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    Welcome to the rustic edition of abovegroundtesting not really I thought I would incorporate something autumn into the opening and this is the time of year when the winds howl through the empty branches of trees and the limbs snap providing wood for outdoor fires. The seasons move through the cycle, when once summer's heat ruled, the fast approach of autumn reminds us that the cold of winter will soon gather us in to our places of warmth.
      Do we still gather around the hearth? Do we still use that word? In the community where I live, outside firepits are illegal, some have told me any open fire is illegal. Where is the romance of this community. The burning pit calls to us to return to something not quite as civilized as our society claims to be. To experience warmth of the fire, the aroma of burning wood calls to us to shed for just a moment our cultured ways. To hunt for wood, that's the joy. I remember living in Northern BC and hearing someone say that wood warms you twice, once when you cut it and again when you burn it. That is so true. It was my task to go out in the -40 winter and cut the wood for the fireplace. Swing an axe for an hour and you are quite warm.
    In my previous home, I had a firepit and there I would gather the branches and twigs from the various trees in the backyard and burn it at night, when the sky was clear and the stars shone as bright as winter stars can shine down. I was both cold and warm, and enjoying both experiences.
    I shouldn't say too much about winter, after all we've got four or five months of it forthcoming.

    I've got more to say at the end.

    Let's read some poetry:

Poetry

Michael Levy starts off this month. If you've visited his excellent site you know he's a busy individual, so it is a good thing when he contributes to my ezine.

(Version #2 Aug. 15^th 2007)

in a nursing home
blinded with
macular degeneration.
I come to you,
blurred eyes, crystal mind,
countenance of grace.
as yesterday's winds
I have consumed you
and taken you away.
"Where did God disappear to?"
You murmured
over and over again
like running water
or low voices
in prayer:
"Oh, there He is,
angel of the coming."

Michael Lee Johnson is a freelance writer and poet, who created over 355 poems published in over 135 journals and online publications to date. He is a member of Poets & Writers, Inc and Directory of American Poets & Fictions Writers: http://www.pw.org/. He is a member of The Illinois Authors Directory. Illinois Center for the Book: http://www.illinoiscenterforthebook.org/directory.html . He has been published in the United States, Scotland, Canada, Turkey, New Zealand, Australia, Nigeria, Fiji, India, and the United Kingdom. Michael Lee Johnson's personal website can be found at: http://poetryman.mysite.com/ Mr. Michael Lee Johnson lives in Chicago, IL after spending 10 years in Edmonton, Alberta Canada during the Viet Nam era. He is a freelance writer and poet. He is heavy influenced by Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, and Leonard Cohen. Recent publications: The Orange Room Review, Bolts of Silk, Chantarelle's Notebook, The Foliate Oak Online Literary Magazine, Poetry Cemetery, Official Site of Laura Hird, The Centrifugal Eye, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Scorched Earth Publishing, Café Del Soul (The Cynic Online Magazine) and many others. He is the author of the paperback poetry book: The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom.

SO AND SO I am so and so Inclined to think the unthinkable Daring to ask vexing questions Dispelling illusions enchanted lasting myths I am so and so Relieved that dense phantom haze Of choking incense has lifted Awaiting reticent sun emerging triumphant I am so and so Hopeful contagious falling star glitter Can be caught like cold Magical glimmer casting visionary spell I am so and so Clearly seeing my future Focus not quite as imagined

WARP Borderline fantasy or sheer insanity Wavy bent curves separate imagination From uncontrolled surreal wild hallucinations Whimsical passion yielding outlandish weirdness Indulging in quirky nightmarish visions Where does sound reason end And disorderly madness take over Bizarre unconventional wisdom oddly far-fetched Art compensates for life’s imperfections Mixing eclectic sensibilities moods styles Dipping brush into wellspring fountainhead Painting nature in own self-image Probing ever more deeply unexposed Recesses mindful confusion reeking havoc Precarious breathless edgy balance upsetWorld of eccentricity slightly off-kilter

ONE WAY

Breaking away from dead-end cul-de-sac
	To discover who you are
		Or what you could become
			Thrust head-on into incognito realm

Taking leave tethered chain removed
	Friskily chasing own bushy tail
		Homeless dislocated belonging nowhere special
			Liberation unlimited possibilities to pursue

Surrender floating through strange language
	Forked gutturals bent on fluency
		Postcard sent from anywhere else
			Outsider limbo there not here

Actualized experiences virtual reality detours
	Flexibly changing uncertain timeline bent
		Independent perspective gained from seeing
			Things circumspectly from untold distance

One way Do not enter
	Signs posted no U-turnaround space
		Blindsided by paved good intentions
			Frankly doing whatever My Way

An ARTiculate uinVERSEalist, heretical believer, pragmatic idealist and visionary seer, Dr. Charles Frederickson’s seasoned wonderland intrepid wanderlust has taken him to 206 countries, images and impressions of each presented on http://www.imagesof.8k.com. One-man art gallery shows in Chicago, Bangkok and Amman, as well as dozens of magazine covers and graphic arts illustrations. His innovative poem & picture PoeArtry combos are ongoing Poem of the Day features @listenandbeheard.net as well as progressive political viewpoints at newversenews.com. Current e-exhibitions of his artwork can be viewed at ascentaspirations.ca, abovegroundtesting.com and poetrycemetery.com