~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ The dump has many treasures. I have found many toys and shirts in the shed, and I have one son who will take almost every VHS tape he can find away from it. The tree does not grow far from the apple. I am […]
Nantucket Essays
A Walk with a Not Good Dog
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ Summer takes a while to settle into the island. For most of New England, Memorial Day weekend means finding the cooler, a swimsuit that still fits, and a lake. The Red Sox are still in first place, the grill just got its gas tank […]
Fire and Rain
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ I was lucky enough to sit on the back porch of the Nantucket Hotel on Saturday evening, well out of the passing rain showers and white shirted winos on the street. Instead, I looked into the bottom of glass of bourbon and heard “Fire […]
Song of Youth
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, Walt Whitman has joined the crew. He is not old. He does not have wild hair, a fifty year beard, and leather leggings. As far as I can tell, […]
Orion Departing
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ I have walked passed the snow shovels for weeks. One of them dates back into the eighties, when you could sell shovels that had a teflon coating and would hold pounds of snow; a shovel for the young man who scorned the Nautilus machines […]
Season of the Stick
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ The wind builds. I stand at the door, over a mug of Pumpkin Spice coffee and the birches are clattering together, the clouds tumble overhead, and an uncomfortable and expensive whistle rises from the sliding doors on the porch. My Boon Companion stands on […]
Days Like Tomatoes
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ I was driving between the fields at Bartlett’s when I noticed the moon rising up from the pine trees. I pulled the old car over, but left it running. In the dry and cool Autumn air, the moon processed through one thin line to […]
You Play This Game the Rest of Your Life
~ by Robert Barsanti ~ I watch them. They run across the parking lot in a clatter of cleats and mud. The helmet dangles from one hand and while the other grasps the ball. They are wearing practice shirts with tears and dirt ground into them. Their socks fall down […]
Red Wheelbarrow
~ by Robert P. Barsanti ~ As ordered, a pile of rich loam appeared at end of the driveway on Tuesday morning. The loam had come from the dump, created from the garbage and trash of the previous hundred years of half eaten sandwiches and rotting milk. Give food enough […]
