Sleep
How blessed is sleep
When it finally comes for
In the mist of timeless dreams
We are reborn.
COUNTRY
She mixes her palette
in the hills — as
the valley rolls away. A peregrine
circles and disappears in a gray
wash mist. Still life, pumpkins
and ears of corn in the 
market.
Multicolored canvas stretches.
Gold and copper brush strokes, deep green
early fall. Dabs of crimson
surprise,
The Day the Old Tree Died — An Elegy for a Tree
I began my new job in September, autumn in New England. The old Oak tree dominated the courtyard where it stood and towered over the buildings that surrounded it. It dwarfs the other trees by its presence. A massive trunk, at least a yard in circumference, dug its huge roots deeply into the soil. That tree, a silent sentinel, stood guard outside my window. It was just one of many, however for me it was a faithful old friend. We cannot be aloof about a life that has endured for almost a century. There are many good reasons to remove a tree, but nature’s most decorative creation deserves a eulogy like any old friend or family member. The day the old tree died will remain in my memory for many years.
This autumn, as many before, entered gloriously. The leaves of the giant Oak tree resembled red flames. Ivy grew up along the trunk and rose to the top of the tree, out to the tip of gnarled branches. Squirrels scampered around the base; burying acorns between the roots as they prepared for the long, cold winter that lay ahead. Blue jays scolded the squirrels from their perches high among the brightly colored leaves. The leaves fell from the branches, one-by-one at first, then faster, as the days grew shorter and colder. Fall changed to winter, and soon all the leaves were gone. The ivy had wilted and fallen away. The tree stood alone, naked against a winter sky. The squirrels went to sleep and the birds flew away. The absence of the soft leaves that covered them in autumn, revealed the hard wooden texture of bare branches.
Winter enhanced the strong beauty of a trunk sculptured by nature’s hand. One January morning, a blizzard covered the ground around the base with a downy comforter of snow. The snow created a lacy pattern in the branches. Eventually, the winter doldrums came. The snow ceased to appeal to our sense of aesthetics and the gray sky hung heavily over the Oak tree. The bare branches starkly emphasized the drabness of the waning winter. The experts came, studied the leafless tree, and declared it deceased, mislead by its lifeless, late winter appearance. However, spring was near and life would slowly return to the dormant tree, as the days grew warmer.
Spring arrived. Foliage came back to life. The birds and the squirrels returned to play in the Oak tree. Sparrows flitted in out of the ivy, and large black crows perched in the upper branches. The deep green leaves were lustrous and full, apparently still alive. The rumors of the impending demise of my aged friend were forgotten. People sat in the shade and dogs romped beneath the fluttering leaves as they had for many years. Summer passed quickly. Weather forecasters predicted an early hurricane, but Hurricane Charlie did not take the tree. It withstood the battering winds as it had many times before. Bare branches became exposed to the logic of expedience. A decision was made when the tree, dormant and lifeless looking, stood in the drab surroundings of winter’s end. The death sentence had been passed.
The executioners arrived, early one morning, almost a year after I first saw the Oak tree. It was done. Two men entered the quadrangle and studied the tree. One of them climbed to the top and began trimming the upper branches. This sight greeted me when I arrived at my office that morning. My heart fell into my shoes, but I was powerless to stop the carnage that would occur outside my window. At first, I clung to a faint hope that the tree was being pruned, but that was not the case. The towering tree was a threat to the buildings around it. What could be done to stop the destruction? I fantasized about chaining myself to the trunk, halting the slaughter, but I did not do it. A few other people in the office phoned the authorities, protesting the removal of our beautiful old friend. These efforts yielded no results. The decision had been made and could not be reversed.
Many people, who loved the old Oak as I did, passed the courtyard during the day. Some of them stopped. They shook their heads in disbelief. When queried, the groundskeepers replied, “The tree is dead.” He then pointed toward the thick ivy and lush foliage growing on its full branches.
All that day, the workers hacked at the tree. Chainsaws growled, angrily, filling the air with the horrible sound. I closed my window shades because I could not witness the murder of the Oak tree. The saws roared. The sound could not be silenced. I peeked through the blinds throughout the day, not wanting to watch, but unable to turn my back on the depressing scene. One at time, each branch fell to the ground in a pile of leaves and severed branches. Rope shackles hung around the trunk like huge pythons holding it in a death grip. All the branches were severed and cut into pieces. The chainsaws were temporarily silenced at lunchtime. The bare trunk stood with its amputated limbs around its base. The squirrels did not play there anymore and the birds perched elsewhere. The destruction continued after lunch as men and saws resumed their attack. The trunk was sliced into sections until it was reduced to a stack of wood and a stump in the center of the courtyard. The huge tree stump, a monument to the dead Oak tree, remained. Our friend, the old one, was gone. The new hedges and ground cover that was planted in its place could not fill the empty space where the old Oak tree had stood. The next day workers returned, piled the chords of wood into a truck and carried them away. Their end would come in someone’s stove or fireplace.
For several weeks after the tree had been destroyed, people walked past the courtyard and they stopped to look at the empty place where the ancient old Oak had stood for so long. It had dominated the quadrangle. It welcomed walkers and joggers. Many, who didn’t see it go, expressed surprise when they turned the corner of the building and saw the stump. They asked, “Why? Who could destroy such a wonderful creation?” The dogs and squirrels have returned. They play in the courtyard as they did before, the old tree forgotten with the passage of time. Life continues as if the tree had never existed, however, nature endured. A few months passed, and one morning I saw evidence of saplings pushing their leafy heads through the soil. The Oak tree left some offspring behind. The old tree lives on through her children. The courtyard appears empty now. Three months have passed since the old Oak stood in the quadrangle. Autumn has returned to New England, and the other trees are ablaze with brightly colored leaves. The days grow shorter. The season rests heavily on my brow and shoulders. I remember the tree when I watch the squirrels sit on the large stump. It took a century for the Oak tree to attain her beauty, but only one day for humans to destroy her. I look for my friend, but she is gone, the Old One.
CHARLES
MIT, granite facade Cambridge-Boston meet;
reflection shadows. Daylight, sails dance
on a ribbon of glass and a thousand windows — blink.
Serenading, old-new romance, Bach and Mozart meet
Boston-Cambridge at Longfellow’s Bridge.
A parade. cyclists, runners, rowers and lovers
pass the Shell serenade.
Our reflection shadows meet, Cambridge — Boston.
We let them fade.
DRAGON-STORM
The shadow grows large, rumbles. A monster crosses the field.
Heavy footsteps grow loud and he approaches from over
the mountain. Stale breath seers the blackness and moves across
the sky, a flash of white heat. Dampness, a lead curtain, hangs
on the air. A summer night-heat breathes down. The leafy tree limb
groans, creaks and grumbles. Awakened from fretful sleep,
it passes overhead — through clouds
weighed down by ancient fears, shadow-damp.
The aura descends with a cold mist heat.
SARPI, SALON & DAY SPA—NEWBURY STREET QUALITY AND STYLE — WITHOUT THE BOSTON TRAFFIC
Sarpi Salon & Day Spa has returned to its roots at the original location at Suntaug Office Park. After a nomadic existence, Shirley Sarpi brings with her the knowledge and expertise of a seasoned professional. Along with her expertise, she remains up-to-date with her fresh approach to modern hair styling and color.
Approximately, half way between Newbury Street and Newburyport, far from the snarl of the city, but not off the well-beaten path of the old Newburyport Turnpike, an oasis exists. Sarpi Salon & Day Spa is not an oasis in the conventional sense, in the desert with palm trees, but a full service salon where you will be waited upon from head to toe.
When you think of the fashion centers of the world, Route One in Saugus does not instantly leap to mind. Boston-area high fashion, professional hair styling and beauty services are not limited to the rarified air of Newbury Street and the blue bloods of Beacon Hill. At Sarpi Salon & Day Spa, hair styling is only one of many ways that service on the Newburyport Turnpike parallels that of Newbury Street.
You are treated like royalty by a licensed staff of well-trained professionals from the moment you enter Sarpi Salon & Day Spa. Your special day could begin with a luxurious facial performed by Ivanna Stassin. Next, soothe your feet and hands in frothy suds with a pedicure and manicure where your nails are buffed and polished until they sparkle like jewelry on the tips of your toes and fingers.
The latest in hair styling and color techniques are at the core of a day of beauty at Sarpi Salon & Day Spa. Shirley Sarpi, a former, member of the Clairol Color Council, remains the driving force of a salon that has been meeting fashion needs for the North Shore community for a long time. Along with her “Design Team”, Shirley Sarpi has performed at area styling and fashion shows with the Boston salon community in full attendance, in the audience.
Do you think that local high fashion and beauty only exist in Boston, on Newbury Street? Sarpi awaits your pleasure on the Newburyport Turnpike. Beginning in September 2009, think Sarpi Salon & Day Spa, on the “Newburyport Turnpike” Route One, South, Saugus.
Winter’s End, A Haiku — sort of..
Winter is leaving
at last. Spring is nearing fast.
We stood together against
the roar of the lion as
in the seasons past.
Sirens in the Night
Many times, I have heard sirens in the night with no thought about where they were going, or why. Those sirens did not touch my life until recently, when I awoke to find my mother unconscious on the floor of her bedroom in our apartment and phoned 911, accessing the local emergency response system in my town. Two weeks later, mother had a hemorrhaging incident and another opportunity to test the local 911 system. These two unrelated emergencies put us in the position of requiring emergency medical assistance twice within the space of two-weeks.
I often thought that the only purpose of sirens used by ambulances, fire engines, and other official vehicles was to warn other vehicles aside so that EMTs and firefighters could maneuver through traffic congestion without interference. However, as I found out, that is only part of the story. The sirens also serve as a cavalry charge, approaching from the darkness — signaling that help is on the way. Perhaps, I would never have realized this if I had experienced it only once — but the second emergency heightened my perception. When I heard the distant sound of the sirens in the night, I felt an incredible sense of relief.
Our rescuers arrived before I had time to wonder where they were. Men and women, exuding self-confidence, had come out of the darkness and into our home. The firefighters, police, and EMTs of the town’s emergency response team appeared and made a frightening experience somehow less frightening, creating calm in the midst of chaos.
“We are lucky that there are young people who want to do this for a living,” said Mom, after the emergency had passed.
If this seems melodramatic to you, it is intentional. When Mom and I needed them, these fine young people were there. We thank them for sounding their sirens for us and hope our community appreciates the service they provide.