Raven Wing

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Bran Jerome's website was lost, but some of its cached pages still exist on the web. If you click the following link [1] you will be given pages from the raven-wing site and you can then click on the google cache of each page to see the content from when it was last crawled. [Most of the formatting and pictures are gone, only the text remains.]

I was searching through them and am posting some below. I like the poems best. I miss Jerome.

--Lisa 00:05, 20 August 2006 (UTC)

Thanks to Margaret Steele for pointing out that the Internet Archive has 6 versions of Jerome's site (latest from March 2005), but apparently not the private area (/home/), which wasn't linked from the home page.*/

--Chris Pepper

Here's another link:*/*

Make sure the last * shows up or you won't get to the page with the listings. There are about 300 listings for raven-wing. You can also get some of the photos from his home page with the listings.

--Lisa 18:54, 27 August 2006 (UTC)

Looking Glass Cemetary

[This is G o o g l e's cache of as retrieved on Apr 29, 2006 13:51:41 GMT.]

WITH rue my heart is laden

For golden friends I had,

For many a rose-lipt maiden

And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping

 The lightfoot boys are laid;

The rose-lipt girls are sleeping

 In fields where roses fade.
         A. E. Housman - "A Shropshire Lad", LIV

Larry "Rab" Marzullo 1947-2002

In July of 2002, my best friend Rab Marzullo took a trip with me and my friend David to Las Vegas. He had never been there, and I wanted him to play and see the spectacle and just have a good time. Rab suffered from severe depression for several years, and I hoped it might be a nice break for him, a total change of scene. Though he had occasional moments of 'the blues', it was a successful trip.

About ten days after returning home to Seattle, Rab left his identification and his keys in his bedroom at his roommate's house, took the bus to West Seattle's Lincoln Park, and took his life in a secluded spot in the heavily-forested park. His body was not discovered for almost a month, and with no i.d., the police did not know who he was. It is our belief that he wished to remain a "John Doe", so as not to trouble his friends and family (and in fact, a note found with his body indicated this).

During this time, his roommate, his brother, and I had been trying to locate him. Though this was the worst possible outcome, in a way it was better than not having any idea where he was, and if he was suffering somewhere. The morgue was able to identify him in part through the distinctive tattoos on his forearms.

Rab (short for Rabbit) had a notoriously poor sense of direction. He could still get lost even in Seattle, where he lived almost all his life. One time when he visited me in New York, Rab told me that I should come pick him up, because he didn't want to get lost, and I'd have to find him "at a police station, eating an ice cream and wearing a cop hat sideways." For years, that image has stayed with me - my buddy in a Normal Rockwell magazine cover. On the Las Vegas trip, we even joked that when he went off to play slots by himself, I should give him a balloon so that I could find him again in the casino, in case he couldn't find his way back to me.

Last week, while browsing in a bookstore in NYC, I saw a new children's book called "Little Rabbit Lost". A bunny and his family go to an amusement park to celebrate the little rabbit's birthday, and he gets separated from his family. They are able to find him at the end because of the big red balloon he is holding.

Over the years, I sent Rab many children's books, along with the stuffed bunnies and other gifts. The impulse to send this new book was so automatic, I had to stop myself from buying it to send 'anyway'. How he would have laughed to see a book that could have been written specifically for him. What I would do to know he was smiling once more... I don't know how long it will be before I stop finding things like that book, that I want to send to my dear friend. I constantly see books, or movies, or rabbit-themed gifts, that I want to share with him. With his death, a huge portion of my own history has passed away - he shared memories and revelations and dreams that no one else is privy to, knew me better than anyone ever has.

For me, the most difficult part of this has been the thought of his body laying neglected for an entire month, alone, in the brush of the park.

I went to Lincoln Park, and planted a flowering bush ('fragrant sarcoccoca') in the place where Rab died. I am so grateful to the park custodian who helped me find the exact location. I miss my buddy, my love, my friend. My one consolation is that the pain he lived with is now over.

Rab's ashes were interred at Evergreen-Washelli Cemetery.


[This is G o o g l e's cache of as retrieved on Apr 30, 2006 19:29:49 GMT.]

I fell in love before I learned that you

 could magic me into a dog.  No more

than one quick smile and I was turned into

 a big galumphing huge-pawed labrador.

With lolling tongue, I caper 'round or fit

 my nose against your palm.  No joy so sweet

as pacing at your heels, and when you sit

 I long to rest my head against your feet.

But turn your back, and basset ears will drape

 with drooping head and tearful eyes immense,

then crammed into a pekinese's shape

 I snarl and yap with furious impotence.

I'll be your hound. My only wish is that

 the next time, you might let me be your cat.


[This is G o o g l e's cache of as retrieved on Apr 30, 2006 22:19:37 GMT.]

If I sent you roses, would you smile?

Eddies of full-blown red, petal upon ruby petal, crowning a sheaf of emerald leaves – would the jewel colors bring a diamond sparkle to your eyes? Or would you blanch in horror at my too-forward expression of romance?

 Perhaps it would be proper to send pink –

the shade of a blush, a blossoming tree, to sing of my new-spring love. Confronted with a spray of rose-quartz foliage on your desk, would you answer with a blush of your own, or would you tell office mates, "They're from a maiden aunt, who always gets my birthday wrong"?

  Yellow, then, and not so many.

Seven perfect canary buds like the sun in a child's drawing. Lemon, margarine, "I can't believe they're not scarlet!" Would a Friendship Bouquet in an idiotic coffee mug be an insult to the depth of what I feel for you?

   A single white rosebud would be simple, pure, 

elegant, passionless. Though the palest roses have the sweetest perfume, I am not yet ready to lay a lily on the grave of our potential.

    Should I find you roses in exotic lavender?

Or colors that do not exist - mirrored bronze, Aegean blue, glass-opal clear? What message would you read in a bottle vase with the color of the ink your only clue to the treasure?

     The noble rose alone

can't begin to speak my passion. I would fill your room with daffodil trumpets, tiger lilies afire, long scepters of bearded iris, all bound in the embrace of twining morning glories, blue-fuchsia-violet rainbow explosion, riot of macaws, cathedral stained glass – a rose window of sun-bright hues in which to worship you.

In the Spring

[This is G o o g l e's cache of as retrieved on Apr 29, 2006 22:09:42 GMT.]

In the spring of my days I waited, poised, like a bud swollen with promise, ready to burst open and dazzle a face seeking my presence, soft pink petals ruffled, crowding, straining to bring delight to deep, deep eyes.

Borne by liquid winds, I floated

through cold days searching for the warmth and beauty of I-know-not-what until, circling the orchard of street signs (their green-white leaves constant unfurled with solemn purpose) I came upon you.

 Like firework spectacle brilliance

hope-blossoms exploded softly all at once. I waited, peacock- like, to see if you, turning the corner, scanning the street, sensing the waves of my shy ardor, would return my gaze.

  Your smile made blossoms cascade down.

After the sparkle of spring's sweet promise, our summer days were lush and ripe. Under your bright daylight eyes, your clover-honey smile, my blood sang a ruby carillon arpeggio, driven by a timpani heart.

   My thirst slackened by the nectar

of your attentions, I paused, and breathed in the cool condensation of fairy-tale dreams suddenly made true. The pounding ocean salt had no more sting for me than did the beaded sweat we wore as we lay side by side.

    Wading through grass like emeralds,

like feathers, we watched the firefly dance, each rustic/electric nymph clothed in jewel light, sprinkled through the dark leaves like altar-candle pips from a remarkable lime, silently going about their secret tree-top errands. And your hand warm in mine.

     Unwarned by the curling orange

and yellow rust of impending autumn, I received your last kiss, lips touched lightly to my sun-warmed brow, a blessing unbearably sweet, to be cherished as a star- gleam diamond when the trees let go of painted leaves, and cold gusts blew you from my side.

      As if midnight intruders had

stolen carefully-piled cordwood (collected when trees relinquished the grasp of roots to the dark earth to fall among their own cast-off leaves), I await the burning breath of winter, turning the diamond / blessing / brush of lips to forehead over and over in my hands.

Makes You Think

[This is G o o g l e's cache of as retrieved on Apr 29, 2006 16:48:44 GMT.]

My dear friend David was recently diagnosed, and hospitalized, with a brain tumor. This has caused me to think on all sorts of matters, some of which I'd like to share with any interested readers.

If you collapsed in your apartment, how long do you think would it be before anyone would find you?

If you had a serious illness, would someone take charge of your affairs? If so, who would it be?

If you were hospitalized, is it easier to recover in peace and quiet, or would you want a lot of company? Would you expect a lot of people to visit?

Do you think of someone as just a "friend", that you would actually be devastated to lose (even if that just means to another state)? Would you know the extent of your feelings before the situation arises?

How much of your attention to other people is really about fulfilling your own needs?

If someone you really cared for became very ill, would you be on "the list" of people who would be informed about it?

I love you, David. Continue your recovery, be strong, and get well soon.

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