from 2006 and 2008




water sparkles ocean harbor
green under blinding sun

smell of brine rises
off dying creek

two egrets, then three, stab
at their shallow shore

white feathers tremble
from this breeze





dirt, mud, creek



6 Jan 12


I did love the creek

polluted though it was


I loved its wet crack


I would dig into the dirt

and mud and sand and peat


build damns and canals and

lake lagoon cities


linked by waterside roads


where the Aztecs rang their

coffee can drum


when the Spaniards




Grandmother was crying in the bedroom. No old man for her to take care of, no, not any more. What did she used to call him? The old fart. Yes, that was it. The old fart.

Just thinking of that makes her smile, briefly, into her tears. All those years together, and now… nothing. What would she give, just to have him one more time, grumping and groaning around the house, or calling for her to come out and help him with something, in the yard. Yes.

Well. No more. Her sweet old fart is dead. Dead and buried, back home in Kansas.

She sits in the back bedroom of her daughter’s house, far away in California, out here on the golden west coast.

The old widow.

Her grand-daughter has heard the noise of muffled weeping. The young girl opens the door, and like Pandora to the box, she peeks into the room. Catches her grandmother holding a small cloth to her eyes, cheeks, nose. Sniffle.

The girl, scarcely ten years old, feels a dark, disturbed wall of pain rise up from her troubled heart. She runs outside, into the back yard, where her mother is busy hanging up the laundry.

“Mama, mama, grammy’s inside – she’s crying!”

The mother will sigh, set down the sheets, and go inside. She will sit with her mother, on the bed. It’s been a long time coming.

The old man was one of those well-known frogs in a small pond, back home. He and grandmother had come to Cottonwood when they were scarcely ten, and five. They didn’t know each other, not at first. But they would. Soon.

Times were different back then, in the 1850s. No automobiles. No movie houses. Not even a railroad anywhere within five hundred miles. Not yet.

They came by wagon, from Indiana and Iowa, into Kansas. Children, with their parents, moving west, and west, and west again. Their parents had come from the mountain hills of Pennsylvania, and Virginia; and their grandparents before them had moved from the Atlantic, into the Alleghanies. Along the way they fought the Indians and the tax collectors, struggled with the bible and the hard, dark earth. They had cut the forests and plowed the fields, taught their children how to read and write and hunt and harvest the wheat and corn, how to sew and stitch and cook and shoot a rifle, how to tree a possum and split a rail, how to bake an apple pie with an old dutch oven, in the fireplace. How to drive a team, hitch a wagon, and shoe a horse.

They had come a long way, three, four, five generations, from one coast to another, and now, after all those years, the old man was dead, like his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather, like all those mothers and sisters and brothers before, gone.

The children were now going to the movies.

Fragments from an Ancient Life — latest revision of chapter one


The glass is delicate. A servant sets it gently on the table. Carefully pours it almost full. Water trickles from a very old ceramic pitcher. Greek. Red on black. The man steps back. Waits.

“You may go.” I say.

Listen to the soft steps as the servant leaves me alone. Turn my eyes toward the pile of scrolls on another table, just within reach.

I should be reading, while the sun shines. My eyes still ache from last night’s labor. It would not do to stay up late again tonight, burning oil. But I promised Timaeus. I shall read, then tell him what I think.

The earth begins to tremble. Stronger than yesterday. I instinctively grab the glass on the table. Stop it slowly dancing toward the edge, keep it from toppling to the floor and shattering. Too precious for that! Timaeus would never forgive me if I let this hand blown piece break. No.

At last, after a few moments, the tremor fades away. I can hear a dog howling. Then a woman, weeping in the distance. Finally, the noise of the city cranks up again, that rumbling of wagons in the street, the shouting of men and children.

Strange how the quiet suddenly hits us, every time the earth growls. If the shake be not too strong, we only turn silent for a moment, holding our breath just as long as it lasts; and then, after, we get all noisy again.

Well. It wasn’t so gentle seventeen years ago, when the big ones came.

Yes. I remember. These little trembles, this month, are not so bad as the great earthquakes, seventeen years ago, that smashed this city of Pompeii, and many other towns and villas all around here; Herculaneum, Neapolis, Stabiae, Puteoli, Baiae. Oh yes, it was much worse then, and it went on for two, no, three years. Yes, oh yes, even though I missed the first one, I remember how several strong shocks came after, and again after that, many, many more after-shocks.  For almost five years. No, four. Or was it only three?

Seems like forever, when I think back on it. Seemed like.

Yes, it was bad. Very bad.

Temples were destroyed, houses shattered, walls broken. Hundreds of lives, if not thousands, were crushed beneath fallen stones and roof beams. The people were not silent then. The wailing went on for hours. Especially when there was fire, afterwards.

I was hundreds of miles away, in Rome, when the first earthquake hit. But I was sent, soon after, as one of the secretaries assigned to administer the imperial relief efforts. I heard many stories after I arrived. So very many.

In those first months, I also felt the shocks when they came back again. But, people would tell me, each time, after the shaking settled and finally stopped, oh, sir, this one is not as strong as the first one. No. Not as bad.

As for myself, what could I say? Since I had missed the first one, well, I had only these after-shocks to measure by, and I had never felt such powerful shocks as those which came after, no – and remember, friend, I had grown up here, spent my childhood here. Not in Pompeii, mind you, but around the mountain, over in Neapolis.

So all this personal knowledge, more than anything, made me realize how terribly strong the first ones must have been.

Yes. I am from around here. You should know – if you don’t already – that I was born here, in this beautiful, blessed land we call the Campania. My family were ancient citizens over in Neapolis, on the other side of the mountain, of our mountain, Vesuvius. So yes, of course I grew up accustomed to the ground always shaking a little now and then. But no one had ever felt such shocks as we had seventeen and sixteen years ago. No.

For two years, and more, people around here could hardly even start to rebuild, before another shock came and broke their work. At last, in the third and fourth years after the great quake, the largest shocks faded away and became fewer and far between. Those were busy times for me. I must have gone back and forth between Rome and campania a dozen times. Or more.

Yet the rebuilding still goes on. Even now. I believe that is why my friend Timaeus, a magistrate of Pompeii, is concerned about these recent tremors. True, they are nowhere as strong as the great quakes were, seventeen years ago. But, with each little rumble, people stop, and quietly ask: Tell us, is it starting again? Will there be more big ones coming?

So far, I would say no. Having been here a few days, I can agree with my old friend. These new shocks, although plentiful, are not as strong. Timaeus tells me the people have almost grown used to them now, that they are like an old song you hear now and then and wonder where it came from. They merely vibrate, much as the musical strings of a harp, or kithara, do, instead of violently rocking back and forth. Dishes, if they fall, are broken. Not walls. Besides, as I said before, there are always earthquakes around this land. Even the old books say that. Yes. But….

But my old friend, one of the magistrates of the city, is still worried that these tremors may be signs from the gods, perhaps even warnings. So, when I came here, traveling from my little retirement home out on the island of Caprae, when I came here to see my old friend, he asked me to help him answer that question. That, reader, is why I should be studying right now, instead of writing.

It was supposed to have been a vacation. We would go to the theater, listen to music, visit some of the reconstructed temples, dine out with other men and women, stay up late talking and remembering our long years together, yes, but now… no, the old secretary must go back to work again.

Well… what can you do? Life goes on. For a little while longer, it seems. I’m too old to stay retired forever.

Put down my pen. Look over at the pile of scrolls. Book after book of natural history, each with their few chapters talking about earthquakes and more earthquakes. Pliny. Seneca. And others.

I sigh. Then, a memory strikes me, and I burst out laughing.

When was it, when Nero sang in the theater at Neapolis? Was it the second year after the first earthquake? Yes. That would have been it. A very strange, and troubling time. Funny I should laugh at it now, remembering all the terrible things that happened those days.

I had gone back to the capital, carrying the latest reports and accounting for relief expenditures. I made the young emperor happy by recommending he not authorize so much sending right away, but to wait until the earthquakes stopped.

It was that time, during that trip, while I was there, in Rome, that the fire broke out in the capital. Burned for three days, and destroyed half the great city. I… I won’t think of that now. That is not what made me laugh.

No. But… I must remember.

The conflagration was followed almost immediately by Nero deciding to confiscate the burnt areas, in order to build himself a new garden palace in the center of the city.

Suddenly I found my job description changed overnight. From earthquake relief, I was transformed into the keeper of real estate paperwork. Spent my day following surveyors around the burnt-out center of the city, noting down their measurements of distance and altitude and hillside slope. In the evening, Nero and his chosen architects would study my notes and draw their plans. The lake would be here. The garden there. The dining rooms and bedroom palace over there. The parade route to the forum would go through there.

Nero laughed with joy, “Now, at last,” he crowed, “now I can begin to live like a human being.”

But the Romans, both the rich and poor alike, the senate and the people, all began to complain about this conceit, and to blame him for the fire. So then, as our boy emperor decided he needed a scapegoat to blame for the fire, then the persecutions began.

I did not laugh then. No.

But now? Yes. Here in the safety of my old friend Timaeus’ house, here in Pompeii, fifteen years later, I cannot help laughing, when I recall the figure of our young emperor, a month later, standing in the public theater at Neapolis, just a dozen miles from here, oh my, it was ridiculous, the divine ruler himself, onstage in his purple tunic like a common actor plucking the strings of a golden harp, intoning some doggerel about Jupiter and Alcmene, and believing that the people would all instantly understand the metaphorical message: that he, the young emperor, was Hercules, or Heracles, rather, reborn into our own, degenerate time.

He was trying, you see, to prove how popular he still was with the people of Italy. The senators, and many of the common businessmen back in Rome, were… well, let us just say they were disappointed. Bitter, complaining, and disappointed. First, he had taken all that burnt land in the heart of the city, where they wanted to build new apartment houses and shops, to make money again; and then he had taxed them extra for the food and emergency supplies for all the homeless from the fire; and last, when the rumors about him got worse, he produced proof – from slaves under torture, of course – that the Jewish Christians had started the great fire that destroyed half of Rome. Why had they done this? In order to bring about the end of the world.

To make their prophet come back to life – again – and save them.

Of course no one believed it. But Nero slaughtered dozens of them, anyway, in his Vatican circus stadium, throwing them to wild beasts in-between the usual gladiatorial combats, or crucifying them and letting them slowly die, all day long, while the show went on. Then he had some soaked in tar and oil, hung them on crosses and set them on fire, using them as giant torches to light up his gardens at night. Both of these venues – the Vatican circus and gardens across the river – he threw open to the public at large so that all the people could watch the lions and wolves rip into and tear apart men and women who would not even fight back – although the younger children did cry – or who in the evening would mostly stare down at us in fiery agony, groaning their prayers, which I, unfortunately, know by heart….

No, I was not laughing. Not then.

And no. No one was impressed, or at least no one I knew, no, no one believed that this little cult from the east was guilty of destroying Rome.

Least of all I, who had studied their scriptures in Alexandria, and even briefly met their prophet many years before, and then more recently argued philosophy on the sea, and later right here in Italy, with several of their leaders who died that year for Nero. But I digress. That is another story.

One thing, however, is true: after that ghastly spectacle of persecution, we were all more frightened of our young emperor than we had been before the fire.

He was no longer the handsome hero who had brilliantly won peace in the east in Armenia from the Parthian empire. Instead, he had become the man who had murdered his own mother. Who had ordered his best commanding general, Corbulo – the very man who had given him that victory in Armenia – to commit suicide on suspicion of treason.

And then the fire, and now this horrifying and bloody persecution of the Christian Jews. If he could do that to hundreds of these obscure fanatics, what else was he capable of ordering for our own small selves, if we should upset or trouble him?

I, I must confess, I consider myself guilty. I kept my silence through almost all of that horrible process. Being an old and trusted secretary of the imperial household, I was required, many a day and night, to attend the emperor, as I had attended his uncles before him, as I had traveled for them and with them into the east and the north, and as I must now write down his every word and command.

I never spoke out in public against him, but there was the one time in private that he plainly asked me, in Greek (of course) if I considered them to be guilty.

“No, divine Caesar, I do not.”

Now, reader, you must understand that Nero knew me very well. I had a long, hard-won, reputation, of being honest. Not a mere Greek scholar who always said yes yes yes to the great king. Not that he was a king, mind you. That is only a metaphor. The divine emperor was much more. Is much more.

But I digress. As it was, the bearded Nero merely sneered at me, indulgently, and muttered, this time in Latin, “Yes, you would say that, Nikos, wouldn’t you?”

He did not like my name. Never had. Although I suspected he liked me, even grudgingly admired me. But you see, in Greek, my name Nikos reminded him a little too much of “Nike” – the word for “victory” – something which he felt he deserved more than I. Probably he thought I should have been named faithful or scribbler or some such more simple word. Whatever the case, he was not about to make a pun in my favor, so he had switched to Latin. Or so I imagine, in my own little selfish vanity.

“I could have you killed for disagreeing with me, you know,” he smiled, amused at his power and wit, “but I find I still need you to tell me when others are lying to me.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

He was playing with a dagger, carefully slipping the point under his fingernails, delicately seeking out bits of dust. We had just come in from the arena, and he had sat down on a chair of carved wood inlaid with gold, that stood on a raised dias at one end of the room, near the windows. I was a step down, below him, still standing, my wax tablet ready to write down anything he ordered.

“You know them, don’t you?”

“The Christians, my lord?”

“You know who I mean.”

“I… I have argued at length with one or two of their leaders, yes.”

“Onboard the ship, you mean, when you were coming back from the east, four years ago.”

“I wrote that all in my reports, divine Caesar.”

“Yes. I recently read them, before I decided to… punish these fanatics.” He sighed. “And now I am told by my… by my friends… that the senate, and the wealthier citizens, do not believe me.”

I was suddenly struck by horror that something I had written might have helped him condemn those innocent people. He saw me suppress my shudder of fear, and laughed, “Aha! That made you start, did it? It isn’t often I catch you, old man, in your own thoughts.”

“My lord Caesar is not any ignorant young man to be fooled so quickly.”

He growled, rather loudly, “Have a care what you say in double meanings to your emperor, Mister Secretary!”

A guard, hearing the emperor’s voice raised in anger, suddenly stepped forward from beyond the open terrace door. Nero waved him off, “Can’t you see I am only playing with my old secretary? Please, fall back to your place on guard.”

The preatorian, resplendant in armor and helmet, nodded, and retired behind the silken curtains once again.

He looked at me. “Put down the tablet and stylus. On that table.”

I did as he said.

“Come here. Kneel.”

I obeyed, dropped slowly to my knees, holding my hands together in front of me, with my eyes downcast, toward the floor.

“Look up at me. Tell me what you see.”

I gazed up into his face. He was hungry for something. I could feel that.

“Well? Speak.”

“Caesar, I see a strong young man.”

“Hmmm. Young, yes, certainly young, compared to you, you old Neapolitan Greek. You philosopher. Secretary. Scholar. How old are you? Seventy?”

“Next year, Caesar.”

“Yes. So I would certainly look young to you.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“But a strong young man, you say. Now there’s a word with many different meanings. Strong. A strong word, in fact.” He smiled at himself. Looked back at me. Touched my head with the dagger. “Get up. Write on your tablet this command I am about to give.”

“Yes, Caesar.” I stood up, and picked up the wax writing tablet.

“I shall tour Italy this year, so that the people may see me. You, secretary Nikos, and Gnaeus, my master of the horse, shall make all the arrangements. I shall appear in every great theater, in all the larger cities, and sing for the people.”

Quickly, struggling not to smile, I pressed his words into the wax.

He paused, watching me. Then, “Now let me see it. Hand it over.”

I gave it him. He scowled. Looked up at me. “You have written this in Latin. I spoke to you in Greek.”

“Divine Caesar, it is an imperial Roman command. For others to see and obey.”

“Oh yes. Well. Then you did right. As usual, you damned old fool, yes, as usual, you did it just right.” He sighed, and pressed the seal mark of his ring into the wax. Thrust the tablet back at me. “Now go. We are leaving tomorrow for Neapolis.” Glanced up into my eyes. I saw that his were suddenly sparkling. “Your home town, I believe.”

“Yes, my lord. It is.”

And so, only a week and a few days later, Nero Ahenobarbus, Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome, Divine Genius of the Senate and the People, stood alone on the stage in the theater at Neapolis, singing his song of the seduction and pregnancy of Alcmene by Zeus – or Jupiter, or Jove – a coupling which would lead to the birth of Hercules – or Heracles, as we call him in Greek – half human, half-divine, that ancient hero who wandered the Earth performing feats of strength, and great cunning, too – he was not just a strong-man, no, but also a crafty, mentally powerful hero – and here now was Nero, a thousand years later, ruler of the Roman empire, descendant of emperors and generals, great grandson of both Augustus Caesar and Mark Antony, plucking the strings of a harp and singing the history of one of the mightiest men ever to have lived.

He was perhaps halfway through his performance when another after-shock earthquake struck the city of Neapolis. This was fifteen years ago, remember, and more than a year after the first quakes, and as I said before, many other sharp temblors followed for months and months to come, and they were still quite strong, some of them knocking down buildings that had previously only been damaged.

That evening, in the theater, I felt this one when it first hit, and I knew it would be a bad one. First came that primary thrust of the ground up and down and up and down, and then, a few moments later, the secondary rocking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

When the first thrust hit, Nero froze on the stage, alone, in front of the packed auditorium filled with thousands of Neapolitan citizens, as well as hundreds more from the surrounding towns and villas. He caught himself, balanced, slammed one foot on the stage, did not fall, then steadied his legs against the waves that now came rocking back and forth, and plucked a loud chord on his lyre.

Most of the audience by now had leapt to their feet, to our feet, and we were instinctively holding on to one another, almost deciding to run for the exits, but at the sound of those notes from his harp, we froze. Then, Nero actually stomped his foot a second time on the stage floor, stretched out his arm, and shouted, “Stop!”

We stood there, swaying back and forth, not daring to leave him, but afraid to sit down, just waiting for the shaking to fade away, praying that it would fade away quickly. Soon. Please, gods.

Then, Nero surprised all of us.

He plucked the strings of his harp again, in time, it seemed, to the shaking of the earth, and now our emperor commenced to sing once more.

By chance, the earthquake had struck at the very moment Nero was telling the hour when Alcmene, deep in the pains of labor, struggles to bring forth the baby Heracles – and his mortal half-twin brother Iphicles – from out her aching womb.

Most of you know, dear readers, that this was a long and difficult process, held back by the intervention of the goddess Hera herself, who hated Heracles – even in the womb – and caused Alcmene to delay and suffer giving birth. But, again, I digress.

Still, at the height of the earthquake, our boy emperor,  as if inspired by the trembling Earth, shook back and forth on his bowed legs, singing at the top of his voice, crying out like a goddess in agony, rocking to and fro, plucking desperate chords upon the lyre, intoning the birth-song of Alcmene. As the shaking faded away, our divine Caesar, singing lower and softer, sank down into a wide-legged squat and bent over to give birth to one of his more artful moments of silence. We first wept with him, then shouted out, wildly applauding.

The earthquake was over. Nero rose to acknowledge our applause, and then continued. For another hour he sang of the childhood of the hero, then his youth, and at last, told how he was driven mad by the goddess Hera, killed his own children, and was sent out into the world to perform his famous labors, as judgement for his horrible crime.

Here, he ended his performance. The final applause that followed was stupendous. Thunderous.

Later that night, hours after everyone had left the theater, another aftershock came along, and the theater, evidently weakened by all it had suffered, collapsed into a heap of broken stone walls and mounds of rubble.

Nero, of course, believed it was proof that he was a god. Or at least, half-god, like Heracles. He might not have stopped the earthquake, but he had at least held it back, and saved all of our lives. Or so we small mortals let ourselves believe.

I never would have said such things back then, but… well, I am getting older, and I dare to think them, at least.

My hand reaches for the delicate glass. Take a sip of water.

There. That’s better.

Eleven years since Nero died. He is only a memory. Gone.

Yet the world is still here. Flowers bloom, fruit ripens on the tree, fishermen bring in their catch from the deep, blue sea. The afternoon breeze moves across the roofs of Pompeii, reaches down into my friend’s little garden, stirs the leaves on his small trees, then gently caresses my face and arms. Summer has turned toward autumn, and our fierce southern heat seems to be fading. The days definitely feel shorter now, and the hours shrink with them. Another two or three months and winter will be hard upon us, with its twelve hours of night stretching out long and dark, and daytime, even around the tranquil bay of Neapolis, daytime will be shortened, with its twelve short winter hours flying by so quickly I will have no choice but to read and write by night. I must remember to have extra oil brought to my house on the island. I read so much at night every winter that I almost always run out before spring finally comes around with its longer days, and larger hours.

I have known many different winters and summers, in so many different parts of the empire, the cold north of Germania and Britannia, the warm south of Carthage and Africa, the far and exotic east of Egypt and Syria, and the nearer, rougher west of Italy and Gaul. My life has been long, and multicolored. I have served six emperors, from the day Tiberius kidnapped me as a young man, through the madness of his nephew Caligula, that wild horse, then the more sober but rather jealous years of Claudius, into the sometimes ridiculous, sometimes brutal, days of Nero, until at last the more moderate, but still strong, Vespasian, who only left us this last summer, may he rest in divine peace in the Elysian Fields, or heaven, if you like – although to tell the truth I am not certain what I believe. Now we have his son, Titus, a decent sort of man. The only dark cloud on the horizon is the persistent… presence… of his younger brother, Domitian.

One emperor after another has taken the seat of power.  That is the way of the world. One tree falls, another grows to take its place. None of them are the same, yet they are all like unto each other in certain respects.

I thank the gods, or the One God, whatever or whoever it or he – or she – or they – may be, I thank whomever for the fact that at last I am retired.