Highway 29: Sunken Treasure

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Sunken Treasure

This summer the boys have joined a swimming program at UND. This program is amazing. Every year UND wins the National Championship in swimming and you can tell. All of the athletes work with the kids and they are really good. Here are the boys in the water.

This is Ned with his cute goggles.

This is Ned jumping off the partition! He is famous for his "Kamakazi Jumps".

Wesley just coming out of the water after a "bob."

4 comments:

Unknown said...: I thought it was all about the hockey out there!; July 2, 2009 at 4:44 PM
Chris Johnson said...: Yeah, it is. But surprisingly enough they manage to break the top layer of ice and get some swimming done during the summer. It is kind of funny. Yesterday we were biking and we saw a sign that said "No Snowmobiles" by the golf course.; July 3, 2009 at 10:14 AM
Chris Johnson said...: This comment has been removed by the author.; July 3, 2009 at 10:15 AM
Elle said...: i love the video of the boys!! i've never seen a spaghetti noodle tied around them as floaties! and kudos on the whole bike riding thing... that's impressive; July 6, 2009 at 5:59 PM

This is a good poem.

Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of "Old Battersea Bridge."
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"
somewhere else I am saying
"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

Bob Hicok, Plus Shipping,
Boa Editions, Rochester, NY (1988), pp. 98-99

Highway 29

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Sunken Treasure

4 comments:

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This is a good poem.

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