Mark Foley

An Upland Tale
   A chronicle of Wilbur, NY's shipbuilding district and its uplands

The waters and the uplands
         arose so long ago
One could run swiftly
         the other ambled slow
But from rocky heights,
         the land would come to know
And tell a raucous tale
         to the waters down below

See the birth and death of ships
         from keel, to fit, to scrap,
The glare of coaling fires,
         the oven's glowing blast
The drill's shrill whine, the crane's dull tread
         the thud of timber shaped
The piston's shuddered start
         the clank of steel plate

From the dawn's fog veil lifting,
         through the trestle's sundial trace
It's the blur of urgent commerce
         that drives the dollar race!
As the labored engine torques
         in the coolness of the morn
To the rough scratch of quarrymen
         and the 'talk' of tugboat horn

Watch the icy waters rush
         the freshet burst its dam!
with sloop and barge and tug
         tossed madly in a jam
As lines are thrown with urgent shouts
         to any pier that's handy
And bottoms hope for any shore
         that's close by and sandy

But the lands that could witness all
         and whisper to the waters
would also bear the marks
         of men's grasping after dollars
The theft by force and bribe and lie
         from the tribes that tread the dale
The wounds left open on the earth
         to crumble into scale

In present times, an upland climb
         through maple and sycamore
Reveals the sunlit cliff face
         the cedars there adorn
And soon a vantage gained
         where eyes can drink the scene
And whisper to the waters
         "Now, I see what it all means"

As they swing the load, toss a line
         bend to tool and oar
It's all echoed in the heights
         Upland from the shore
                  Upland from the shore!


Dust and Stone
   Commemorating the historic Catskill bluestone industry

By shout and scrape of shovel
         the blue was moved from slumber
Its well-knit cap of soil and root
         undone and set asunder
And now the 'live 'stone bare
         to men's grasping reach and eyes
A turn began to circle 'round
         the takers of this prize

The Boss, he works his 'property'
         The Red Shirt -- plug 'n wedge
And each thinks it's the other
         who plays the role that's less
The Boss will say:
         "This is my due - I made this enterprise!"
The Quarryman says "hardly, friend,
         it was my arms and pride"

         But 'twas stone that drove the days
                  all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
         And every lick of cut and dress
                  the stone's own story tells

Now, those who mine for dollars
         in the veins of sheet and ledger
Calculate from pit to dock
         their profit's proper measure
The grade 1 slabs by Rondout
         as earthen coin's arrayed
But drawn as much from flesh 'n blood
         as from the quarry face

' Cause how many limbs bent breakin'
         from the wagon's sudden slip?
How many eyes put out
         by the wedge's's errant sliver?
The Red Shirts shunned by settled folks
         consigned to shebeen hollow
Unbowed by injury and slight
         the blue runs in their marrow

         But 'twas stone that drove the days
                  all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
         And every lick of cut and dress
                  the stone's own story tells

One hears a groaning stone boat
         brings 'jus six and seventy cent
As bitter bargains must be struck
         for cartage, toll and rent
And as Boss and Red Shirt breathe their last
         that dusty rattle cough
One still gasps "too much, too much"
         the other cries "no, not enough!"

So soon Boss and Quarryman
         are laid for root and soil
Countless ages pass and witness
         the earth's infernal toil
Bones make dust and grain for stone
         and the vein lifts close to sun
Soon, there's scraping on the cap
         a circle round's begun

         'Cause 'twas stone that drove the days
                  all eyes, and lives, were bent its way
         And every lick of cut and dress
                  the stone's own story tells
         From fine grained rock to low born men
                  to Vanderbilt's own glory
         Fate, you see, is certain dust
                  and in the stone it dwells


Rondout Bound
   Celebrating the maritime history of Kingston, NY's Rondout district

John Burroughs praised the clear cool stream
         that flowed from crag and glen
But Rondout would offer more
         than musings for his pen
Gather up the waters
         from the highlands to the plain
Carry nature's plenty and
         the restless work of men
The 'talk' in fog of Cornell's tug
         there's Commerce to be done!
The roar of Mary Powell
         a Catskill tour's begun!

         So, bring your Rondout riches 'round
                  your bounty borne to shouts of steam

A city's anxious appetites
         would call on Rondout pier
And sloop and barge and steamship
         would settle low from here
Groan from brick and bluestone,
         the cement for Roebling's bridge
Coal floated down the D&H
         from Pennsylvania ridge
Tough men came with accents thick
         and rougher ways, as well
To swing the loads and raise a glass
         and shock the Kingston swells

         So, bring your Rondout riches 'round
                  your bounty borne to shouts of steam

Soon the city's human stream
         from crowded avenue
Would seek for rocky spires
         and the famous mountain 'view'
From Manhattan up to Rondout Creek
         in steamship's record time
Then, well met by the R&O
         to speed the Catskill climb
Nature's beauty then the parlor's
         topic de rigeur
The touts of hotel magnates
         are quick to guide your tour!

         So, bring your Rondout riches 'round
                  your bounty borne to shouts of steam

Modern currents now prevail,
         and carry other lives
Mathilda can only ply a stream
         that's made of school trip eyes
Highways carry code to screen
         bring touchpad visions near
Obscure the gift that trace and tale
         would bring of yesteryear
And what now of the clear cool creek
         the poet did esteem?
It watches from the glen
         and listens for the steam!

         So, bring your Rondout riches 'round
                  your bounty borne to shouts of steam
         We have the vessels sure and sound
                  to carry all your Rondout dreams


About the Author

Mark Foley has been creating original song, poetry and satire projects for three decades in New York City and the Hudson River valley. His work has been aired on WBAI-FM, MTV Networks and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. He has performed at the Nuyorican Poets Café, the Knitting Factory, the NYC Half-Marathon Fest, The Lincoln Square Winters Eve Fest, The Summer on The Hudson concert series, the Westchester Arts Council Artbash, the Clearwater Festival (live radio), the Governors Island Family Day, The Arts Society of Kingston and before the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission.

Civic initiatives include VolunteerMusic, producing hundreds of street 'happening' and free civic concerts, and Song Project, which focuses on community land use causes. Local conservation, preservation and civic partners have included the Kingston Land Trust, Landmarks West, and The Governors Island Alliance.

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