Without a ringmaster to control the timing of the act eerie things occurred.

A group of men walked out into the middle of the circus ring, careful not to fall over a stupefied sheep.

Amazingly, these men all looked alike; nose for nose, height for height, hair color for hair color. All appeared to be from the same family or inbred by some fault of nature. All had blue suits, white shirts, ties and wing tip shoes. They moved with precision. All to the left. Then all to the right. Their arms were precise also. First up, then down, then in a motion that stated “NO!” They danced and danced until sweat ran from their collective brows.

And the sweat ran until the grease paint on their faces started to run. It was only then that the circus audience could see the true features of the dancers. They were all donkeys! Some old. Some young. Some of the older ones appeared to lead the macabre dance which continued on and on. It was a monotonous dance without any creativity. Just back and forth and up and down. Every once in a while a small bray would escape the lungs of a younger donkey. This would break up the monotony of their actions but would change nothing.

The trained dogs and the clown-owls and the donkeys continued with their separate acts. The sheep just lay in the sawdust that covered the circus ring floor and trembled. A man in a leather apron appeared dejected and sat on the edge of the ring as his small motorcycle laid on its side sputtering and smoking; wheels still spinning in the air.





Vot hast das Carroll macht?

Image result for lewis carroll

Papa, Oh Papa, repeat the story true,

Of machines that rotate, spin and hew,

Steel and oil that are smoking too,

With flying hot chips that turn the air blue.

My little ones inquisitive and naïve,

Imagine machines that rip and cleave,

All day, all night, till All Hollows Eve,

These automatons died, but do not bereave.

Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so bright,

Of electron tubes and adders with might,

That calculate hexadecimally, byte-by-byte,

With every answer accurate and right.

The priests of programming donned their blue robes,

Then waved rubber chickens, lizards and toads,

To magically devise queer algorithms and modes,

For predicting profits, elections, and various codes.

Papa, Oh Papa, tell us the story so sad,

Of the executive who was very very bad,

Was his ineptness almost the sign of a cad,

Did he not accept blame, not even a tad?

Prima, you know the story so well,

Secunda, you blow the story up swell,

Tertia, if only you could just tell,

The tale to yourselves, while I rest in the dell.

The Seven Somnambulists

Verily, I say unto you, tho I walk through the valley of time I fear no Priest of Personnel.

Fred walked through the vale of time clocks. Each one’s face looking at him, sneering at him, hands reaching out to grab his words and twist them into puzzles for the mind’s of lesser. The once hallow, but now hollow hall, deplete of human bodies, spirits or souls waited for morn to fill its bowels, once again, with beings.

Fred asked the cloistered Priest of Personnel “Do you know what man does here? Do you care what man does here? Do you wish that I waste my spirit here? Do you wish that my soul burns in effigy here? What do you wish of me? Do you truly believe that my future lies in this hollow hall? Can you not see that God has better for me? He would not allow me these thoughts if he wished my soul to be damned to the Darkest of Places. Is it Good or Evil that I would encounter here?”

And the cloistered one, not yet aware of his own future, of the impending doom, of the coming misery, the loathing of the mind against the body, the seducer of the labor of beings, not yet aware that the all powerful Office of Human Resources was yet to be created, simply replied; “I do not know.”

“Where doest the labor of my body lay? Does it lay in dungeons of smoke? Do I labor for thee in the sweat and oil of my own body? Or do I toil unto thee in the oils of the mechanizations of the creative man? Or doest my spirit die in the simplexes of the everyman’s repeated spasms of labor?”

And the timid representative of the Brothers of Personnel, not truly cognizant of the heavens surrounding him, not knowing that the temples he walked in, was unaware that the meeting places of the lesser Pharisees would be given to that awful creature, the state, simply shrugged. Nor did he know that the Psalm of “Ever Onward” would be hushed, much like the voices of the children that would be thrown into the sacrificial pit. The Priest of Personnel was yet another true believer. One, who like many, could not face the seven somnambulists.

Fred speaketh to you Brothers and Sisters, forget not the seven somnambular plagues of Industry.

And thus Fred then spoke to the seven who walked in their sleep:

“You, lead strides-man, thou be ‘Arrogance.’ From thine throat comes the roar of the lion. Yet yee knowest not the humility of time, patience and wisdom. In time, your roar finds itself covered, as the moon at times covers the sun in full daylight. The corona of your roar is at once muted and beautiful. Therefore it will be remembered and practiced by the least amongst you; the under man.”

“And you, second strident among the worst of plagues, you are ‘Secret Society.’ You walk behind hidden meanings, pressing of the hand, and once removed encounters in the dark of night. Darest thou not earn your keep on your own? Have yee not the courage to meet eye to eye with potential disaster and face its loneliness? Are thee afraid to win? Thou bind thine self to other’s leather apron strings. Thou art neither bad nor evil, but rather a simple follower; an under man going under.”

“Third amongst you is the most despised. Yet thou are never spoken of betwixt your six brethren nappers. They knowest the poison of thine presence. That is you, pallid ghost called ‘Nepotism.’ Thou steal honor and spirit from others. Thou bow to that which is not earned. Thine alter is built on the bones of your ancestors. But this alter is not built of pride. It’s foundation is the stiff necked haughtiness of rotting flesh. Inherited laurels bespeak of the smell of decaying ineptitude.”

“And you, fourth one with arms stiffly outstretched; oh living zombie. Thou shalt not hide behind the others. Thy name is ‘Education’ and it shall forever be suspect. Do not saunter with the other seven diseases. March away with the speed and honor of the following beings. They fight in the army of the over man. These soldiers shall be called ‘Labor’, ‘Perseverance’, ‘Self Respect’, ‘Originality’, ‘Pride‘, ‘Passion’, and ‘Triumph.’ March with these and emblazon thy true name “Wisdom” on the reins of your beast. The other seven that you saunter amongst will lead thee to the obscurity of mental collapse; and then .. …. eventually….. to nothingness.“

“The fifth among you shall be named ‘Capitulation.’ Thine cloak takes on a multitude of colors and shadows. Amongst these are the hues of passiveness and friendliness. Thy forms are the flock and the multitudes. Thine shape is that of the serpent, or at best the chameleon. Doest the oily slime of a dead oasis make you jealous? Doest it nurture more spine than thou? Then shed your cloak of capriciousness. Or is it vacillation? Doest thou vacillate to save your hide or your mind? Doest thou croak like a mud frog when he vacillates his bloated chin? Or is it fickleness? Art thou fickle like a young girl with choices? Doest thou give away your most prized possession with every choice? Or is it equivocation? Doest thou weigh each and every fact like the money changer in the temple? Doest thou spill gold while trying to count brass? Or is it ambivalence? Doest thou really not care? Doest thou have the weak mind of the mollusk?”

“Next to last is you, sixth sleepwalker called ‘Victim.’ Art thou only a victim of your self? Doest not thou maketh thine own bed? You bed with short term concern for self. He who deservith shall recieveth his true deserts. Thou are the under man who has gone under with each rising of the moon. A victim of short vision and short days. Thine melencholyness has been won by thine own hand. Doest thou wish to leap from the palisade? Doest thou wish to leap from the boat? Thou hast not the courage to use thine own hand for the task. You dream that others should attempt your wishes. But when they fail, thoust can lay blame on them also. Trust not your fate to me!”

“And you, ’Failure’, why do you skulk last? Is it so that no beast or being should see thou in the throes of agony? Love thy self. You are noble. For you are like a father showing right from wrong. Do not take man under, but rather over. You, Failure, are a ghost, a spirit, an ether of falseness. You cloud man’s mind with fear and paralysis. You, Failure, should be a tool, not a barrier. Walking with the others makes you into a false god. Stride alone and you will become a king.”

And thus spoke Fred.

Posting this on a Sunday may not be my best idea.

The sun is shining so I don’t think I have to worry about lighting striking me.

And I have not burst into flames (aka spontaneous human combustion)

So here goes nothing – – – –

Another assuming, brazen, quite forward, presuming, smart-alecky, audacious, blatant, bold, brash, cheeky, insolent, malapert, nervy, obvious, overconfident, presumptuous, pushy, rude, sassy, saucy and very shameless self-promotion.

The following link is the entryway to see the first few pages of my latest trek into the world of writing. It is a rather touchy subject so please don’t venture into it unless you are ready for a bit of past, present and future.

The subject matter is rather indelicate but there are no four letter words.

This is a free preview (SEE? It even says so right there below the book cover.

But don’t hit “Buy on Amazon” (Kindle) unless you are really, really, really sure you want to read the entire thing [may God have mercy on your soul].

Thanks for taking the time to peruse this missive.

She Is In A Rush

Sometimes she is in a rush. At other times she is calm, cool and collected.

I love it when she wears her green outfit, a flower here or there.

Chateaugay River at Brayton Hollow Bridge July 1st 2017

She can be as warm as summer. At other times as cool as spring. I have never been with her when she is as cold as ice.

Thanks be to God.

Chateaugay in Ice

At times she shares her bounty. At other times she appears to have no assets.

However she always has a calming effect.

I am wont to count the times that a busy life has rendered me as wasted.

And I look forward to leaving my present life behind and meeting her somewhere in the forest.

She never disappoints me. I am beginning to think that she wants to see me as much as I want to see her.

Goldsmith 2

And so we form a tryst. A dark forest, a calm day, a secret place.

And to my surprise, she is calm and inviting. And I succumb to her wiles.

Tahawas and Tomosky c

GHOST TOWNS {revisited}; for your Halloween pleasure


However scarey this may or may not be, I am sure there will be ghost towns in the future; just like there have been in the past.

– – – –  like the following two.

But  PLEEEAASE!   Start the music up first.

NOW- – –  the last one – – – TAHAWUS! – – – –OOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo



View original post

The Chasm


She has a beginning and an end yet is ever changing. She is enclosed on all sides, yet has no borders. She is normally placid, and yet, at other times thunderous and precarious.

Only a few can allude to her entirety even though it is easy to define her limits; a vertical two-hundred-forty-foot drop within half a mile. I have been lucky enough to experience her beginning and end, her nebulous sides, her beauty and her danger; however, I remain ignorant of her totality.

I first discovered her in the late seventies. I say discovered her, even though others had discovered her long before me, because when you see something as beautiful as her it is a personal discovery. Back then she looked like this.

She was populated – – here and there – – with boulders, rocks, megalithic wonders and a few tree trunks. There were small pockets of water and large pools; both populated with trout of various types. At other times there were no pockets or pools after four days of rain. That was when she could become angry.

I made excuses to see her every year, mostly in early June after the snow melt had cleared winter’s debris. At that time she had been entertaining the trout in her eddies and pools. She had that untouched look about her.

My sons and I visited her almost every year. We found a cliff that was – – immediately after the glaciers had given her birth – – one of her sides. The cliff was within a stones throw from were she now works her magic. My sons and I ate our beans, sardines and rye bread after a hard day of fishing in her pools. From this vantage we could enjoy seeing most of her. The location was a bluff between the cliff and a few hemlocks. This was a visual treat – – for we could only see a bit upstream and downstream when fishing.

My last time visiting her she was out of sorts. More than angry; she appeared almost vicious.

However, I knew she would calm down if we left her to herself for a year or so.

She has a little sister who is angry most of the time.

And  yet I know we will hope to meet up with both of them next spring.

Water and Music



It is five in the morning. I stand on a beach and gather light in my yes and my mind. It is not a normal beach but rather one with a bed of small round stones. They have no color yet, but promise to gather some as the sun rises.

There is a hint of pink on the horizon but no real light. The stars remain visible above the sea. Among them is the phenomenon of the Milky Way. It rises from the sea; upward and to the right, continuing towards the heavens until it disappears. There is not a clear demarcation of its trajectory. The lower parts of the Milky Way appear as stars – – although a bit muted. As my eyes follow its path the stars join together and lose their granularity; they become a giant cloud. This cloud has upper and lower limits which define it

There is a cliff to my left. It also, like the beach stones, has little color. A minute passes and some light tends to make the cliff a brownish hue. Yes, I can now clearly see its outline. It is not a normal flat cliff but rather one whose geological lineage have given it character. There are fault lines rising from left to right; almost following the path of the Milky Way. The fault lines are irregular, no two separated by the same distance although following the same path. There are a few outcroppings that cantilever out into the night sky.

Out, sitting in the ocean, with its toes on the beach and its heals buried in the water, is a tall rock island. Its birth mother appears to be the cliff. They have the same fault lines and color. Mother and child are separated by eroded rocks that appear to remain behind as the result of the natal event.

There are beach stones that lay beneath my feet, and extend to the area between the cliff and the island. These stones seem to also have been left behind as a result of the birth of the island. However, these have been smoothed by Father Ocean who has given them a personality due to a continuum of waves of advice.

In the distance and to my right a small island appears in the muted sun. The pink on the horizon has turned to white and a thin layer of blue exists between this and the dark sky. The stars within this blue band have disappeared; yet my heart can still feel the Milky Way and my mind contemplates it.

The sea becomes silver as the sun rises farther. The islands and cliff in front of me remain dark and foreboding. I wait for the remainder of the musical and am not disappointed. The small rounded stones appear to gain in color and harmony. I wonder and this wonderment leads me to the memory of a visit I once paid to a mountain stream.

I had a lot of leisure time then. My weekly income from industry gave me time to do the things I always wanted to. One of my desires was to own my own automobile so that I could visit the countryside.

And I did.

I drove for miles and enjoyed every month of it. Some of the roads were unique. One was along an old canal bed. Another went up and down like a roller-coaster (but, of course, not as steep). My favorite mountain road was helical shaped that went around and around as well as up. I enjoyed the feeling of “Déjà Vu” each time I made a left hand turn (which was continuously).

But none of my trips would be as memorable as the one I was on at that moment. It was a two lane macadam road that followed a beautiful mountain stream. I saw an interesting dirt road to my right. A rickety bridge allowed me to cross the stream. The steep mountains closed in on each side as I followed my hood ornament.

Suddenly the mountains parted and I found myself at the edge of a large flat area. It must have been five hundred acres in size and as flat as a postage stamp. The whole plain was covered in grass. It was not normal grass; it was blue. Not the blue of oceans, nor turquoise blue, or the blue color of melancholy. It was not the blue of azure, nor sapphire, nor peacock blue nor the blue of despair. It was the blue of amethyst.

It had the same quality of an amethyst gem; translucent. I departed my car and studied the grass. When I stood up it looked like a dark hue of blue. When I lay down and looked across the top of the grass it looked like the amethyst of an apothecary jar. In either case it was a mesmerizing experience.

I removed my shoes and socks to enjoy the softness of this blue grass. I walked around the amethyst plain for quite some time before I noticed a stream along one side. I ventured down the bank and into the water. The stones on the bottom were all the same size; about the size of an egg. Yet they were rather flat and pleasant to walk on. The stones appeared to have spent quite a bit of time in a giant lapidary tumbler; they were polished.

I reached down and picked one up. It was onyx black with ivory colored large spots here and there. The spots were not clearly demarcated as on a polka-dot dress. They were more like the penumbraic spots on a brook trout.

“PUT ME DOWN” cried a voice from seemingly nowhere.
I looked around but there was no one there.
“Put me down before I die” cried out the voice again.
I scanned the blue grass but saw no one.
“Please, I beg you, put me back in the water or I will expire” came the voice for the third time.

I perceived that the voice might be coming from the stone. I carefully lowered my hand until the stone was under water. Nothing happened. No voice, no movement, no sign of life. After a minute or so I decided that I must have had a day dream in this strange place of amethyst grass and shiny stones with soft ivory spots. I lifted my hand out of the water so that I could once more inspect this strange stone.

“Thanks for putting me back under water” said the stone.
Without thinking I responded “Why sure! Sorry about not listening the first time.”
“Put me back in so I can take a breath” pleaded the stone.
I did as I was asked and then lifted the stone up again. “Are you a real stone or a turtle or a fish?” I asked.
“A stone” said the stone. “Now put me back.”

And so it went for the remainder of the next hour. I dipped the stone in and out of the water while trying to complete a conversation with it.

Finally the stone told me “Walk downstream and you will find a waterfall.”
I followed the stone’s instructions while holding him under water. When I reached the waterfall I lifted the stone up again to ask for farther instructions. The stone said “Hold me under the waterfall. That way I can get enough water to breath and enough air to talk.”
I followed instructions and soon realized why I had heard gurgling sounds at all the waterfalls I had ever visited. It was the sound of stones talking to each other. I wished that I had paid more attention to stones long before this.

“I can now complete what I wished I could have told someone years ago” said the stone. “It is a long story so feel free to ask questions; if you must.
The stone continued “This is the story of a blue grass festival and us who were once called caterwaulers.

“Eons ago in this flat amethyst plain,
Music existed whether in sun or rain,
It echoed on the mountains ag’ane and ag’ane,
While the red summer hawk was carnivorously preyin’.

People came from a’near and afar,
Some by bus, but mostly by car,
Two people brought elixir in a stone jar,
A wanna-be king and a Tennesee tzar.

So the blue-grass music played day and night,
While the clouds rolled by, dark or bright,
Eventually the moon played fiddle (out of sight),
And the night owl prowled in quiet stealthy flight.

The stream rolled by, oblivious of the noise,
Created by those grown-up country girls and boys,
With their banjos, harmonicas, and musical toys,
The audience had elixir and hookahs (their make believe joys).

Summer hawk and night owl with eyes e’spyin’,
Swooping talons exposed, in unison flyin’,
Picked up the singers and musicians (all cryin’),
Each and every one thought they were dyin’,

The winged ones deposited them in mountain stream,
And the caterwauling ebbed to a gurgling scream,
I was involved in that nightmarish dream,
For I was a caterwauler, or so it would seem.

Over the eons minerals invaded our bones,
And turned us into penumbrious stones,
Our caterwaulings are now gurgling moans,
The screeching songs melted into melodious tones.”

The stone then became quiet except for intermittent sobbing. Although I had previously intended to ask questions I avoided hearing any more of the sad story. I carefully placed the stone on the bottom of the stream and fled.

I never heard the voice of the caterwauler again.

©  2017        Copyright Waldo J. Tomosky


(Apologies to Buffalo and Sills)

There’s nothing happening here
What it isn’t; ain’t exactly clear
A man with a CNN mic over there
Telling me I got to beware.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

There’s battle lines being drawn
Nobody’s right when everybody’s wrong
Idealistic panel speaking its mind
Getting so much support from behind

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

What a bad day for the weak-minded,
Millions of people, social media blinded,
Chanting slogans and carrying placards
Some paid, others subsidized lagards.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

Hysteria strikes deep inside them,
Whatever they hear abides them,
It starts when they’re always afraid
Step out of line, they don’t get paid.

I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Re-incarnation of old Dan Rather,
I think it’s time they stop all that blather,
Think for myself, I’d much like rather.

Talking Head with Memes