Billie Barbara, Jerri, April and Ellen,
I hope all is well among the Masten clan down on the coast. I have attached a poem that was written by Mary Lou Taylor, a published poet in Santa Clara county. Mary Lou is a friend who didn't know Ric personally but saw him perform at my wife's memorial service in 2005. Since then she has become familiar with his background and work. She shared this piece with me recently and gave me permission to pass it on to the Masten family. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. I will try to get down to Big Sur sometime before the year's end. In the meantime....
Dance!
Joe Malone
White Feathers – For Ric Masten
By Mary Lou Taylor
I met him only once at a memorial.
I missed his — but from what I know
he went out dancing.
His family stood around his bed
candles lit, singing, singing
a song Ric wrote.
It had to do with dancing.
Their note to friends after
mentioned feathers.
Why feathers?
Why not the dragonfly
he could change into at five?
When you can do that, he said,
why, you can do everything.
And he could do anything.
Painter, actor, carpenter, runner,
he didn't find his true voice
until he discovered poetry.
He called himself old, broken-down.
He never discovered punctuation.
What he uncovered was joy every day.
When it was his turn to melt into the shadows
that edge the green, that tough, tenacious survivor
left, hanging white feathers on the wind.
Mary Lou Taylor
Fall 2008
I hope all is well among the Masten clan down on the coast. I have attached a poem that was written by Mary Lou Taylor, a published poet in Santa Clara county. Mary Lou is a friend who didn't know Ric personally but saw him perform at my wife's memorial service in 2005. Since then she has become familiar with his background and work. She shared this piece with me recently and gave me permission to pass it on to the Masten family. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. I will try to get down to Big Sur sometime before the year's end. In the meantime....
Dance!
Joe Malone
White Feathers – For Ric Masten
By Mary Lou Taylor
I met him only once at a memorial.
I missed his — but from what I know
he went out dancing.
His family stood around his bed
candles lit, singing, singing
a song Ric wrote.
It had to do with dancing.
Their note to friends after
mentioned feathers.
Why feathers?
Why not the dragonfly
he could change into at five?
When you can do that, he said,
why, you can do everything.
And he could do anything.
Painter, actor, carpenter, runner,
he didn't find his true voice
until he discovered poetry.
He called himself old, broken-down.
He never discovered punctuation.
What he uncovered was joy every day.
When it was his turn to melt into the shadows
that edge the green, that tough, tenacious survivor
left, hanging white feathers on the wind.
Mary Lou Taylor
Fall 2008
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