for the last two days . . .

I am reading - I am in the midst of - a really fine book of poetry written by an old amigo. An army buddy, Berkeley host, comrade and accidental rival, Seattle roomie (twice in vastly different circumstances), fellow-traveler (carried no cards), and yes, teacher. When Peter was up to his ass and beyond with the 12-string, I used to beg him to play Tom Rush's version of Big Fat Woman - and he did listen and share some licks, but I think that he thought that it wasn't worth the sound of the 12-string guitar. Never mind that, we didn't (probably don't) agree on everything. When we roomed in Seattle, we wrote poetry and shared works in progress - we were serious, little brother.

Look, this is not intended as a commercial, but if you are interested in some good, salt of the earth, poetry, check out my post on poetry patter (I would post his poem and information about his book here, but I only requested permission to post a poem for the poetry blog). The posted poem is not from Peter's book, but I gloamed onto it the moment I read it (sorry, gloamed is one of my words some may not know - it means (to me) something like "grabbed hold of in the twilight").

If flowers are prayers, and they are, then friends are answers to prayers. If that's sounds corny, then later, I'll share something about another old army buddy and friend in Iowa.