that tugs at the heart ;
Will a sharp spade edging arcs and curves mean
Same as a painter's brush for an artist's start :

Then, from the Good Earth sun drawn, reaching, 
Elongating, branching, a replica drawn of eternity;
How many millennia stacked up to Heaven, seeking
Their chance to bust forth in color, cell's maternity :

And then, trimming and grooming, set and resetting
Creating a look pleasing to the minds eye and heart.
Complimentary to picture's size and shape getting
On to maturity, plants that grow love their start.

It's the artist in the planter, green of thumb, driven 
From Nature's depths creating lovely scenes so given.

Ronald C. Downie
A sonnet for Sherri

Friday, August 24, 2012

A Responce to Evan Brandt

A Response to Evan Brandt's, "Shooting Yourself in the Foot ?" August 23, 2012- Digital Notebook

I think of snakes, the "Don't Tread On Me" kind, an image which found both banner and flag leading up to our War Of Independence. The rattle snake, which never attacks without warning but when one attacks it never gives up until death, was a strong depiction of colonial strength and tenacity.

Judie Brown's use of the image of snakes coming out of their pits seems neither to imply strength nor tenacity to those whom she addresses, but rather implies, they are weak and deceitful not to support the likes of a crude Congressman Todd Akin.

Brown's demand is that any egg fertilized by a male sperm must be brought to term, period. This, I guess, is God's will. But it's here where lies a conundrum for me. We all have heard of miscarriages and stillbirths happening at random with no discernible cause for life not occurring. My question is : Are they God's will also ?

The quest for small government rings in every pure conservative's mind, except when it comes to rights of women and their reproductive faculties.  Here male dominated legislatures, state and federal, need to show the World who's king. They act like they're an old bull standing along with a quite young bull at the top of a hill looking down at a meadow of cows. The young bull sings out, "Let's run down and mount one of those cows !" The old bull counters, " Let just walk down and mount them all."

Rape ! Rape ! The cows would call out because ever since the onset of factory farming they have been artificially inseminated to give birth so they freshen for continued milking. The natural act of being mounted by a bull would be a foreign experience to the new generation of cows so its happening could be considered rape in a cow's mind. Of course in Congressman's Akin's world the female form would produce a fluid at the onset of the rape which would stop an eventual birth. 

Farmers would scoff at Akin's science and Julie Brown would hold those farmers in reticule referring to them as snakes coming out of their pits. But, as the World turns, the cows would birth and freshen, both the young and old bull would be happy, and Todd and Julie would go on about their spiteful business beating a path backwards into the dark ages long forgotten by intelligent people.

Ronald C. Downie

Thursday, August 23, 2012

A Cry From Mid-Space

A Cry From Mid-Space 

God damned you, Dreams, 
whore no more to me, 
release me to covet grayness 
bleating from a sullen sky.

Don't show me violets pure
nor roses gay that cry
my inter soul awake.

No !  I must not think free !

Chain my mind, 
please stem that emotion swell
within this hide,
so I do not hope in vain.

In image of his maker 
man can train as oxen yoked 
to circle round the well.

I can not define mid-space 
where dreamers dwell,
so far sight a scene
then slowly squint it into
mental pictures,
like a frosted pane looked through.

Is it real ? Is it heaven ? 
Is it, well is it, hell ?

Hell must be theater
for a lost dreamer's soul.

Not in dance around soothing 
flames and crackling sounds
that flows the senses' veins ;
but of grey ash mounds 
staged of choking soot
awaiting to fill a dreamer's hole.

Accept the young, 
they have not traversed the gorge 
left by dreamers old 
whose torrent thoughts erode.

Fill the young with placid manna 
lest they explode with alien notions,
thinking they're their own Saint George. 

Dreams - damn you !  
Lay not your head 
on my breast this day.

Free me, so I may see 
what our Nation antes up.

Those dull, brow bent 
cast of actors who hold the cup,
that keeps America hostage 
and wastes a dreamer's play.

Ronald C . Downie    

Wednesday, August 22, 2012



Violation of an other's body
From bullets, blades or even a penis 
Is cause for the public's pressing disgust
Translating into a must change in course :

The disinterested stir from their rest,
Become uneasy and irritable,
But will distraught bring action onto them ?
Cause and affect stirs in all the living :

"One step for Man, giant leap for Mankind !"
Must formulate meaning beyond mere words.
To endure, Man must denounce violence
In every form, because it is mental.

Travel shows how irrelevant we are,
Space and time collide, long journey's still far.

Ronald C. Downie

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Writing's My Play

Writing's My Play

When I'm caught up in national political chatter,
I retreat to my front porch, weather permitting.
There, enjoy brown leaves dropping without clatter,
While squirrels chase and birds wing, rarely resting :

Then, comfortable on my rocker, I turn on the radio
To NPR or, if they're rehashing gotcha's of the day,
I dial in a classical music station. Walkers say, Hello!
My universe expands from this rocker, gone is play :

And then, birds catch my eye, with swop and flit
As they move from tree to tree, kind of like chase
When I was young. A large hawk glides in to sit
Tippy top of the steeple pointing to heaven's place.

The older we get, memory enlarges to fill our day,
Now I can't physically engage, so writing's my play.

Ronald C. Downie
An English Sonnet

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Eyes To Heaven

Eyes To Heaven 

Long an observer of Berks County skies
From west wondered what ruckus implies .
Could children's chatter, playground's gleeful cries,
Be so close to hear though not seen by my eyes ?

Goose and gander, Canadians, across the pond
Shallow water succulent greens they are fond.
Muskrats pull grasses in spring as they respond.
These ponds come alive as my private neutron.

Quickly I turned to the sounds from the west,
An angled V gaggle with song from their chest.
Lost count at thirty, do they circle for rest ?
No, not today, they don't land here to nest.

But why do they sound so different from norm ?
Snow Geese were they off course by a storm ?
Surely I've seen a lone Snow Goose forlorn,
But a pure white gaggle's sharp V was their form.

That surprised me in both sight and sounds.
Around us - Nature - in awe she abounds.
Gone are the Snow Geese, still Blue Birds around.
My eyes to the heavens, my heart's on the ground.

   Ronald C .Downie  

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Only Knowledge

Only Knowledge

When, looking into the mirror of hope
I find far too many so deep in despair 
Who willingly slough off a need to cope,
Leaving them vulnerable, requiring care :

Will it be an epiphany that grabs the scene ?
Without something like that, what's then ?
Do spots disappear, stripes fade, does fat lien ?
From nagging disappointments, hope comes when ?

Realizing a personal attitude becomes the key
To unlocking the potential energy pent up now
Awaiting release. Learning wisdom's wise old plea,
"Only knowledge sets Man free", showing him how.

History records, rewrites episodes sad or proud,
While shunning facts, destiny floats on as a cloud.

Ronald C. Downie
An English Sonnet

Friday, August 17, 2012

Haiku 86

Haiku 86 

Mitt Romney's, Ryan,
Formed his thinking reading Rand -
Abortionist, Ayn .

Paul Ryan's, Romney,
Believes Joseph Smith's doctrine -
Please Google "Mormon" .

Radical thinkers, 
Mitt and Paul, become zealots -
Their World view scary.

"Trust Me" their echo,
Reagan said, "trust - verify"-
Mitt and Paul need both.

Twenty two million
Dollar income, but Mitt's broke -
Needs write off for horse.

What did you write off ?
Will you release your returns ?
Who's a hypocrite ?

Ronald C. Downie

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Haiku 84

Haiku 84

Time for Haiku to bring thoughts to you.

Romney and Ryan -
Male dominate religions,
Mormon / Catholic.

The Russian, Ayn Rand,
Spelled out her manifesto -
Paul Ryan endorsed.

Romney and Ryan -
Women's rights are in their hands -
Check Paul Ryan's votes !

Money makes money,
Poverty infests masses -
Money tramps on poor.

"Trust me" says Mitt/Paul.
No records and no returns -
History denied.

Who's plan to run on ?
Both unpopular to all -
Except super rich !

Ronald C. Downie

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Iike A Jury

Like A Jury

When the weight of honesty bogs me down,
I pass judgement on our politicians,
Who, from each side of their mouths speak untruths,
While evil intended money men laugh :

Then, the duped public : asleep, complacent,
Lulled into apathy, votes without thought.
They pander to slick adds of sleazy lines
Always skirting truths, garbage in - same out :

And then, with our country in peril, wake up.
America has always moved forward !
Like a jury collectively coming
Together to find the truth, dispel fear.

Lathered in a harsh fever oozing sweat
Political hacks die slow deaths, I bet.

Ronald C. Downie

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Fire And Brimstone

Fire And Brimstone

Blood red, wide and long, the front's moving east,
Accuweather got it right on, last night.
Huge from Binghamton, NY. through PA. 
Clear down south well deep into Tennessee.

Climate change is affecting our weather
In stormy ways we're unfamiliar with.
Last night's front crossed half of the country
Leaving in its wake hail and downed trees.

It brought my early years back into focus :
Down Houck Road off of Harmonyville Road
Our house, with a wide front porch faced west,
Was just perfect to view storms moving east.

Often Mom would seek a deep, dark closet
To hide in. My brother, Andy, and I 
Along with our Dad, took to the front porch
To enjoy the hand of God, hear him roar.

Around five fifteen as the wind picked up
I took to my front porch which faces west.
Not super intense, the forceful strong winds
Soon subsided while clouds thickened darkly.

Heavy rain developed blessing the greens
And flowers, the trees and shrubs, grass and weeds.
A life cycle born of necessity,
Water is that heavenly elixir. 

Our Earth is running out of fresh water
That can be drunk by plants and animals,
Including Man, who always demands more.
More to fill each desire, impossible !

"Water, water everywhere but not a
A drop to drink", a seafarer's chanty.
Man will have to desalinate salty
Water to just provide a minimum.

We must learn to farm thunder storms better
And not allow rain water to escape
Unused for Man's purposes, say, flushing.
The Great Battle, control of grey water.

To change perception and change attitudes
Will take generations unless a vast
Calamity quickens Man's backwardness.
I hope you readers are futurists too !

Ronald C. Downie


Monday, August 13, 2012

Humanity's Grand Mosaic

Humanity's Grand Mosaic

Within the stitches 
holding together your
patch work quilt,
you live your life
just peeking out 
from under its cover.

Your birth, infancy,
childhood, teen years,
adulthood, marriage,
family, midlife, old age,
infirmity, and death are
recorded with their own patch.

Each one's story, a quilt some 
could easily hang on their wall.
Others would wrap themselves
snugly within its warm comfort.
While some would fold up 
their quilt and place it in an old
trunk, with moth balls for keep sake.

Those, though of a shattered life, who
understand their quilt's unthinkable
nature, seek not to remember,
but, just in case, keep theirs hidden
in a safe place, there to be a reminder.

Walk down any street, anywhere,
look at the people, look closely,
are they that much different from 
each other in looks and physique ?
Now, conjure up in your minds eye
what their individual quilt would look like.

All the writers in the World,
all the singers and songsters too,
the poets, historians, and the story tellers,
have yet to unfold the totality of patch work
quilts which makes up this, 
each is our contribution to 
humanity's grand mosaic.

Ronald C. Downie


Saturday, August 11, 2012

A Labyrinth's Omphalos

A Labyrinth's Omphalos 

Enter at your own peril,
Caution, not too fast.
Seems meditative to those
Who slowly move forward
One step at a time, deliberate,
Like to a metronome's beat.
To the right, to the left, winding,
Ever winding, seeking a center's point.

Red robin alights, cocks his head,
Either listens or feels for a worm.
A hidden worm's movement makes 
A sound or makes a faint vibration.
He hops lightly, cocks his head,
Pecks the earth. A worm, maybe ?
Deliberate, poised, an outcome sought,
A calculated return pays dividends. 

Arriving at the center is half the effort ;
Reluctance to begin is the other half.
Slowly winding along the serpentine path
Allowing an open mind to dart and flit
Capturing memories, mulling adventure,
Muddled merging become quite cloudy.
As the sun peeks around a huge cloud
And breaks bright, the mind does similar.

Pearly luminescent bundles of spheres
Appear submerged along the water's edge.
Big and deep voiced the old bull frog 
Gently, for a moment, hovers over the
Eggs and clouds the water nearly opaque.
Older than thought, black dots begin life.
Billions of years evolving, born in water,
Then extending their life breathing in air.

Returning from the center is a little less
Deliberate, common the sighted destination,
Familiar and ordinary. Coming home, as would
A family's trip, feel. The more familiar the 
Surroundings to mind and body comes ease.
Reflection rolls on and on tumbling in the mind.
We live within our mental state prodding memories,
Realizing facts, pulsating on our course of energy.

Ronald C. Downie

Friday, August 10, 2012

Up, Up, And Out

Up, Up, And Out

"Pardon The Interruptions"
Argues each day's sports affairs
Better then other sports show.

Fast, opinionated, rash
Fresh and forgettable.
All news is no news, they say.

They don't comment on Philly,
Philly's seem past any help.
Charlie, if he stays, should pray !

When will he assign openers,
A pitcher to throw two or
Three innings then starter's in,

Forty pitches, or until 
His turn to bat then pinch hit 
For him, turn the game around ?

Once starters, now middle men
Would pitch their seventy throws
Finishing the game, a win !

Clean house - dispel tradition.
Broker a new game, bend rules,
Build on strong old foundations.

We rebuild cities over
And over, out and up, new.
"Shining city on the hill".

City, a game, a nation,
All frail in the greatest scheme
Known to Man, change for change's sake.

"The only constant is change",
Has not invaded our sports.
We still wailer purity.

Dope, designated batter,
Instant replay come to mind. 
"The only constant is change".

Ronald C. Downie

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Women's Voices Needed

Women's Voices Needed

"She can't change water into wine; instead
She fashions sweet milk out of her own blood."
A.E. Stallings, "First Miracle"

In this the last couplet of her ten line poem, Ms. Stallings sings out words which vibrate in my mind as an anthem loud and clear that could be adopted by today's women's movement. Sweet milk out of blood is unique only to the female gender as is the birthing of both female and male offspring. Where and when did the idea of male supremacy creep into the story of humankind ? Was body mass trumping maternity ?

Passed down orally for untold millennia the Story Of Genesis was finally written down by scribes for future generations to read and further disseminate. From a female's perspective, through Eve, women got off to a bleak start. Conceived of one of Adam's
ribs, Eve consorted with the Devil, imaged as a serpent, to get Adam to eat of the fruit from the Tree Of Good And Evil. Purportedly God had mandated the eating of this fruit would result in a dire penalty, the banishment from this glorious Garden Of Eden. 

Poor Eve, as men conceived human history, was just a portion of a man, Adam's rib, and was from inception already flawed, she being easily influenced by God's nemesis, The Devil. Let history continue its detailing of the trials and tribulations which females have endured throughout the ages. Look at church doctrine that subjugated women into a minority roll even continuing on until today. Examine their roll in governing, their toil in daily securing such a thing so basic as water, think of all the women in this World who must cover up due to male made laws. Who labeled women as harlots, as witches, as chattel to be traded freely in a Man's World ?

I don't read many articles locally written about how a women's roll in today's society functions. Are local women satisfied with their pay scale, with the tone of political rhetoric, and with the story of female inferiority ? Do local women empathize with national unrest stirring under the surface of male/female relationships ? I don't know the answers because I don't read any writings on this subject.

A.E. Stallings begins her poem, First Miracle, with this couplet :
"Her body like a pomegranate torn
Wide open, somehow bears what must be born,"

Look the poem up, it's worth the trouble.

Ronald C. Downie

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Don't Let Up

Don't Let Up

Once a templet is set it needs further testing - By
the informative articles printed in The Mercury Pottstown's new Community Garden on Chestnut St. is a huge success in bringing people together for a common purpose. Planned and organized well, we can only hope the vegetable gardens will produce eatables throughout the summer and deep into fall.

Our family gardened when I was a youngster. Early on in the spring the project was Dad's  with my brother and I as his helpers. Of course Andy and I spaded the ground after spreading winter ashes and leaf mold from the woods over the whole plot. Dad did the fine raking of the loosened soil and laid out with string lines how the planting rows would look.

With the coming of summer came the multiple lives of the weeds. The garden became not Dad's now, but ours, with him picking any ripe vegetables while my brother and I did all the hoeing and hand weeding. By fall the garden became your's in Dad's mind, so it seemed. His interest waned over the summer, I believe, because a garden can become quit messy and needing a lot of work : weeding, hoeing, watering, straw mulching under the tomatoes, removing spent plants. The clean uniformity of fresh spring ground lost its appeal as summer advanced and the randomness of growing took over the project to Dad's displeasure, who was a draftsman by profession.  He needed sharp clean lines and a measured regularity of plant spacings.

I can only hope there aren't too many Dads like mine but rather a lot of worker bees to look after the new gardens. Further, I hope this project can be replicated at each Pottstown school site throughout the borough. School locations are spread out all over the town and certainly each has a relatively small area which could be dedicated to a Community Garden. All it takes is the asking without listening to "NO" as an answer from administrators. 

What about any of the churches which have open lawn space just being mowed now, wouldn't vegetables grow especially well at these sacred grounds ? Raised bed growing can occur on top of hard surfaces even parking lots since growing takes place in amended soils piled above the ground surface. Raised bed growing is more like growing in pots where the roots confine themselves within the soil median rather than growing in a plowed soil like a traditional farmer would prepare. For years we've heard of roof top growing which is essentially raised bed growing but up on the top of buildings.

A successful templet has been unfolded and, in my mind, should be replicated throughout the town as far as the energy and interest of interested citizens will take it. I compliment those who brought this project from a thought to fruition through dogged determination. Thank You !

Ronald C. Downie

Monday, August 6, 2012

Wedge Issues

Wedge Issues

Way back then, mid 1940's, post WW2, Ringing Hill.
Here from hills overlooking Harmonyville, Chester Co.
Moved into our new two story home on N. Keim St. Early spring before leaves unfolded summer's form.

A wooded lot demands certain tools for grooming :
An ax for sure, a grind stone to sharpen it, a saw, 
Not any old saw, a man's saw, well really, a two man
Saw to fell tall trees blocking out all the sun light.

Dad had a garden in mind and gardens need sunshine
And he'd have sun no matter what. "Timber" echoed 
That spring. Save the house, save the chicken pen 
Turned into our tool shed, don't drop it on the car.

Gathering more tools for the job, Dad read about 
Felling trees the proper way. Sight the desired drop
Line, notch the tree trunk with an axe two foot up 
From the ground anticipating the path tree is to fall.

A two man saw takes team work, once started each person manning opposed ends must only pull the saw 
To them and relax when your team mate pulls back.
Pushing back is a no-no and only causes buckling up.

It's called pinching when the weight of the tree 
Exerts down pressure on saw blade stopping sawing.
Then a wedge must be inserted in the cut to spread
The saw line gap so pinching stops, cutting continues.

Those wedge issues were simple compared to today's.
Politicians try to spread citizens apart over hotly 
Contested topics : abortion, contraceptives, taxes,
Gay rights, segregation, wealth disparity, and debt.

The wedge to the tree was for a corrective action ;
For politicians, wedge issues are designed cancerous,
They are to slowly fester while gathering up speed 
To do the most harm, monkey wrench of discontent.

When a tree falls its branches are removed first,
The trunk is cut up in lengths suitable for stacking,
Then stacked loosely so they dry out for more easy
Splitting into useable pieces, our case was bon fires.

Summer memories were of Jersey relatives arriving
For vacations with tents tied to their old car roofs.
A sight similar to a religious tent meeting popped up
In our wooded back yard, our vegetable garden used.

Rarely seen today would be a tent city sight, except
What we've all seen on television, viewing "Occupy" 
As well as me. Kindred spirited people are gathering
Not unlike relatives did in my youth. The web of life.

A hunk of pie shaped iron, four inch tapering down to
A quarter inch a foot long, sledge hammered smartly 
Into a cut or later used to split the logs fire ready,
Is the main reason to have a wedge when logging.

The wedge is a very valuable tool to fell trees or split pieces for burning. Wedge issues are opposite.
They are surfaced to fell cooperation while splitting
The masses into rigid positions free of compromise.

Ronald C. Downie

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Painted Brick - Blah Facades

Painted Brick - Blah Facades

When painted brick and blah facades
Of downtown building's past hurrahs
No longer Pottstown dressed in honor,
It's High Street's final fate we ponder.

Victorian lamps grace brick ribbon walks,
The promenade in shade of tall trees adorn.
A return of shoppers is merchant's talks,
Never to happen, unfulfilled, their forlorn.

Studies pile high our manager's desk
Editorials stuff overfull his journal.
Citizens resolve that the ultimate task
Is plant a seed and nurture that kernel.

Which sprouts the voices of discontent
That quickly grows in groups who question.
Where are those leaders we voters sent,
In chambered halls, closed, executive sessions ?

What ? Build a brand new Borough Hall
To fix the ills of lean, tough years ?
While town's shoppers sent all to the Mall
As high taxes drive the elderly to tears.

We're left with bills for little done
To stem the rising tide of disrepair.
Wake up-speak out- decay hasn't won !
Don't throw in the towel of utter despair.

Demand that your group voice is heard
By elected servants who loudly promised 
Your needs and that your town be served.
It's up to you to keep all of them honest.

   Ronald C. Downie

Written 22 years ago when a new borough hall was first seriously considered but misappropriation of borrowed funds stopped the effort dead in it's tracks.
We have a new Borough Hall now but the ultimate conflict between those in charge and those who pay taxes continues on. The problem remains : can the vocal activists keep up their energy so a change will happen in their engaged civic life time ?
Hope being eternal, the stars seem to be lining up in favor of real change finally happening. Activists and administrators are talking with each other rather than at each other. 
Each side seems to know that real problems exist and each is willing to forgo old differences that created former positions cut in stone. Let's pray !

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Particular To This Day

Particular To This Day

Particular to this day and time
Unable to squeeze out a rhyme
I look for some type of awakening, 
An epiphany, to stir up my thinking.

"No jobs"the mantra of our leaders.
Offshore, from those true job bleeders,
Those who ply the corporation's creed :
"First, maximize profits; Second, weed

Out workers; Third, give parachutes golden
To corporate executives who are beholden
To their own well being and a few friends.
To maximize wealth's their long loved trends.

When will the masses understand the purchasing 
Strength of the super wealthy whose underlying
Lust is power, unremitting power, that of life
And of death. Forget the masses and their strife

Since they have exercised little voice while being
Processed as would hulls from kernels, or gleaning 
Of an ear of corn from the fodder of a tall stalk
Or, as ten pins falling in spite of the b'ball's walk.

Where are we, those great in number, small in voice
Masses ? Are we hiding behind timidness by choice ?
When will we lift our heads from being bowed down
In some notion of servitude scared of a rich's frown?

Small is the initial gathering of disenchanted groups
Which grows in numbers as fears wane. The troupes
Gain strength from the number of kindred spirits
Gathered, but it is you, the one who it really merits.

Ronald C. Downie.

Thursday, August 2, 2012



Just as frost is a harbinger of winter, the collapse of India's main electric power grid this week could be the harbinger of electric power grids collapsing throughout the rest of the World, even our own here in the USA. 

Since my youth, some seventy seven years ago, reliable electric supply has been a given without any questions. As I understand it, our national power grid has been cobbled together over time by separate entities each interested in maximizing their own profits. It has worked fairly well up to now but brown outs are on the rise, though kept regional, they too may be a harbinger of things yet to come to our local. Having Limerick in our back yard has little to do with us getting uninterrupted electric power if demand somewhere exceeds generation and transmission capacity of the grid. Brown outs are a determination of the operators of the grid who pick and choose which region gets cut off from power and for how long so the system as a whole doesn't crash as it did in India.

If not in the near future, when ? When will we in the USA feel the crippling effects of extreme heat which causes the public to demand an ever increasing amount of air conditioning no matter if the federal government asks for public conservation ?

Our electric power grid is a huge, complex amalgamation of entities which, unlike banks, isn't too big to fail. It was not built as a one unified engineered system but was built incrementally over many years as our country expanded needing electric power to facilitate new growth.

A chill ran up my back when I saw the ongoing reports about India's grid problem knowing full well other national systems could face their own electric grid problems even ours. Most Americans now living have throughout their life taken electric for granted thinking it will react by just clicking a switch. The question for our leaders must be : Is uninterrupted electric service a right guaranteed by our federal government since the government is the ultimate regulator of power in the USA ? 

Ronald C. Downie

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

The Messenger Ancestor

The Messenger Ancestor

Dog-eared thoughts crease corners of my cerebral pages
Ancestrally bound by hardened covers of earlier ages.
Universal questions chapter this book that engages 
Me to write at this point in time. Please listen, my reply.

I have lived well beyond my half-life years.
Warm thoughts furrow happy acres, but, tears
Embedded deeply erode forgotten ancient fears
Wondering : "Why am I here?" and "Who am I ?"

Uranium encased rods are organized to squeeze heat
Into electric current, when spent, active life's complete.
But, until sealed to sleep decades of ten thousand years, feat
Required of our heirs, no stirring allowed nor restless cry.

Do atoms compressed into stiff rods differ that greatly
From DNA atoms strung like a pearl neckless neatly
To imprint fibers of the human body still physically
Evolving ? Atoms from the same early primal stew ply

Their way for eons until their present purpose found : one ,
Heat to electric; two, human imprint, a mental sun,
Brain waves at the center of a thought universe which run 
Not only backward but forward toward a cosmic try

To create a Supreme Being in our own image. Earth rendered
Subservient. Desired omnipotent, God was engendered 
Male by decree. With impunity, oppressors remembered
As cruel and debasing, unjust and inhumane, which flies

In the face of humanity. I'm here only by chance,
To do no harm so offspring of my DNA may dance
To the natural rhythms of Mother Earth. They will remember
Me, The Messenger Ancestor, not forced into sleep am I.

Ronald C. Downie