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Ralston Laird - King of Petty's Isle

It is not that

there is no information

about the King of Petty's

Island - the son of Roulston

of Raphoe in County Donegal.  


That would just

be wrong to believe.


What we lack is

context.  The who of 

Ralston's self - the size

of his Scots-Irish hands, 


the swagger of his gait

along the isle shores, the 

color of that beard, 

the name of that dog 

at his side, what he sang 

as he tended cattle and 

harvested the pulse.


Did he bathe

In the Delaware.


Was he a good father,

a religionist of any note,

(buried by a black pastor 

from the M.E. Church in

Camden, NJ)

was he concerned with

equity, did he smoke a

pipe, what did he hold

dearest in his life, what

might he have said

when asked about

favorite colors or sounds,

what did he know of

HIS people - OUR people.


How much did he know

of Whitman's poems;

how about of Walt himself.

Neighbors that they were.


These are the things

a heart holds on-to-know.


I have struggled three times

to gain access to the land

that I might hike upon 

the dirt he stretched out

upon.  I cleaned up all sorts

of trash washed up on his island

shores from boaters on the

river and fair Philadelphians.


I have walked his isle, and

hoped for stories to rise up

to me that I might tell them.

Rise up from the dirt.


All I have are those tidbits

stored in the dozen articles

about him, his children, and the

fire that ousted him from the

island two years before his

death.  Was life too busy for

our people to share the stories 

as we grew.  Or, did the murder-

suicide in another branch of


the family 


seal the books of

of context from our lips. 

Hoping to keep us all at

bay for fear one story would 

lead to another, and another lead to

the mess.  It is hard to decipher


what is not written, it is difficult

to strain for meaning in what is

not spoken.  Countless leaves have


fallen to the ground, unopened.

Endless laughter has been stayed

in its tracks.  Seeing him in my beard

gives me hope that a family

can recover context for its footsteps.


And so, 


I cup my ear 

along the water

in the morning 

and I listen for 

what he has to say.  


I turn my nose to the

river for a scent rising

off its surface.


We do not need to know

these treasures to survive,

but it is an hollowed out

soul that seeks itself

only to survive.


Rise, Ralston.  Bring

your dog and island

songs.  Stay a while

and give me pause

to know my context;

to know my past.


This hunger is some

days - NOT ENOUGH.

I feel you in the pounding

of my boot on dirt.  Stay 

a while more, have one more 

cup of coffee.




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