Winter of our discontent

Where the capillaries rise

up into the skies

to scrape at the low grazing clouds.

In ordinary times, the moisture would draw

through the capillaries and veins down below.

But in a time of drought

rules of weather and life are broken.

The bare oaks and maples and sycamores, too,

will take a drink where they can get it.

It’s a gray on gray day,

a wintery day, but dry,

only if one flake would start,

perhaps others would join in.

But in between heaven and earth

the gulls beat their wings

in a stream of feathers

to bed in the diminishing lake.

The drifting of leaves is all over,

although blankets tucked into winter whitened hosta remain.

We could happily live with some white on white

and then let blue skies break through again.

Dense fog would be tempting,

frost would wet our whistle,

but a blizzard is what we’re all needing.

The gray branches are speaking,

their desperate scratching pleading,

hoping against hope for water.

But though they’ve been here before

and some have made it through -

some have not.

Will this finally become the true winter of our discontent?

So far the drought remains unbroken.

Passing through South Park at Sundown

The bare black branches do not keep pace as I walk along the street. The closer to me, the faster.  The nearer the horizon, they appear about to turn and watch what I am seeing. Through this irregular moving fireplace screen, a spherical fire, hardly moving to my naked eye, reflects on the undersides of dull gray clouds, glowing as sweet as fresh squeezed orange juice. But I cannot pause, I have carrots and potatoes to cut for a stew, and this man cannot live by astonishment alone.

The bare black branches

do not keep pace

as I walk along the street.

The closer to me,

the faster. 

The nearer the horizon,

they slow and appear about to turn

and watch what I am seeing.

Through this irregular moving fireplace screen,

a spherical fire, hardly moving to my naked eye,

reflects on the undersides of dull gray clouds,

glowing as sweet as fresh squeezed orange juice.

But I cannot pause, I have carrots and potatoes to cut for a stew,

and this man cannot live by astonishment alone.

The bare black branches do not keep pace as I walk ...

Sitting on a bench

It's a matter of complete simplicity...

 

It a matter of complete simplicity.

You walk.

You sit.

People walk by.

Sometimes you merely look

with your eyes open.

You see,

or you don’t see.

And yet,

you sit there.

The earth spins.

Other lives walk through their paces.

It’s a matter of complete simplicity

or not.

Click on any photo

for a full - sized  slideshow.

Inside Bowersock North

The Bowersock north unit, on an idle Saturday morning, January 26, 2013.

The Kaw has been flowing recently at a rate of about 700 cubic feet per second. Average flow is about ten times that, although much higher rates and lower rates are normal. Normals are changing, but check back in fifty years for specific information. For power generation at Bowersock, 5,400 cfs would be ideal.

Because the river belongs to everyone, Bowersock can only take water as the Kaw gives it. That is, it operates some combination of the seven turbine/generators at the South unit, and the four much larger turbine/generators at the new North unit so that the flow of water downstream is not diminished. Lawrence drinks from this river. So do people downstream. It will likely be some time before the North unit sees river levels that will allow it to generate the power it was designed to produce.

The power plant is also designed to let high water pass through and around the plant so as not to exacerbate flooding. Where people are walking on the open level below the generator floor, will likely be underwater one day, and then, too, the plant would be idle.

Click on photos to see them full-sized 

Bowersock welcomes visitors. For more information: http://www.bowersockpower.com/
For US Geological River Data: USGS Kaw River at Lawrence
Blogpost on Construction of Bowersock North: Photos on Walk to the River


We are not a people only taking a bison at a time from the prairie for our needs. The Kaw is not the river it once was.

Wild is not an option, although you don't have to look far beneath the surface of the area I walk around on to see wildness - and the evidences of deep power and mysteries beyond our relatively simple ability to harness falling water and to wire a magneto. We have achieved mastery over some things, but not everything. The Bowersock dam and power plants represent a cleaner, more responsible way of doing things. Certainly, in the long run, it is a better way than the coal-burning plant upstream.

But we still must learn to generate more respect for ourselves and our planet. We still can't fool Mother Nature.

As I walk, I am trying to find my rightful place - looking for the places where I belong. I think that Bowersock is a pretty good fit, for now, and likely, long after I am gone.

Kansas Day

This photo represents the architecture of energy and industry in Kansas.

It is the picture of our pride and our shame braided together like the river the Kaw once was.

We gashed the prairie to raise wheat.

We fed ourselves and others from the land.

Now we harvest the runoff farmland to produce electricity by the clean force of gravity as the Kaw carries the snow and the rain to the sea.

There's river sand in the concrete;
the steel came by rails that are present but unseen in this picture.

We did all of it.

Now we must do things better with less harm.

The sun is on our side.

Kansas - admitted to the Union as a free state with blood on our hands January 29, 1861
Ad astra per aspera

Duchess Pears

Some pears are nice to look at.

Some pears are nice to eat.

And sometimes, I’m here to tell you,

the first bite is so very sweet.

But I would not objectify pears.

I love them in my heart

and I savor them on my tongue.

And I’m here to tell you,

they satisfy me in my belly.

But I have been known

to do two things at once;

to believe one thing

which contradicts the other.

Their skin,

yellow and freckled,

their flesh,

not white like snow,

nor brown like the earth.

But I am here to tell you,

their juice is like and not like yours.

If I have misled you,

it is because you followed.

My words are only some small thing

yet nothing - compared with a real pear.

I’m here to tell you

there are several still

in a ceramic bowl

on the sill.

I was not I

who named these sweet pears: Duchess.

And not any pear,

but the one I hold in my hand,

the one about to become one with me;

and in between,

so fair, so fine, so real,

and in my mouth,

so pear,

and, yes, I’m here to tell you,

perhaps with a blemish or two.

Young woman walking

As I looked long down the empty gray sidewalk,

my aging eyes could see her gray knit shirt

hugging the sands of her youth

down to her narrowed waist.

Long lines extended down, a mirror of each other,

around her hips and down the outer edges of her jeans.

With grace she walked ahead,

her time not yet fully shaped by the years that will follow

nor wasted away.

Year after year I have passed this place

and she, or a younger sister,

has always strolled along,

youth never fading,

only flesh and blood –

and mine.

The young never look back

and never should they,

for they are our visions,

out there ahead, the sidewalk

not so empty and gray

as their elders say.