Larry's Blog

good things to COME !!!!

HI and hello world
join in the greatest fun of all
soon to come in this spot

programming the PIC microcontrollers
NOT - NOT - with the programmers provided
by the pros - but doing it yourself
depending on your knowledge of
electronics and programming
you can do it all yourself

program a complete COMPUTER
on a chip that costs approximately
$3 $3 yes $3
not $230 like sbc's of the past -
microprocessors on pcb's

dec 28,2003 I have not forgot to update
this entry. I am excited in my PIC programming
experiments and will be getting back to them shortly.
Stay tuned.

Jan 5, 2004
this is the very latest
I have succeeded in entering my 16 instruction
program onto the program memory (EEPROM)
of the PIC16F628.

I have verified that I have sent my program successfully
to the PIC16F628. This has been accomplished with a BASIC program
called PICRDALL.BAS. This program displays in hexadecimal
notation the data that it finds on the PIC. It utilizes the
READ command for use in programming the chip.

The program that I used to program the chip
is somewhat roundabout due to problems I
had with my sizeable BASIC programs.

I wanted to enter programming mode, which would bring
me to loc 0. Then I would write my first instruction
and then increment the program counter. However this never
worked in 2 programs. So, for the time being I loop thru a process
that goes into programming mode, increments the
program counter to the desired loc, and then writes
the instruction. It does this over and over, going in and out of
programming mode so it can go to loc 0.

Inefficient, but it works. Later I will get a more efficient BASIC
program.

DID THE LOADED PROGRAM WORK?

No. The first run did not show signs of working.
It was a program to make an led blink on & off.

Here is the hex and the assembler of the pgm:

0000
1683
30f0
0086
1283
1486
200a
1086
200a
2805
0fa0
280d
0008
0fa1
0000
280d
280a

and here is the assembler
statements

nop
bsf status, rp0
movlw f0h
movwf trisb
bcf status,rp0
loop1 bsf portb,rb1
call delay
bcf portb,rb1
call delay
goto loop1
delay incfsz accum1
goto step2
return
step2 incfsz accum2
nop
goto step2
goto delay

accum1 & accum2 are registers
20h & 21h.

I have some other hello world pgms
and I will let you know when I get this and
the others running

Larry Keegan Jan 5, 2004

THE TERTIANS

It was “the third trial”.
Turned out to be a trial alright -
parsing sentences of rules.
“Societatis Jesu Constitutiones”.

It was “the third trial”.
Turned out to be a trial alright -
parsing sentences of rules.
“Societatis Jesu Constitutiones”.
We were grown men at the term of training.
Now we were to be renewed
with the fire of Ignatius and Xavier.
But on sunny winter mornings
here I was decoding line by line
cold statutes of a dead text.

He would probably kill me for saying it
but I think our intelligent director
had himself lost belief in the enterprise.
But then again, who could believe
in this day and age.

In our bright little classroom
filled with winter sunlight
he led us from code to code
as we read and analyzed.
But I scribbled pictures of airplanes
as the spirit of young Jesuits
slowly died.

I balanced trips to Amsterdam
teaching young minds truths
from the Catechism,
with long walks
through autumn fields
and glorious blizzards
in the valley of the Mohawk,
Fonda and Fultonville.

The fire of dreams was still there.
I walked 32 miles to Sacondaga Lake
(a distorted replica of Jogues
and the martyrs marching)
as I came back late with bloody feet
(we had no sneakers then).

The young Jesuits were at an age
of dreams and the flower
of their fire. Maybe some
escaped from “the trial”
and spread the fire of Jesus
in the years to come.

For me, I guess, it was the beginning
of the end. I would soon
relight the fires of my mind
with all the wonders, passions,
loves, thirsts for the universe
in which I had been born.
I would start over again
somewhere as a young boy
walking the streets of Brooklyn
on a Saturday morning.

Larry Keegan

ANCESTORS

In my blood I am fisherman
in salt air exulting, quickening
in firm fresh smells
of scales, the prize remembering

In my blood I am fisherman
in salt air exulting, quickening
in firm fresh smells
of scales, the prize remembering

In my blood, wind-rough, bearded
I go. In my work-encrusted hand
the day’s sweat is plain-spoken
the dust of the field is not unclean

In my blood I am a shepherd
to a hungry flock, and tread
the uncut ways, spurning roads
with anxious eyes for pasturage

In my blood, fingers till
for pure delight sun-seasoned soil
nostrils dream a cornucopia -
brown bounty to an ancient brood

In my blood, with roughened hands
the quarried stone is placed with pride
on high towers where bells ring
in unknown countrysides

BETWEEN STORMS

we are between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
as high noon approaches

we are between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
as high noon approaches

Corelli is playing on station 102.5
I taste cashews, almonds, walnuts
and some nuts I cannot name

a sip of Shiraz - ah!
a nibble of Vermont cheddar
and (if you don’t like this
you don’t like my poem)
a chomp of sweet gherkin pickle

we are in between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
I am seventy-four
I am happy!
It is high noon!

THE NORTHEAST KINGDOM

people living on green mountains
save the sturgeon, nuclear
is too simple to be good
the Lord has never shown himself
so we are holding hands

people living on green mountains
save the sturgeon, nuclear
is too simple to be good
the Lord has never shown himself
so we are holding hands

our kids eat a spoonful of dirt
every day - helps the immune system
we have fine nudist camps
but we don’t call them that

the hippies have gone
but we are their children
we call for a stop to war
and bombing and land mines

Vermont is hills and trees
people are just an afterthought

THE LAST RIDE

Ilze’s Toyota Tercel
1983 model
travelled 278,000 miles
that’s more than from
the earth to the moon

Ilze’s Toyota Tercel
1983 model
travelled 278,000 miles
that’s more than from
the earth to the moon

Original engine.
Color was Autumn Sunset.
Some called it orange.

I drove it to the junk yard
you see there was a
crack in the windshield
and front and rear wheels
needed brake jobs
and oil sometimes
seeped thru the crankcase

on its last ride
on the highway
it purred like a kitten
right up to the giant scale
in the car yard in Chelmsford

they weighed it
I gave them the keys
they gave me fifty-three
dollars and fifty cents

Only a car.
But saying goodbye
is saying goodbye.

SPECIFICALLY, THE PACIFIC

From tidal mists
and scattering phantoms of fog
we ascend the summit of our hopes
eye coastal rock protrusions

From tidal mists
and scattering phantoms of fog
we ascend the summit of our hopes
eye coastal rock protrusions

single thrusts of tide
set aside years with their
incrustations

although at first it would so seem
the cattle have no advantage over us
grazing near tidal waters

green hills, electric fences
wide brush strokes of blue flower
we watch the sea

roads that invite but frighten
hills belonging to no one
and to everyone

they will remember
in their dreams
the curving water’s edge
a cove with a waterfall
called McWay’s

but there is a lie in the land
people have gone
settlers were never here
only cows

there is only endless land
we only think we are here
the seeing is the dream

the Pacific closes at sunset
but Ilze would like to stay

VICTIM

I’m a victim now
there’s a menu
at the cancer center
if your prostate’s ailing

I’m a victim now
there’s a menu
at the cancer center
if your prostate’s ailing

first there’s
RAD-I-CAL
PRO-STA-TEC-TO-MY
can you spell it?
avoid it if you can
If you can’t?
that’s the way it is!

then there’s
radioactive seed implantation
under guidance of an MRI
sounds like a sensation
but avoid pregnant women
and children passing by

You’re radioactive? yes!
but you’re no Chernobyl
or Three Mile Island -
but then - do you glow in the dark?

there’s also external beam radiation
at first, no sensation
in fact, elation -
you’re still here!
18 MEV - that’s mega-electron-volts

a linear accelerator
blasts electrons
into a tungsten plate
and photons - much more energetic
than a beam of light -

blast away at your cancer cells
(and some healthy ones!)

they blast -
and the body heals
they blast again -
and the body heals

so I’m a victim now -
will live for 30 years

(Ladies! - I may not be flirting anymore)

radical prostatectomy?
radioactive seed
im-plan-ta-tion?
external beam radiation?

What will it be?

It’s day 10 at the oncology center
OK therapist
blast away!
I plan to stay!

THE WHEELS GRIND SLOWLY

The gynko leaf has been crushed underfoot
where the people walk. All living things
will be crushed and squeezed by time.

The gynko leaf has been crushed underfoot
where the people walk. All living things
will be crushed and squeezed by time.
The green juices will trickle down
from one decade to the next,
from one generation to the other.

As steel grinds into steel where the wheels meet the track,the timetable is set,
the screeching will not stop until
electrons cease to spin in orbits
around the nucleus of matter.

You skip lightly, you flit through
the days of August and so you may.
But the shadow of great wheels
turning is cast over us. The wheels
will grind exceedingly small.

WHEN WINTER COMES

Somewhat after the holidays
when a white layer of snow
covers the ground, winter
begins for me. I am alone now.

Somewhat after the holidays
when a white layer of snow
covers the ground, winter
begins for me. I am alone now.

Sitting around the fireplace was fine.
Feasting at Yule tables, chatting
over bourbon with relatives
down from Barrington was nice.

But now winter comes, wild and white.
We are alone again. In city streets,
the wild wind eddying through every
alleyway, on hillsides, sculptured
with blown snow, men
will live their lives for real,
now facing time as it first
dawned. January and
February will drive in
like thundering herds.

THE SEASON OF THE GRAIL

In the season of the grail a red bird
sings in the tree. The Madonna is covered
with purple, and great tall candles burn.

In the season of the grail a red bird
sings in the tree. The Madonna is covered
with purple, and great tall candles burn.
The red-cassocked altar boy
in white lace surplice, sprinkles
grains of incense on the hot coals.
It is the season of the grail. Holy, holy.

On hilltop crossroads, white houses have
frosted roofs, trees are bare, and
the good friday spell is here.
The bassoon labors through
a strain from Parsifal. All pure, serene.
Rats are in the alleyway
behind the Friars’ church.
A tree is decked with pastel rainbow eggs.
The homeless fill the streets downtown.

Holy, holy. I taste the wine of liturgy
finger the cup that echoes the vessel of old.
A shiver of alcohol - my thoughts turn from
Mount Olivet to Lohengrin, Tannhauser
pilgrims and crusades. In the pure Spring
in the purifying Spring, a red bird sings
in a tree. Frost rests white on rooftops.
The bare trees are still. When the wind stops
the incense rises straight. It is
the season of the grail. Holy, holy.

COLUMBINE

Fair scarlet flower and yellow of sun
memorial of mercy and the primal sweetness

Fair scarlet flower and yellow of sun
memorial of mercy and the primal sweetness
never in man's soul totally undone,
still waking brightly in the fleetness
of the years; sing gently, gentleness
almost never lost in the wild rocks of fear
cling like hope on hope's lost precipice
and teach us love is still here.

MAXWELL

when Maxwell barked
his mistress scolded him
Dachshund type - miniature

when Maxwell barked
his mistress scolded him
Dachshund type - miniature
he growled on June’s last day
Maxwell so unkind to bark at
the stranger passing by

Maxwell’s mistress in such way
favoring the stranger
no bark, no bite. the friendly
flowers of June will hum a tune
neither bark, neither bite
Maxwell sit. Maxwell be kind.

PARKWAY QUEEN

she’s a ninety pound beauty
in a two ton S-U-V

she’s a ninety pound beauty
in a two ton S-U-V

I’ve got to teach her
what the accelerator’s for
she don’t know how to spell it
she don’t know how to use it
honey - it’s a gas pedal!
you got to push it to the floor

just a ninety pound beauty
in a two ton S-U-V

it’s only a quart of milk
she’s goin’ to the store
so what’s that 300 horsepower for?
sittin’ twelve feet above the road
like riding a tank
in Afghanistan
but she can do it
if anybody can

she’s a ninety pound beauty
in a two ton S-U-V

THE SEMINARIAN

I’m in the dental chair
the assistant with some tenderness
slides the bib about my neck
adjusting it with her fingers

I’m in the dental chair
the assistant with some tenderness
slides the bib about my neck
adjusting it with her fingers

If this was another world -
if things were different -
she’s just about my age

I walk back to the monastery
light snow is falling
there is a clothesline
with panties and a bra

the cups are filling up with snow
it bothers me, but the lady
who owns them does not
seem to care

it is not my calling
to stroke the convex of a breast
but to feel the concave
of the cups - to empty
them of snow -

a lady’s panties - no
they would never fit a man -

these thoughts are out of line
perhaps I will see the Master
of Novices, confess - just in case -

ask the Blessed Virgin for help
and say a rosary.

thoughts from a cell

you played softball Sunday morning
de-ox-y-rib-o-nu-cle-ic acid
(after all that, I’m not an acid but a salt)
like an old lady’s beads thrown in a purse
I live in a dark nucleus
you walk in the sun around Horn Pond

you played softball Sunday morning
de-ox-y-rib-o-nu-cle-ic acid
(after all that, I’m not an acid but a salt)
like an old lady’s beads thrown in a purse
I live in a dark nucleus
you walk in the sun around Horn Pond

I am polymerase and replicate the ribbon of life
I am an enzyme that reads a section of the code
you smile and talk with a fisherman

I am a protein rolled up from the blueprint
in a segment of the string
I know who you are
you look up and see the morning clouds

the cytoplasm is my home.
I am a membrane
I manufacture ribosomes
that read the orders
and give commands
you read your book
a new thought enters your mind

sugars and carbohydrates, that’s
all we are, like a chain of crystal
six feet long, wrapped in a coil
we hold the numbers
now you are driving your car

I am a million years old
only carbon oxygen and hydrogen
and elements of nitrogen in the plan
we were there when it all began
you scratch your head
you think you’ll write a poem

THE NUMBERED DEAD

in Auburn fields
we found new adventures
beyond the gates of life

in Auburn fields
we found new adventures
beyond the gates of life

3 poets - Longfellow, James Russell Lowell
and Oliver Wendell Holmes
but not a line of verse

maybe I will return
with some bronze plaques
inscribed with my favorite lines

I am filled with a new thirst
for sung rhymes and metered song
in this valley of the requiem

lamentable though it be
we must transgress
into the very fields of death
to find a solitary peace

here in Mt Auburn
the dead are numbered.
Is this ungracious?
liberated from ID’s and
social security
there last bank checks inscribed
they thought they were free

but unkindly architects
chiselled 2493 and 3224
where they lie

they thought they were free
but still they are numbers
of the numbered dead

the Latin is softer - mortuus
but the Anglo-Saxon is final

dead sounds like
done
or
dumb
or
dull

in Auburn fields
we found 3 poets
Longfellow, Lowell and Holmes.

SYLLABLES

an - ni - ver - sar - y
has 5 syllables
like 5 ticks
on the mantle clock

an - ni - ver - sar - y
has 5 syllables
like 5 ticks
on the mantle clock

which my wife gave me
after twenty-two years
of married life

tranquillity
has four sounds
like after the storm
when the wind has stopped

and the river
turns to glass
I like words

that march across the page
in - comp - re - hens - i - bil - it - y
( a charge sometimes directed
at my poetry)

the living room clock
begins to chime
so I will end this
on a beat of
clo - sure

NOT A CLOUD

not a cloud in the sky
nothing to protect me
from the sun of truthfulness
the arrow that penetrates
our strategems, that tears apart
our pretense

not a cloud in the sky
nothing to protect me
from the sun of truthfulness
the arrow that penetrates
our strategems, that tears apart
our pretense

its noonday flare
etches sharp shadows
unbearable
delineating the brevity
of our days, the tenuous
substance of our breath

not a cloud to protect me
from the light, no storm
wherein I can hide
no drops of rain to assuage
the passing of the days

I had hoped for the soothing rays
on my arms - a moment of peace
by the lake. Perhaps it is best
to know less and light
reveals all too clearly

I would like to pretend
but the sun blazes
there is not a cloud in the sky

JANICE SLEEPS

still no stone for Janice
gunned down a day past Christmas
there is a marker by her grave

still no stone for Janice
gunned down a day past Christmas
there is a marker by her grave

but how quickly they forget
a gentle voice is not heard
six months to the day
butterflies and blackberry blossoms
are alive but Janice sleeps

the cruel caliber of steel
has silenced her name
brief notoriety - a day’s fame

the perpetrator’s trial
has been delayed
insanity prevails
in a universe of meteors
and crashing comets

final silence will prevail
a stone that could proclaim
the etching of her name
has not appeared
and Janice sleeps

Note - in September a heart-shaped
rose marble stone was put in place.

UNDER THE TOWER

a tower that sees all tomorrow
a wind that wanders
in a world unknowing

a tower that sees all tomorrow
a wind that wanders
in a world unknowing

ray that cuts true
in the light of evening

the sound was the whisper
of ages gone by
the light was the silver
in briars of summer
bare in the brunt of November

rocks bigger than a man
are markers like milestones
and grimace at the wind oncoming

soon will be the meeting
of moonlight and madness
when stars declaim a universal song
when day withdraws
to forest stillness

in black swamps and solitude
in accents of solitude and pain
cry out! cry out!
wind, cloud, rock, mountain

SPOT POND IN STONEHAM

I found a feather in your land
a scarlet flame fell from heaven
we are back to primitive summer days
mullein sumac yarrow
thistles in time

I found a feather in your land
a scarlet flame fell from heaven
we are back to primitive summer days
mullein sumac yarrow
thistles in time

soft musty smell of marshes
on moist June days
a roaring highway nearby
but soft silences
where berried cedar sleeps

lake stretches on its horizon
impervious to commerce
geranium and wild rose greet me
now I trade the road’s sound
for long silences where this
abandoned railroad winds

the tracks are gone
a few ties in place
here and there
along the right of way
an iron spike lies in clover and buttercups

no whistle sounds
on the path from Boston to Lawrence
home now to pollypoddy ferns
the trail is still

I near the lake
from pickerel rock (some
call it turtle)
I survey rippling waters
one mile clear to the north
the sun is hiding

three islands of discontent
boatmen will now visit them
and moments of history

I complete the ciruit of the lake
purple vetch and scarlet cinqfoil
thrive near clumps of daisies
and marching buttercups

the light is different now
I walk down cathedral aisles
tall grasses with honeysuckle
intertwined on either side

my day ends with clustered cups of
mushrooms by a log
a woodthrush chimes a final song
light flits through sullen trees
and I am gone

JOURNEY

allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord

allegro (matter of fact)

I have been indoctrinated in days and litanies,
and yellow autumn afternoons when childhood
was warned that a calling from the Lord
(as leaves fell in a long white buzz of breeze)
could not easily be ignored without
the danger subsequent after years
of losing grace, perhaps to fall, perhaps
to call down attonement in unending
penitential fires - but not to worry -
as winter sunlight after snow
filtered in between the classroom
shades, and sister’s soothing voice
(perhaps replacing mother’s) had us read
“The First Snowfall” by James Russell Lowell.

lento (lower voice)

The lady in blue
can rest a bit perhaps.
The litanies in her
behalf have slowed.
Mother of Sorrows.
Queen of the Sea.
Gate of Heaven.
As dust gathers on
the organ top
and stained glass
light falls into
a silent church
in Maryland
perhaps she can
find some quiet
in October.
The “pray for us”,
the “save us”,
the “we beseech thee”s
have almost ended.

andante (relaxed voice)

The perfume of spring flowers
surrounds me.
I walk through a small wood (but
like King Arthur’s realm to me).
Heavy Jim and Dominic bring jars
to mix secret potions and construct
a laboratory in the forest shade.
Last fall - ages ago - we gathered
hickory nuts,
brought them as prizes to display
proudly in the dining hall.

The incense of the heart
still lingers, and smoke
rises like painful
memories - sort of -
from Sunday afternoons.
Altar boy surplice,
unending strains
of “Tantum Ergo”s, a
chorus of nuns
and now it seems
the whole world
suffers, for one
reason or another,
from Sunday afternoons.

dramatic (full sound)

Gloria in Excelsis Deo.
It is my voice that echoes
in the apse of the stone church.
Today is the twelth Sunday
after Pentecost (somewhere
in the unending nowhere
in the year of liturgy).
I like the sound of my
deep voice speaking
slowly - and cautiously -
(the topic designated
by the Bishop is the Trinity).
I will never utter
words I cannot believe.

lyrical (female voice?)

O the bells ring
the organ thunders
the Pascal candle
in symbolic glory
burns. Red-robed,
the celebrants parade
from the vestibule
of church to high
altar, a censor
swinging, its golden
chain ringing, the
smoke of Resurrection
rising.

philosophical (pensive)

They have trained me from infancy
in the telling of the beads,
midday visits to the most
blessed sacrament, Mary’s
supplication. I have often
walked out feeling clean
from the box of the confessional
with the sun seeming brighter
and the wind crisp through
my hair

andante (matter of fact - reflective)

What can I save
from this house of God?
The organ sounds -
Mozart, Bach - this
was their noblest theme.
The statues still stand
silent in the clerestory
light - men and women
parading endlessly
in our dreams
through centuries
of whatever this was.
Icons of mosaic
with rainbow colors
and gold, gazing
down on me through
my steps as a child
till now - when, I suppose -
I am old. The language
of Latin and Greek
in great red-leather
colored books -
bibles with poetry
of Ecclesiastes and Job,
Psalms sung by
choirs while bells
thunder, carol and
chime in all the
cathedrals of the
world.

agitated (intense)

An old nun smiles.
I walk by graveyards
with names that surprise
me - my heart squirms -
as I remember them.
There is a book opened
to a page where
November sunlight falls.
I gaze upon the words.
Like a bird, I have learned to fly.
I say goodbye.

CLEARED TO LAND

LAWRENCE TOWER, SEVEN SIERRA GULF
REPORTING 2 MILE RIGHT BASE
FOR TWO THREE

LAWRENCE TOWER, SEVEN SIERRA GULF
REPORTING 2 MILE RIGHT BASE
FOR TWO THREE

SEVEN SIERRA GULF
CLEARED TO LAND

CLEARED TO LAND
SEVEN SIERRA GULF

Even bishops have a chair.
Here I am floating in the air
four parts nitrogen, one part oxygen.
But everybody thinks
there’s nothing there.

LAWRENCE TOWER. WIND CHECK
FOR SEVEN SIERRA GULF.

WIND IS ZERO TWO ZERO
AT ONE FOUR

Roy’s grandma was blown down
at Hancock Towers.
Should have held onto a lamp post.
Could she walk on my wing?
(Air speed is 78 miles per hour.)

LAWRENCE TOWER. CHEROKEE
THREE NINE FOUR FOXTROT LIMA,
OVER ROCKINGHAM WITH
INFORMATION ECHO.

FOUR FOXTROT LIMA. REPORT 2 MILES
RIGHT DOWNWIND FOR TWO THREE.
TRAFFIC IS A SKYHAWK DEPARTING
TO THE NORTHEAST

RIGHT DOWNWIND TWO THREE.
TRAFFIC NOT IN SIGHT.
FOUR FOXTROT LIMA.

Awhile ago I circled slowly
over a lake watching the wake
of small pleasure boats.
Most people don’t know
how you make a plane fly slow.
(Even with no power, a plane
can fly very fast.)

Medium power, pull back on the yoke,
flaps on full. At 50 miles per hour,
still flying. But after that
she would fall like a box.

LAWRENCE TOWER. MOONEY
NINE ZERO SEVEN SEVEN KILO
READY FOR TAKEOFF. REQUEST
STRAIGHT OUT DEPARTURE.

MOONEY SEVEN SEVEN KILO.
HOLD SHORT, LANDING TRAFFIC.

HOLDING SHORT, SEVEN SEVEN KILO.

Engine quiet. Feathers curved
for slow flight. Wings spread.
For a moment, I am not like
the people down there, driving
in trucks, walking along sidewalks,
standing in fields.

I do not know, really,
where I am. Somewhere in the air.
We say “over Lowell”, but really,
who knows where we are?

MOONEY SEVEN SEVEN KILO
TAKE POSITION AND HOLD.

POSITION AND HOLD
SEVEN SEVEN KILO.

At takeoff I saw a red-tailed hawk
curve arrow-like beyond
my left wing. ( It was a hawk.)
All my life I’ve watched them.
Never seen them furl their wings
and dive. I do not dive, but soar,
waiting for the sound when
wheels hit ground. Then
to put wings away, until
another day of playing in clouds.

CESSNA SEVEN SIERRA GULF
NEXT LEFT TURN WHEN POSSIBLE.
CONTACT GROUND
ONE TWO FOUR POINT THREE.

NUMBERS

one and two and three....
goes on to infinity
you don’t want to
hear this from me

I look into your eye
the circumference
is diameter times pi

one and two and three....
goes on to infinity
you don’t want to
hear this from me

I look into your eye
the circumference
is diameter times pi

the limit of the series
one half, one fourth, one eigth
is zero

the derivative of the maximum
is zero. The curves
of your body

form a continuum
from A to B
with a maximum at C

tangere is the Latin word
to touch. The slope of the function
where x equals two

a tangent - one point where
like a kiss
the slope is the the measure

CROSSROADS

the trouble with hills ?
when you get up close
they become trees.
the trouble with trees?
there are too many.

the trouble with hills ?
when you get up close
they become trees.
the trouble with trees?
there are too many.
one or two
at the end of an open field
would be enough

you don’t think of hills
as having roads
but I remember a hill
where two roads crossed
at the summit
where there were open fields

I wondered why roads
would come to the summit
and then go down again.
there was a farmhouse
where they crossed.

I want to find the place again
but can’t. it’s somewhere
in Pennsylvania. two roads
cross on the summit of a hill

DINNER IN DELAWARE

“Where is Delaware ?”, I said.
Actually, I should know
having driven through a few times
but in a crowd someone said “Delaware”.
Now I’m wondering when I will
be going there.

“Where is Delaware ?”, I said.
Actually, I should know
having driven through a few times
but in a crowd someone said “Delaware”.
Now I’m wondering when I will
be going there.

When random words float in the air
the mind wonders
what to do with them.
So if you hear “mushroom soup”
above the mumbling at the mall
don’t be surprised if soon
you’re looking for the food court.

Me ? - I’m planning
to have a hot bowl of soup
in Delaware.

CONEY ISLAND

Is coney Island really an island?
We came here as kids
on the Sea Beach Express.
We returned as adults on the N train.

Is coney Island really an island?
We came here as kids
on the Sea Beach Express.
We returned as adults on the N train.
Like a faded photograph of all those years
where small waves wash up
mussel shells upon the shore
the beach awaits us on a Friday afternoon.

Fancifully, I ask the hot dog man at Nathan’s
how many years he’s been working here
thinking the impossible that he extends
into my childhood memories.
He replies “A year or two”.

As you walk from a certain spot
sand is your only horizon.
I snap a photograph of my sister
and my son - Sahara in the city.
The pier at Steeplechase
has concrete pilings now.
The old wood posts, barnacle-encrusted,
succumbed to storms and winters long ago.

Like a distant flag
exulting in the southerly breeze
my heart at once realizes
spring. April hours transmute
to gold. Cloistered hope
swings open windows
dreams take wing
where water softens against the sky.

THE ROSE

Someone said "feelings"
and I began to think.

Rose colored slabs of marble
ascending on square columns
butress a city of stone.

Someone said "feelings"
and I began to think.

Rose colored slabs of marble
ascending on square columns
butress a city of stone.

Steel girders wrap us in a cage
as silent as eternity.

On the secretary's desk
a pasture rose in water
escapes the eye.

An old lady sits on the boardwalk
in the September sun.
I know Coney Island is only in the mind
but I walk in the sand, feel the late
summer breeze on my face
and smell the ocean once again.

PHILOSOPHIA DE LORENZO

Se movere is the definition of life.

In the world of philosophy
no test tubes or measurements
are needed. Only a chess board
with a bishop and a king.

Se movere is the definition of life.

In the world of philosophy
no test tubes or measurements
are needed. Only a chess board
with a bishop and a king.

Time is the measurement of change.
Mutatio. Matter is extension
in time and space.

I throw on my robes
and walk by the sycamores.
My brother walks on the wall.
It is May. We have spring fever.

Mind and body, form and matter,
Esse et essentia. What a delightful life!
Vivere, se movere.

What is so free as thought?
Move the queen diagonally
in a show of force. Consolidate
the pawns, rally the horsemen
and the rooks.

For my brother and me
it is time for the exam.
We will go before the board.
Doctors versed in theorems,
professors with objections
to each and every proof.

Speak! Display your arguments,
weave words, and then
you will be free.

Vacation!
I and my brother will play.
Let words go for another day.
Collect mushrooms, observe hawks,
write poetry. Philosophy
is not dead, it only sleeps.

"CLOSED CAR WASH"

I guess nobody washes their cars in Maine.
The car wash is closed. Even the young guys
with their first used car spiff and polish
them on their own, as well as fixing
their engines. It turns them on
to spit and shine their red 150 horses
in six cylinders.

I guess nobody washes their cars in Maine.
The car wash is closed. Even the young guys
with their first used car spiff and polish
them on their own, as well as fixing
their engines. It turns them on
to spit and shine their red 150 horses
in six cylinders.
But what about
the summer visitors? Well, I guess
today there are a lot of RVs, and people
are too busy with their kids. Why try
to keep the car clean?
So the concrete car wash
is stripped and bare. Will somebody
come along and start it up again?

"A Stranger Walks"

a stranger walks on Highland Avenue
and you? and you? and you?
where are you going this day in your life?
to sharpen a knife? to find a wife?

a stranger walks on Highland Avenue
and you? and you? and you?
where are you going this day in your life?
to sharpen a knife? to find a wife?

or are you alone? alone?
and say
leave well enough
alone! alone!

Japanese maples (ornamental)
and apple trees and wind
strew petals on the path
making it a special day

white April clouds
have grown together
changing blue to grey

a stranger walks to the train
in Winchester town
alone? alone?
(a knife? a wife?)

-Larry Keegan

Stirling Engines

I am very much interested in building Stirling Engines. To start with I had 3 failures: a test tube Stirling Engine, a home brew Stirling Engine built out of a pneumatic cylinder, and a tin can Stirling Engine. Eventually, I got the tin can Stirling Engine to run for 15, 20 and 30 seconds.

I retired at the end of June, 1997. I have set up 2 six foot white countertops in my basement with overhead flourescent lighting. I have constructed some clock escapement mechanisms, a differential gear mechanism made of wood (which is like an analog adder), the Stirling Engines and a water pumping system with plastic tubing and a few solenoid valves for controlling the flow.

The Stirling Engine works on the idea that an enclosed parcel of air will expand when heated, and contract again when the heat is removed. When the air expands it can push an attached piston outward since the air pressure of the air parcel exceeds the outside air pressure. When the heat is withdrawn and the air contracts, the outside air pressure exceeds the pressure of the air parcel, and pushes the piston back in. Now the trick of a Stirling Engine is to move the air rapidly back and forth from the HOT END of an air cylinder to the COLD END of the cylinder. This is accomplished by a mass of material which moves back and forth in the cylinder. The material simply displaces the air from one end to the other for heating or cooling. Notice that the movement of the piston is approximately 90 degrees out of phase with the displacer motion.

For a STIRLING ENGINE project: http://www6.norfolk.infi.net/~babcock/stirling.html

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