From Home to The World
Due to some events on the home front (not me personally), I am starting to wonder about my future as I hit the 65-year old mark. I have always taken great pride in my work, but watching others around me, I now wonder if it is time for me to explore the world once more, as I did in my Navy days.Four weeks from now I will be in Madrid, waiting for the train to Puebla de Sanabria. And when I get there, I'll find an albergue and rest for the coming days of mountains and valleys, sun and clouds and grey and rain, and I will be deliriously lost in Galicia, alone on the path with only my own thoughts to keep me company and my inner voice to listen to.
Notable memories
My son, d-in-law and grandkids here in Rochester with me, allowing me to be a close-by g'pa.
Living in parts of Asia (Japan and Korea) and Europe (Spain) (away from family).
Being a top-rated Russian linguist in the USN.
Leading popular hikes in Rochester for GVHC.
A Poem About The Pueblo of Tabara ( Camino Sanabres )
Uses the enjambed style which means that the line breaks and the end of clauses/sentences do not match. It is more free-flowing than rhyming poetry and simultaneously, encourages the reader to parse closely, looking for the 'breaks' in thought.
The Way
Larry OHeron
For more than a thousand years,
people of many faiths, backgrounds, generations
have made the pilgrimage,
walking the path to Santiago de Compostela
walking the Way of St James.
The sunflower stems
taller than me
browning
in the Castillian sun.
Late afternoon
cloudless sky
temperatures climbing
summer sun
only now starting its descent.
High rock covered banks climbed
cool blue waters of the Río Esla
flowing under my feet
miles ago.
Zamorans gladly accept
90 degree temperatures
not me
wet pack on my wet back from the sweat
lips salty from the drops on my face.
water too low
skin too brown
too many days here.
Where are the little yellow arrows
pointing the way to Tábara --
markers for the pilgrims
pointers that point the way.
Turn around?
Press on?
Go forward,
Go back.
Was that bleach white town Tábara?
Do I get to rest,
take the pack off my aching shoulders
pause and ponder, rest and reflect.
Not enough arrows to know this is the right track;
insufficient enough arrows cause doubt this is the right track;
sufficient enough to almost convince you, this is the wrong track.
How can I know
I made a mistake
long before I admit
I made a mistake.
Am I on the path? Off the path?
I’m not lost.
I know where I’m going,
I just don’t know where I am.
I should be in Tábara.
I should be on the right path.
But I’m not and I’m probably not.
Is that bleach white town Tábara?
