5/10/2011
promises
"Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be moved, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed."
- Isaiah 54:10
"Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you."
- Jeremiah 29:12
"I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them, I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them."
- Isaiah 42:16
"And this is what he promises us - even eternal life ."
- 1 John 2:25
"He has given us His very great and precious promises..."
- 2 Peter 1:4
4/28/2011
4/27/2011
(oikos)
we have come to a heavy part, my friend
and
the singing is difficult,
i am very weary.
the song itself is heavy - each note is like a stone,
each syllable like a brick of gold.
sing with me, for i am filled with the heaviness of the song
and i long to drop it
and be silent.
sing with me, lest the song be silenced
and music perish from the earth.
and
the singing is difficult,
i am very weary.
the song itself is heavy - each note is like a stone,
each syllable like a brick of gold.
sing with me, for i am filled with the heaviness of the song
and i long to drop it
and be silent.
sing with me, lest the song be silenced
and music perish from the earth.
4/25/2011
[the wastefulness of creation]
Three Ridges Trail
April 23, 2011
(these pictures are for you, laura)
and it was clear,
out there in the fog
with the trees towering over us,
that God's sanctuary is not made
with human hands,
but rather through the Word,
in whom dwells all the goodness and majesty and holiness
of God the Father.
We had walked into one of those held-together places
where the beauty of creation
held up a mirror to the One
at the right hand of God.
Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in Thy presence is fulness of joy; at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore. Psalm 16:11
If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Colossians 3:1
April 23, 2011
(these pictures are for you, laura)
and it was clear,
out there in the fog
with the trees towering over us,
that God's sanctuary is not made
with human hands,
but rather through the Word,
in whom dwells all the goodness and majesty and holiness
of God the Father.
We had walked into one of those held-together places
where the beauty of creation
held up a mirror to the One
at the right hand of God.
Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in Thy presence is fulness of joy; at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore. Psalm 16:11
If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God. Colossians 3:1
4/24/2011
He Is Risen Indeed
my love is sleeping in the other room
as the neighbor's dog scratches at the door and barks.
Rain, thunder, and repetitive birdsong
steal in through the window screens.
It's Easter Sunday.
He is risen...
...but the dishes aren't washed
and the floor isn't swept
and that dog is still barking.
And barking...
...but He is risen.
The Lord Christ is risen from the dead...
...but my puny tomato plant is
being beaten down by the rain
and laundry needs doing
(and barking barking barking)
and tomorrow's Monday and my feet hurt...
...but He is risen.
Lord, listen to the grimy misery of my heart,
encrusted with the mundane
and saturated with trivialities;
right now, it cannot soak in the Easter glory
or revel in redemption.
Lord, help me!
Tangled in chains of self-focus, my spiritual feet
cannot run to the tomb to rejoice with the angels;
My ears are tuned only to creation groaning in frustration.
How else could one barking dog drown out out the whole host of heaven?
Day and night they do not cease to say,
HOLY, HOLY, HOLY is THE LORD GOD, THE ALMIGHTY, WHO WAS AND WHO IS AND WHO IS TO COME.
Laden with spices, the women went to anoint your body; they loved you.
Even in their grief, their faith was strong - the stone was too big
for them to move, but they trusted you.
You led them to an open mystery, you rewarded their faith with Christ,
you replaced their tears with wonder.
You are mighty; you are Life.
In perfect obedience to Love
you fulfilled the written requirement.
You are worthy; you are the Lamb.
Forgive me, Jesus, for lingering so long today
before acknowledging your authority over death and its children;
in my head, I know you are the Light of the World
but the shadow-nature lurks within,
darkening my heart from you.
Only in your victory is sin conquered.
Only in your light do I see light.
Forgive my unbelief. Thank you for your grace. Lead me in your truth.
Alleluia!
Amen!
as the neighbor's dog scratches at the door and barks.
Rain, thunder, and repetitive birdsong
steal in through the window screens.
It's Easter Sunday.
He is risen...
...but the dishes aren't washed
and the floor isn't swept
and that dog is still barking.
And barking...
...but He is risen.
The Lord Christ is risen from the dead...
...but my puny tomato plant is
being beaten down by the rain
and laundry needs doing
(and barking barking barking)
and tomorrow's Monday and my feet hurt...
...but He is risen.
Lord, listen to the grimy misery of my heart,
encrusted with the mundane
and saturated with trivialities;
right now, it cannot soak in the Easter glory
or revel in redemption.
Lord, help me!
Tangled in chains of self-focus, my spiritual feet
cannot run to the tomb to rejoice with the angels;
My ears are tuned only to creation groaning in frustration.
How else could one barking dog drown out out the whole host of heaven?
Day and night they do not cease to say,
HOLY, HOLY, HOLY is THE LORD GOD, THE ALMIGHTY, WHO WAS AND WHO IS AND WHO IS TO COME.
Laden with spices, the women went to anoint your body; they loved you.
Even in their grief, their faith was strong - the stone was too big
for them to move, but they trusted you.
You led them to an open mystery, you rewarded their faith with Christ,
you replaced their tears with wonder.
You are mighty; you are Life.
In perfect obedience to Love
you fulfilled the written requirement.
You are worthy; you are the Lamb.
Forgive me, Jesus, for lingering so long today
before acknowledging your authority over death and its children;
in my head, I know you are the Light of the World
but the shadow-nature lurks within,
darkening my heart from you.
Only in your victory is sin conquered.
Only in your light do I see light.
Forgive my unbelief. Thank you for your grace. Lead me in your truth.
Alleluia!
Amen!
4/21/2011
4/20/2011
water of life
"God gives vision because of need. If there is no need, there will be no vision."
Water of Life,
I need thee. I am parched to my roots.
I am scorched, I am wilting.
Revive me.
In my need, give me a green vision.
Not because of my need,
but because of thy Nature;
not because of my pain,
but because of thy grace;
not because of my death,
but because of thy Life;
not because of my weakness,
but because of thy strength;
Heal me, that I may sing of thy power,
that the greatness of thy Name might spread
like a cloud.
That the glory of
thy Son may storm the face of the earth.
Water of Life,
I believe that there is no growth
or goodness apart from thee.
I need thee.
Revive me.
all hail the King, who holds dominion. all praise and honor to Him be given. Let all rejoice, for the glory of the Lamb is at hand
(photo from SMI)
Water of Life,
I need thee. I am parched to my roots.
I am scorched, I am wilting.
Revive me.
In my need, give me a green vision.
Not because of my need,
but because of thy Nature;
not because of my pain,
but because of thy grace;
not because of my death,
but because of thy Life;
not because of my weakness,
but because of thy strength;
that the greatness of thy Name might spread
like a cloud.
That the glory of
thy Son may storm the face of the earth.
Water of Life,
I believe that there is no growth
or goodness apart from thee.
I need thee.
Revive me.
all hail the King, who holds dominion. all praise and honor to Him be given. Let all rejoice, for the glory of the Lamb is at hand
(photo from SMI)
4/19/2011
[glean]
hands
pricked by stubble
dry mouth, dusty hair
back bent, neck sunburned...
gleaning, gleaning
Take heart! Your kinsman-redeemer has seen your labor;
he knows your struggle: each grain a kindness to bitter old Naomi,
each day a love-offering to your dead husband.
He sees how freely you sacrifice.
He prizes you in his heart.
Be of good cheer, Ruth -
better days are coming!
pricked by stubble
dry mouth, dusty hair
back bent, neck sunburned...
gleaning, gleaning
Take heart! Your kinsman-redeemer has seen your labor;
he knows your struggle: each grain a kindness to bitter old Naomi,
each day a love-offering to your dead husband.
He sees how freely you sacrifice.
He prizes you in his heart.
Be of good cheer, Ruth -
better days are coming!
Blue Ridge Mamma
the river's rising
the clouds are thick enough
to make the sun seem like it never was
i've got the blues, mamma,
i've got the april blues
honey, it's days like this
you gotta lace your boots on good
and fight your way back
to the sweet virginia hills.
only one cure I know, child -
you gotta sit down among the bluebells
& just be still.
the clouds are thick enough
to make the sun seem like it never was
i've got the blues, mamma,
i've got the april blues
honey, it's days like this
you gotta lace your boots on good
and fight your way back
to the sweet virginia hills.
only one cure I know, child -
you gotta sit down among the bluebells
& just be still.
4/18/2011
The Last Samurai Sky
When I look up at
The wide-stretched plain of heaven,
Is the moon the same
That rose on Mount Mikasa
In the land of Kasuga?
(Abe no Nakamaro)
4/13/2011
The Lyre & the Snake
(draft 1 in progress)
Apollo walked the corridors of light
carrying his bow. The arrows at his back
were tipped for war. His eyes, brighter
than the blaze of Troy, burnished
the ground beneath his feet.
His voice hummed low an
old paeanic hymn. The words
were grim:
twice molten by the
muses' gaze
are those who fail
Apollo's praise.
thrice plagued - undone -
may mortals fall
if they forget Apollo's thrall.
The snake foretells, the lyre sings,
and arrows strike on sunlit wings.
Apollo comes
Apollo comes
Cupid hears his song with scorn. Draws from his quiver two shafts - one gold, one lead.
Apollo...Daphne...the song is dead....
Could it be that he who gives oracles
to all in the world
is not wise enough
to look
into
his
own fortunes?
Grief ecliptic. Victim? Victor?
The girl is tree is leaf is sacred.
Oh my laurel love, daughter of the river-god...o my Daphne, Daphne!
Reason is fled, heresies abound - listen to old Aristarchus!
He scoffs the very chariot of Helios.
Or that old scholar-scoundrel, Ptolemy.
measuring distance from the earth to the sun in myriads of stadia...
lyre and the snakes!
snakes and lyre...
godless men will end in fire!
image from here
Apollo walked the corridors of light
carrying his bow. The arrows at his back
were tipped for war. His eyes, brighter
than the blaze of Troy, burnished
the ground beneath his feet.
His voice hummed low an
old paeanic hymn. The words
were grim:
twice molten by the
muses' gaze
are those who fail
Apollo's praise.
thrice plagued - undone -
may mortals fall
if they forget Apollo's thrall.
The snake foretells, the lyre sings,
and arrows strike on sunlit wings.
Apollo comes
Apollo comes
Cupid hears his song with scorn. Draws from his quiver two shafts - one gold, one lead.
Apollo...Daphne...the song is dead....
Could it be that he who gives oracles
to all in the world
is not wise enough
to look
into
his
own fortunes?
Grief ecliptic. Victim? Victor?
The girl is tree is leaf is sacred.
Oh my laurel love, daughter of the river-god...o my Daphne, Daphne!
Reason is fled, heresies abound - listen to old Aristarchus!
He scoffs the very chariot of Helios.
Or that old scholar-scoundrel, Ptolemy.
measuring distance from the earth to the sun in myriads of stadia...
lyre and the snakes!
snakes and lyre...
godless men will end in fire!
image from here
4/12/2011
[remembering that june sky in the florida keys]
shake out the crick in your neck
it's the end of the day
and
the sky is saying goodnight
All the long hours you've been staring
into spaces right in front of you....
don't you know that God is bigger than that?
Go out to the water's edge,
the Lord wants to bless your eyes
and soothe your mind
with the chaos of perfect
harmony.
it's the end of the day...shake out your soul
and make room for Beauty.
4/08/2011
to the lions!
"They say to me 'Return!' But from the arms of God to whom can I return?...It is now 45 years that I am walking with the God of miracles, and His kindness upon me is like a shadow. Therefore I am not only satisfied to be in prison for the honor of His Holy Name, but am ready to give my life for the sake of Jesus my Lord, and enter into His kingdom sooner." - Pastor Mehdi Dibaj, imprisoned in Iran for ten years, released, and then murdered.
One of the most brilliant men who ever lived...(from opium to freedom)
This is the second-to-last poem ever written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge:
My Baptismal Birthday
God's child in Christ adopted, - Christ my all, -
What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather
Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call
The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father? -
Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee -
Eternal Thou, and everlasting we.
The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death:
In Christ I live! in Christ I draw the breath
Of the true life! - Let, then, earth, sea, and sky
Make war against me! On my front I show
Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try
To end my life, that can but end its woe. -
Is that a deathbed, where a Christian lies? -
Yes! but not his - 'tis Death itself that dies.
This is the last:
Epitaph
Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.--
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
(dated November 9th, 1833. He died on July 25, 1834.)
My Baptismal Birthday
God's child in Christ adopted, - Christ my all, -
What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather
Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call
The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father? -
Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee -
Eternal Thou, and everlasting we.
The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death:
In Christ I live! in Christ I draw the breath
Of the true life! - Let, then, earth, sea, and sky
Make war against me! On my front I show
Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try
To end my life, that can but end its woe. -
Is that a deathbed, where a Christian lies? -
Yes! but not his - 'tis Death itself that dies.
This is the last:
Epitaph
Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.--
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
(dated November 9th, 1833. He died on July 25, 1834.)
4/01/2011
missing the florida sun
when i consider how my light is spent
far from my mother's table & my father's arms;
that one home that was my joy & pride
flung from me, reckless, ere my youth was done...
O, you deceptive blessings of progress! You enable the distance!
(photo credit to Caroline Pilgrim)
far from my mother's table & my father's arms;
that one home that was my joy & pride
flung from me, reckless, ere my youth was done...
O, you deceptive blessings of progress! You enable the distance!
(photo credit to Caroline Pilgrim)
3/31/2011
From The Temple (1633), by George Herbert:
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge described this as "a delicious poem")
The Flower.
How Fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d greennesse? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell,
We say amisse,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
O that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-showre,
My sinnes and I joining together;
But while I grow to a straight line;
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
The Flower.
How Fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel’d heartCould have recover’d greennesse? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell,
We say amisse,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.
O that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-showre,
My sinnes and I joining together;
But while I grow to a straight line;
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
3/30/2011
3/29/2011
painting the roses red...
hurrah for transforming some old earrings into new ones, with a little acrylic paint and a longing for June roses....
3/28/2011
i've got a powerful hankering to try this
for instructions, go to http://www.instructables.com/id/Natural-Wood-Raised-Garden/
3/27/2011
Thou, rosemary woman, art small....
For Laura M.
[ rosmarinus officinalis - or rosemary - is a herb whose evergreen leaves give off a sharp, almost lemon-scented fragrance when crushed. It is native to the Mediterranean region, and was said to be draped around Aphrodite when she rose from the sea.
Newly wed couples in the Middle Ages would plant a branch of rosemary on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was an happy omen, signifying a lifetime of loyalty. It was said that placing a sprig of rosemary under a pillow before sleep would keep nightmares at bay.
The name rosemary derives from the Latin name rosmarinus, which is from "dew" (ros) and "sea" (marinus), or "dew of the sea" because in many locations it needs no other water than the humidity carried by the sea breeze to live.]
* * * * * * * *
Thou, rosemary woman, art small
with golden streaks,
repelling nightmares,
rooted deep.
Thou, rosemary woman, art a good omen -
everblooming,
beloved on land yet
longing for the sea.
Oh, thou small, gold-streaked thing, take heart!
A sea-breeze Sabbath is on th' way!
He who made thee knows thy every part
& craves your good; loves life, not death;
Well knows thy name, Dew of the Sea,
& loves your frame; He spoke it in a breath.
[ rosmarinus officinalis - or rosemary - is a herb whose evergreen leaves give off a sharp, almost lemon-scented fragrance when crushed. It is native to the Mediterranean region, and was said to be draped around Aphrodite when she rose from the sea.
Newly wed couples in the Middle Ages would plant a branch of rosemary on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was an happy omen, signifying a lifetime of loyalty. It was said that placing a sprig of rosemary under a pillow before sleep would keep nightmares at bay.
The name rosemary derives from the Latin name rosmarinus, which is from "dew" (ros) and "sea" (marinus), or "dew of the sea" because in many locations it needs no other water than the humidity carried by the sea breeze to live.]
* * * * * * * *
Thou, rosemary woman, art small
with golden streaks,
repelling nightmares,
rooted deep.
Thou, rosemary woman, art a good omen -
everblooming,
beloved on land yet
longing for the sea.
Oh, thou small, gold-streaked thing, take heart!
A sea-breeze Sabbath is on th' way!
He who made thee knows thy every part
& craves your good; loves life, not death;
Well knows thy name, Dew of the Sea,
& loves your frame; He spoke it in a breath.
3/26/2011
Bowl full of colors
some friendships are like glass candy.
pretty, but awkward when you realize
they're not meant to be satisfying.
other friendships are like colored beads:
you traded the living soil of the Earth
just to hold them, small and foreign,
in your hand. Then you lose them one by one.
the best friendships need no comparison to glass,
unless it be the smooth green of sea-glass,
weathered by waves and sand,
held in your hand
3/25/2011
3/24/2011
muy linda
unstolen yet taken,
a thing of flight immovable,
from Costa Rica, one butterfly.
It is a token of love
from my lover,
though
truth needs
no
token
3/23/2011
Black & White
there is a country of black and white,
where the women wear hats and the men carry time on a chain-
travel there in summer, and you will see families at the seaside,
wandering about in the black and white sunlight.
3/22/2011
Eccl 4:1
- "Again I saw all the oppressions that are done under the sun. And behold, the tears of the oppressed, and they had no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power, and there was no one to comfort them." - Eccl 4:1
3/21/2011
Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Nothing is so beautiful as spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
3/20/2011
3/18/2011
the stirring
Where are the spring days of my girlhood?
lily-of-the-valley dangle diamonds of dew
Whence fled the springtime of my girlhood?
wide-eyed sunshine and a world made anew
Oh they are lost, you woman of idleness, oh it has gone, young woman of work!
Though the world is a garden, you have forgotten;
you have neglected the garden of joy.
Open your eyes, you woman of girlhood,
open them wide to the sights of today:
- the spears of the iris are rising like soldiers,
- the daffodil-gold is spread like a quilt
- the robin is already boasting his colors
- the sword-blades of grass are green to the hilt
Exult in this day, oh daughter of worry,
rejoice in the lavishness lavished on you!
Rejoice in the Maker, oh daughter of duty,
exult in His bounty, you child of pain.
For He is the Lord, of springtime and harvest,
and it His is pleasure you’ve discovered again!
lily-of-the-valley dangle diamonds of dew
Whence fled the springtime of my girlhood?
wide-eyed sunshine and a world made anew
Oh they are lost, you woman of idleness, oh it has gone, young woman of work!
Though the world is a garden, you have forgotten;
you have neglected the garden of joy.
Open your eyes, you woman of girlhood,
open them wide to the sights of today:
- the spears of the iris are rising like soldiers,
- the daffodil-gold is spread like a quilt
- the robin is already boasting his colors
- the sword-blades of grass are green to the hilt
Exult in this day, oh daughter of worry,
rejoice in the lavishness lavished on you!
Rejoice in the Maker, oh daughter of duty,
exult in His bounty, you child of pain.
For He is the Lord, of springtime and harvest,
and it His is pleasure you’ve discovered again!
3/17/2011
The Seven Mountains
Seven mountains in the morning
slumber grey beneath the clouds
river-water flows between them
roads of men are carved along them
hinds and harts take refuge in them
the Seven mountains now are grey
Seven mountains in the noontime
hum with green beneath the sun
river-water drowns their anthem
the ships of men speed fast below them
fox and vixen chase about them
the Seven mountains now are green
Seven mountains in the twilight
shake the trees beneath the moon
river-people dance before them
wild winds exult above them
the homes of men are locked against them
the Seven mountains now awake.
slumber grey beneath the clouds
river-water flows between them
roads of men are carved along them
hinds and harts take refuge in them
the Seven mountains now are grey
Seven mountains in the noontime
hum with green beneath the sun
river-water drowns their anthem
the ships of men speed fast below them
fox and vixen chase about them
the Seven mountains now are green
Seven mountains in the twilight
shake the trees beneath the moon
river-people dance before them
wild winds exult above them
the homes of men are locked against them
the Seven mountains now awake.
3/16/2011
Three. Inches. (of rain)
March woke up with a crick in her back,
cramped like a crocus underground.
With a shake, and a shower of snow,
she sat up.
Wind-tousled. Mud-stained. Cold.
A fat little robin, perched on an unbudded branch,
peeked hopefully down
to glimpse her face.
Uh oh!
She's grumpy!
HERE COMES THE RAIN!!!!!!!!
(true story.)
cramped like a crocus underground.
With a shake, and a shower of snow,
she sat up.
Wind-tousled. Mud-stained. Cold.
A fat little robin, perched on an unbudded branch,
peeked hopefully down
to glimpse her face.
Uh oh!
She's grumpy!
HERE COMES THE RAIN!!!!!!!!
(true story.)
3/15/2011
ze arts
hopefully, the planets will align this weekend & my paintbrushes will see some more action. these pictures are nearly ancient history!
there's something about the spartan manner, makes me miss the days of yore...
my great-great-great grandma was a full-blooded Cherokee....
there's something about the spartan manner, makes me miss the days of yore...
my great-great-great grandma was a full-blooded Cherokee....
3/08/2011
3/04/2011
Boanerges
Sons of thunder,
daughters of lightning
walk out of the shadowlands
and into the valley.
the armies of evil
are massed against you,
but the ordered power
of the storm is in your hearts,
not theirs.
they will fall.
and then
your Father will send the rain,
it will fall,
and falling shall the ground
be washed,
and your storm-rage
will turn into
a dance of worship,
Truth no longer defended
but
known by all.
(note: "Boanerges" means "sons of thunder." It is the name given by Jesus to James and John. Mark 3:17 )
daughters of lightning
walk out of the shadowlands
and into the valley.
the armies of evil
are massed against you,
but the ordered power
of the storm is in your hearts,
not theirs.
they will fall.
and then
your Father will send the rain,
it will fall,
and falling shall the ground
be washed,
and your storm-rage
will turn into
a dance of worship,
Truth no longer defended
but
known by all.
(note: "Boanerges" means "sons of thunder." It is the name given by Jesus to James and John. Mark 3:17 )
2/18/2011
“Any Morning” - William Stafford
Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.
People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can't
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.
Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.
Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.
People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can't
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.
Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won’t even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.
Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.
2/10/2011
Contextualization
Liberty, you say?
Redefined unto deformity,
mutilated into the likeness
of your utilitarian Ahshera.
Were the high hills not enough for you?
Must you come into our homes
and teach our children to
kill theirs?
Redefined unto deformity,
mutilated into the likeness
of your utilitarian Ahshera.
Were the high hills not enough for you?
Must you come into our homes
and teach our children to
kill theirs?
2/09/2011
“the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls”
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also,with the church’s protestant blessings
daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things—
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
. . . . the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless,the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
- e.e. cummings
the Pilgrim women who live in furnished souls
kneel in azure crystal and have starry crowns...
(also, with their Lord's finishing wrappings
daughters, fragrant redeemed spirited)
they believe in Christ and Lewis, both resurrected,
are invariably interested in only one thing -
at the present writing one still finds
joyous tongues singing for is it the Lamb?
of course. While permanent raptures gravely battle
scandal of Old Man and New Creation
....the Pilgrim women do not break, beneath
Pilgrimage if sometimes on the path of
thorns hideous and borderless, that
fallen star murmurs its hangman's requiem
- j. c. smith
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also,with the church’s protestant blessings
daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things—
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
. . . . the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless,the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
- e.e. cummings
the Pilgrim women who live in furnished souls
kneel in azure crystal and have starry crowns...
(also, with their Lord's finishing wrappings
daughters, fragrant redeemed spirited)
they believe in Christ and Lewis, both resurrected,
are invariably interested in only one thing -
at the present writing one still finds
joyous tongues singing for is it the Lamb?
of course. While permanent raptures gravely battle
scandal of Old Man and New Creation
....the Pilgrim women do not break, beneath
Pilgrimage if sometimes on the path of
thorns hideous and borderless, that
fallen star murmurs its hangman's requiem
- j. c. smith
1/19/2011
The Like-Minded
distinguish in the spectrum of silence
the potential throb of sound.
cherish it, alone in your cave,
for the older prophets
have proclaimed
the fabric unbroken;
hold hard to hope.
cherish
silence.
the potential throb of sound.
cherish it, alone in your cave,
for the older prophets
have proclaimed
the fabric unbroken;
hold hard to hope.
cherish
silence.
11/17/2010
An idea
Child lost in the catskill mountains.
Escaped convict hiding in the same mountains.
Search & rescue efforts mixed with police/FBI teams.
Meanwhile, the convict has to choose whether or not to help the lost child....
I don't imagine it's an original plot, but i'm gonna write the story any way.
(on a semi-related note - this is gross: Prisoner cuts off own ear http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8657960.stm)
Escaped convict hiding in the same mountains.
Search & rescue efforts mixed with police/FBI teams.
Meanwhile, the convict has to choose whether or not to help the lost child....
I don't imagine it's an original plot, but i'm gonna write the story any way.
(on a semi-related note - this is gross: Prisoner cuts off own ear http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8657960.stm)
11/05/2010
The Beast: Slavery
Piol was seven years old when his mother asked him to go sell eggs and peanuts at the market...15 miles away. Although he would rather play with his friends, Piol knew better than to contest his mother's request, so he headed off, cargo in hand.
Smoke. Gunshots. Screams.
Arab raiders, backed by the Khartoum government, had hacked down his family, torched his village, and were approaching the market. The little Dinka tribesboy had no idea what was going on, where to hide, or what to do. Then the killing began.
He watched the attack. One after another, men & women slumped next to their stalls, their bodies assuming slack postures of relaxation...it was Piol's first look at death.
* * * * * * * *
I heard Piol speak last night. His western name is Francis Bok, and he's a refugee from Southern Sudan.
10/28/2010
A new look at old books: "Atlas Shrugged"
"Atlas Shrugged is a hateful book, deserving of hatred, which contains nothing between its covers but adequate writing and deplorable ideas."
- Sarah Szabo, Variety Editor for the student newspaper of the University of Tulsa
In her review of Atlas Shrugged, Szabo savages Ayn Rand as a sad, bitter, second-class writer still shell-shocked from starving in Russia. Szabo asserts that Atlas Shrugged is full of material that makes Stalin look tame, claiming Rand had "ideas that were just as bad, just as cruel, and somehow even more painful to read than the ideologies of her enemies."
Somehow failing to notice any characters beside Dagny and John Galt, and overlooking the necessity to objectively critique any idea, principle, or passage contained in its pages, Szabo opens herself up to the suspicion that she either never read the book, or she's the progeny of Betram Scudder.
In her own words, "None of this would be all that offensive if it were not just idiotic in every conceivable way."
(Note: I started reading Atlas Shrugged a few weeks ago, and just reached the 600 page mark. As soon as I finish, I will publish my own review (warning: expect analysis of actual content)).
(Note 2: The University of Tulsa recently received $750,000 in federal funding for a yet unproductive experiment trying to refine algae into gasoline. Government funding accounts for 59% of the school's research budget.)
Pardon me as I transition from laughing to weeping.
10/22/2010
10/21/2010
10/20/2010
Quotables
"As academics in a university we don't have to confront religion if we're not religious, but in the world, they will have to." -Alison Simmons, a Harvard philosophy professor who co-chaired the committee which added "Reason and Faith" as a required course at Harvard
Ah, the poor bitter masses, clinging to faith in a just God, unaware that the professors have done away with the need for justice. The answer to every broken heart is not redemption, but apathy.
Ah, the poor bitter masses, clinging to faith in a just God, unaware that the professors have done away with the need for justice. The answer to every broken heart is not redemption, but apathy.
10/06/2010
A pocket guide to Life at a Desk
no matter what time of morning, afternoon, or evening,
coffee is the greater good.
coffee is the greater good.
10/04/2010
10/01/2010
The Established Politician
Out of my way, you drooling, dagger-clumsy fool!
Your squalling insults perturb me less
than your squear-eyed, catkin'd brain can comprehend -
I'm off to battle with real men.
Stop your prating - your ideas of justice are dwarfed by mine of power.
You are unsuited to the fray - the stakes are higher than the heights of your most moist,
miserable, fantastic dreams. Step aside.
Are you familiar
with the slicing edge of a thinking man's tongue? STEP ASIDE!!!
Or is annihilation not resident in your vocabulary?
Fie! My blood lineage alone ought to quell your advance! Shame, you churl-spawned beggar. You yet proceed with mock-challenges to war? You have the manners of an Englishman, the breeding of a cow, and the intelligence of a dreamer.
Move on.
What? All men equal? All gold? Bah.
Step aside! Down! Heel!
In one month's time
I'll put you in your place
six feet underground.
Your squalling insults perturb me less
than your squear-eyed, catkin'd brain can comprehend -
I'm off to battle with real men.
Stop your prating - your ideas of justice are dwarfed by mine of power.
You are unsuited to the fray - the stakes are higher than the heights of your most moist,
miserable, fantastic dreams. Step aside.
Are you familiar
with the slicing edge of a thinking man's tongue? STEP ASIDE!!!
Or is annihilation not resident in your vocabulary?
Fie! My blood lineage alone ought to quell your advance! Shame, you churl-spawned beggar. You yet proceed with mock-challenges to war? You have the manners of an Englishman, the breeding of a cow, and the intelligence of a dreamer.
Move on.
What? All men equal? All gold? Bah.
Step aside! Down! Heel!
In one month's time
I'll put you in your place
six feet underground.
9/16/2010
[two awake is more than one alone]
Come, my beloved, let us go up the shining mountain, and sit together;
we will watch the sun go down in beauty from that shining place.
We will sit there till the Night Traveler rises in beauty above the shining mountain;
we will watch him as he climbs to the skies.
We will watch also the little stars following their chief.
We will watch the northern lights playing their game of ball in their cold, glistening country.
We will sit there on the beautiful mountain while the thunder beats his drum.
We will see the flashes from the lit pipe of the lightning.
We will see the great whirlwind race with the squall.
We will sit there until all creatures drowse.
There we will hear the great owl sing his usual song: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and see all animals obey his call.
We will sit there in beauty on the mountain, and watch the small stars in their sleepless flight.
They do not mind the song, "Go to sleep"; we will not mind it either,
but sit more closely together, and think of nothing but ourselves,
on the beautiful mountain.
Again it will be heart: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and the Night Traveler
will come closer, to warn us that everything is sleeping
except ourselves and the little stars.
They and their chief are coursing along, and our minds go with them.
Then the owl sleeps; and his call to sleep sleeps; and the lightnings flash
from a long way off; the great pipe is going out; and the thunder
ceases to beat his drum; and though our bodies urge us to sleep,
we sit in beauty, very still, upon the shining mountain.
- ABANAKI SONG
from the translation of John Reade
(adapted by Robert Hass)
we will watch the sun go down in beauty from that shining place.
We will sit there till the Night Traveler rises in beauty above the shining mountain;
we will watch him as he climbs to the skies.
We will watch also the little stars following their chief.
We will watch the northern lights playing their game of ball in their cold, glistening country.
We will sit there on the beautiful mountain while the thunder beats his drum.
We will see the flashes from the lit pipe of the lightning.
We will see the great whirlwind race with the squall.
We will sit there until all creatures drowse.
There we will hear the great owl sing his usual song: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and see all animals obey his call.
We will sit there in beauty on the mountain, and watch the small stars in their sleepless flight.
They do not mind the song, "Go to sleep"; we will not mind it either,
but sit more closely together, and think of nothing but ourselves,
on the beautiful mountain.
Again it will be heart: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and the Night Traveler
will come closer, to warn us that everything is sleeping
except ourselves and the little stars.
They and their chief are coursing along, and our minds go with them.
Then the owl sleeps; and his call to sleep sleeps; and the lightnings flash
from a long way off; the great pipe is going out; and the thunder
ceases to beat his drum; and though our bodies urge us to sleep,
we sit in beauty, very still, upon the shining mountain.
- ABANAKI SONG
from the translation of John Reade
(adapted by Robert Hass)
9/13/2010
9-11-2010 (it gives me sight and makes me brave)
Age After Age - Sandra McCracken
On the edge of the river, the mighty Mississippi
Two boys spent their summers on the banks of the levy
When the waters burst and broke the dam
they were swallowed in a wave of sand
they pulled the younger one out by the hand
from standing on his brother's shoulders.
One nation under God, young and proud she stumbled
With a trail of tears left by those who were outnumbered
She said, "This land is your land, this land is mine, unless you are an Indian"
But a higher ground we have tried to find
standing on their shoulders.
Age after age
of heroes and soldiers
it gives me sight and makes me brave,
standing on their shoulders
One man in the shadow of the white-washed cathedrals
Weighed down by the system through the eye of the needle
To his conscience bound he would not recant for the freedom of the Saints
And truth is truth is truth
and we are standing on his shoulders
(chorus)
To the ones left behind who are picking up the pieces
of planes, bombs, and buildings of innocence and evil
'Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on his shoulders
Age after age
of all the heroes and the soldiers
So why am I so slow to change
when I am standing on their shoulders?
Age after age
of (all the) heroes and soldiers
God, give me sight and make me brave...
as I am standing on their shoulders.
(this song is a good song...http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/best-laid-plans/id178801149)
On the edge of the river, the mighty Mississippi
Two boys spent their summers on the banks of the levy
When the waters burst and broke the dam
they were swallowed in a wave of sand
they pulled the younger one out by the hand
from standing on his brother's shoulders.
One nation under God, young and proud she stumbled
With a trail of tears left by those who were outnumbered
She said, "This land is your land, this land is mine, unless you are an Indian"
But a higher ground we have tried to find
standing on their shoulders.
Age after age
of heroes and soldiers
it gives me sight and makes me brave,
standing on their shoulders
One man in the shadow of the white-washed cathedrals
Weighed down by the system through the eye of the needle
To his conscience bound he would not recant for the freedom of the Saints
And truth is truth is truth
and we are standing on his shoulders
(chorus)
To the ones left behind who are picking up the pieces
of planes, bombs, and buildings of innocence and evil
'Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on his shoulders
Age after age
of all the heroes and the soldiers
So why am I so slow to change
when I am standing on their shoulders?
Age after age
of (all the) heroes and soldiers
God, give me sight and make me brave...
as I am standing on their shoulders.
(this song is a good song...http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/best-laid-plans/id178801149)
9/07/2010
8/26/2010
Sabbath rest, the rest of completion,
God has made a world.
creation cavorts, swims, sleeps, sub-creates;
the two smooth-skinned humans wake,
and discover love.
God has made a world.
Discord, stony earth, blood - the chaos of interruption,
Satan has made claim to a world.
creation snarls, rapes, cries, and destroys,
the two skin-clad humans flee,
and discover pain.
Satan has made claim to a world.
God has made a world.
creation cavorts, swims, sleeps, sub-creates;
the two smooth-skinned humans wake,
and discover love.
God has made a world.
Discord, stony earth, blood - the chaos of interruption,
Satan has made claim to a world.
creation snarls, rapes, cries, and destroys,
the two skin-clad humans flee,
and discover pain.
Satan has made claim to a world.
7/15/2010
The Recluse
Toadflax and asters, nightshade and burrs,
These are the neighbors that my heart prefers.
Cowslip and birdfoot touch and flush pink--
spiderwort whispers and snapdragons wink.
Queen Anne’s lace lady, hair in a bun,
minxes with larkspur in the afternoon sun.
Milkweed and cockles, bluets so vain,
sour pink blackberries clean from the rain--
yes, I adore them, thistles and all,
for they never come visit - no, never at all!
(weeds are better than cats, and cats are better than Joneses)
These are the neighbors that my heart prefers.
Cowslip and birdfoot touch and flush pink--
spiderwort whispers and snapdragons wink.
Queen Anne’s lace lady, hair in a bun,
minxes with larkspur in the afternoon sun.
Milkweed and cockles, bluets so vain,
sour pink blackberries clean from the rain--
yes, I adore them, thistles and all,
for they never come visit - no, never at all!
(weeds are better than cats, and cats are better than Joneses)
Our wildflower backyard - jcp
Chicory morning, blue from the window,
red clover corners meet day-lily lines.
Finch-thistle thickets, brightest at midday,
uprightly scornful of shade-clinging vines.
Now doused in sun’s set, ablaze with fireflies,
clusters of asters are stars, or star-signs.
red clover corners meet day-lily lines.
Finch-thistle thickets, brightest at midday,
uprightly scornful of shade-clinging vines.
Now doused in sun’s set, ablaze with fireflies,
clusters of asters are stars, or star-signs.
3/20/2010
i'm afraid you won't see the sun
i'm afraid you won't taste the summer
i'm afraid you won't feel my heart
beating next to yours.
i'm sick of all the lies,
i'm sick of too much talk,
i'm sick of everybody saying
that there's not enough room.
so many empty arms.
so many vacant hearts.
so many of us dream about you
and would die to hold you.
so
i will go to war for you.
i will not give up on you.
i will not stop burning for you
or weeping.
i'm afraid you won't taste the summer
i'm afraid you won't feel my heart
beating next to yours.
i'm sick of all the lies,
i'm sick of too much talk,
i'm sick of everybody saying
that there's not enough room.
so many empty arms.
so many vacant hearts.
so many of us dream about you
and would die to hold you.
so
i will go to war for you.
i will not give up on you.
i will not stop burning for you
or weeping.
thoughts to conquer doubt
and for this poem
let me briefly state the truth:
love is not hate disguised,
not merely a passion put to use,
or the redemption of a lonely soul.
No, it is the point of all the battle-wit and grief,
else pain's foil were not so sharp;
It is the purpose of our measured days,
for we need it like drowning men
crave air.
The word is beaten, formed and molded for
unsterling uses, but LOVE is not
anybody's plaything or a dog to call to heel-
it is untarnishable, untameable, unconjurable and deep.
As blood would not be red without iron,
so the vibrancy of love depends, not on
fate or chance or beauty,
but on the health of the soul.
For whoever trys to master love deceives himself:
Love only enters in the clothing
of
a
servant
let me briefly state the truth:
love is not hate disguised,
not merely a passion put to use,
or the redemption of a lonely soul.
No, it is the point of all the battle-wit and grief,
else pain's foil were not so sharp;
It is the purpose of our measured days,
for we need it like drowning men
crave air.
The word is beaten, formed and molded for
unsterling uses, but LOVE is not
anybody's plaything or a dog to call to heel-
it is untarnishable, untameable, unconjurable and deep.
As blood would not be red without iron,
so the vibrancy of love depends, not on
fate or chance or beauty,
but on the health of the soul.
For whoever trys to master love deceives himself:
Love only enters in the clothing
of
a
servant
3/17/2010
Would Shakespeare cringe, listening
as meth-dazed kids discuss Hamlet's great sorrow?
With words so battered and grooved, slang so
casual they puzzle over slow revenge and the complexities
of love and madness. It almost does not seem like speech,
but rather the pre-articulate thought process
of some amoeba-cluster still millenia from evolutionary progress.
No, but if the Bard himself sat here,
methinks he would not protest. Rather, with a
small smile above that stiff collar, he would
start writing a new play....
"The upstart youths do tarry, and we call them knaves, but surely they do see the stars of heaven with their eyes...."
as meth-dazed kids discuss Hamlet's great sorrow?
With words so battered and grooved, slang so
casual they puzzle over slow revenge and the complexities
of love and madness. It almost does not seem like speech,
but rather the pre-articulate thought process
of some amoeba-cluster still millenia from evolutionary progress.
No, but if the Bard himself sat here,
methinks he would not protest. Rather, with a
small smile above that stiff collar, he would
start writing a new play....
"The upstart youths do tarry, and we call them knaves, but surely they do see the stars of heaven with their eyes...."
anagram
Forget it. Seriously,you don't owe me anything,
really. if only i could make you understand how
i love helping you, and how
every chance i get to be with you is
never enough - i want to be with you always.
don't you see,
silly. We're friends.
really. if only i could make you understand how
i love helping you, and how
every chance i get to be with you is
never enough - i want to be with you always.
don't you see,
silly. We're friends.
3/16/2010
England is a (Single) Man's Land
by Cate Pilgrim
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)
There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.
It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.
From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”
Here, Archer cut in.
“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”
There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”
With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.
In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.
An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.
I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”
Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.
“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”
Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.
“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”
At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”
Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.
Shocked may be a better word.
My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.
And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”
********
I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)
There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.
It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.
From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”
Here, Archer cut in.
“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”
There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”
With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.
In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.
An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.
I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”
Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.
“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”
Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.
“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”
At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”
Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.
Shocked may be a better word.
My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.
And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”
********
I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”
3/11/2010
Song of Songs: A Note
"Indeed, A. La CoCaque and S.D. Gotein point out that the woman speaks 53 percent of the time in the Song, while the man speaks 39 percent of the time." - Longman
3/09/2010
Shakespearean Sonnet: 101
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
2/20/2010
I woke up and fear said good morning,
drank my coffee and put on my shoes.
Thinking him a guest, I said nothing,
but i wondered who'd invited him in.
he lounged, he chatted, and he ruffled
through my desk, flipping the pages on my calender,
a small smile playing about his mouth.
I said nothing, thinking perhaps he was an old friend
whom i'd forgotten. Nervously, I smiled, and gave
him the key to the attic when he asked.
Instantly i regretted it.
As he ascended the stairs, I called after him;
he ignored me.
A sort of wild madness beset me. In the kitchen I found a knife.
I could hear footsteps above me.
drank my coffee and put on my shoes.
Thinking him a guest, I said nothing,
but i wondered who'd invited him in.
he lounged, he chatted, and he ruffled
through my desk, flipping the pages on my calender,
a small smile playing about his mouth.
I said nothing, thinking perhaps he was an old friend
whom i'd forgotten. Nervously, I smiled, and gave
him the key to the attic when he asked.
Instantly i regretted it.
As he ascended the stairs, I called after him;
he ignored me.
A sort of wild madness beset me. In the kitchen I found a knife.
I could hear footsteps above me.
2/16/2010
an open stretch of sand and sky,
an island meets the water
I'm standing in the silver cold
and I'm the ocean's daughter
the scallop shell can never tell
how vast and wide my home
nor catch the sweetness of my song--
it is lost among the foam
storm and snow cannot deter
my travels through the deep
last night i heard a baby seal
crying in its sleep
i found it moaning on the shore
alone in spotted fright,
i led it to a little cove
& it swam away alright.
an island meets the water
I'm standing in the silver cold
and I'm the ocean's daughter
the scallop shell can never tell
how vast and wide my home
nor catch the sweetness of my song--
it is lost among the foam
storm and snow cannot deter
my travels through the deep
last night i heard a baby seal
crying in its sleep
i found it moaning on the shore
alone in spotted fright,
i led it to a little cove
& it swam away alright.
2/12/2010
[engaged]
Thrilling to the sound of snow
melting; of sun on skin
and February thaw -
all within sings for briar rose
hedges, thick green for the birds,
lingering twilights,
and hours spent walking beside you barefoot,
you, my own true love,
my own June bride......
melting; of sun on skin
and February thaw -
all within sings for briar rose
hedges, thick green for the birds,
lingering twilights,
and hours spent walking beside you barefoot,
you, my own true love,
my own June bride......
1/17/2010
ME=OW
Robert Wager found a coin
lying on his mother's grave;
gravely, Robert took the coin
coldy wagering within
that doing so was not sin.
Thus engaged he did not hear
a black-clad figure drawing near.
"What have you done,"
the figure cried,
"that coin has been there since she died.
If removed, she swore to come
and haunt my sanctuarium."
Robert grasped the coin still tighter
"I found it here, you wretched blighter.
I'll bet you want it for yourself,
but I have bloodright to this pelf."
The stranger gave an awful yell,
"Your mother shan't disturb sweet Hell!
Put the coin back, you spiteful brat,
or I'll turn you into a three-legg'd cat."
Robert laughed, but Old Scratch cursed
and shortly after Robert burst
into fur, then shrunk, then mewed.
Ever since there's been a feud
between Old Nick & the feline breed.
Be warned, and do not yeild to greed.
lying on his mother's grave;
gravely, Robert took the coin
coldy wagering within
that doing so was not sin.
Thus engaged he did not hear
a black-clad figure drawing near.
"What have you done,"
the figure cried,
"that coin has been there since she died.
If removed, she swore to come
and haunt my sanctuarium."
Robert grasped the coin still tighter
"I found it here, you wretched blighter.
I'll bet you want it for yourself,
but I have bloodright to this pelf."
The stranger gave an awful yell,
"Your mother shan't disturb sweet Hell!
Put the coin back, you spiteful brat,
or I'll turn you into a three-legg'd cat."
Robert laughed, but Old Scratch cursed
and shortly after Robert burst
into fur, then shrunk, then mewed.
Ever since there's been a feud
between Old Nick & the feline breed.
Be warned, and do not yeild to greed.
To the DORK QUEEN OF MY HEART
I hate your blubber guts,you squirrely girl.
you drive me nuts; i want to hurl.
sugar and spice and a head full of lice-
i'd rather lick mice
than look at you twice.
what's up with your hair?
is it supposed to grow there?
And those boats...are your feet?
When you laugh its a bleat
like a sheep with TB.
If you're allowed free
then incarcerate me.
A pug is a poodle
compared to your noodle;
A glance at your mug
is a near-lethal drug.
You make Munch's The Scream
a pleasant daydream.
You're God's one mistake
(those warts are not fake)
If I was your beau,
I'd find an ice floe
and go, go, go, go
until death did us part.
You make lettuce seem smart.
Oh,
by the way,
it's opposite day :)
you drive me nuts; i want to hurl.
sugar and spice and a head full of lice-
i'd rather lick mice
than look at you twice.
what's up with your hair?
is it supposed to grow there?
And those boats...are your feet?
When you laugh its a bleat
like a sheep with TB.
If you're allowed free
then incarcerate me.
A pug is a poodle
compared to your noodle;
A glance at your mug
is a near-lethal drug.
You make Munch's The Scream
a pleasant daydream.
You're God's one mistake
(those warts are not fake)
If I was your beau,
I'd find an ice floe
and go, go, go, go
until death did us part.
You make lettuce seem smart.
Oh,
by the way,
it's opposite day :)
Hope never dies
The day was an arrow from a warrior's bow
the night was a feather dropped by a crow
Sunrise, that songbird, was welcome and sweet
while dusk traveled slowly as a weary man's feet.
Tomorrow, a stranger, is journeying near,
bearing its burden of joy, aye, and fear.
Dawn brings the day, and day brings the night
sure as the arrow spins in its flight;
sure as the raven croaks as it flies,
love is eternal for hope never dies.
Whatever shall hap with another day's sun
thou art beloved. What is done has been done.
Farewell the arrow and farewell the wings
but welcome the future and hark! how it sings!
the night was a feather dropped by a crow
Sunrise, that songbird, was welcome and sweet
while dusk traveled slowly as a weary man's feet.
Tomorrow, a stranger, is journeying near,
bearing its burden of joy, aye, and fear.
Dawn brings the day, and day brings the night
sure as the arrow spins in its flight;
sure as the raven croaks as it flies,
love is eternal for hope never dies.
Whatever shall hap with another day's sun
thou art beloved. What is done has been done.
Farewell the arrow and farewell the wings
but welcome the future and hark! how it sings!
Sleep (for A.F.R.)
Finally, you've fallen asleep.
Now, I can look at you,
ice-eyes lidded & peaceful,
and the bow of your mouth unstrung;
you look like a child.
You've thrown your arm out now-
unconsciously touching mine.
Something strikes me,
hard;
Love, full force, arrests my heart.
There is only one question in the universe:
How can I ever look away from you?
Golden, midnight falls upon you
but you do not stir. Even your hair is resting.
Is this how your mother felt,
watching you sleep?
Did the same fierceness overpower her demurity?
For, though a moment ago I murmured gently in your arms,
now
I find I am a lioness,
hot-blooded. Willing to tear the throat out of
anything
that threatens you,
my young love.
Perhaps it is always so for woman, but
somehow I think not, for surely if there were others thus transformed,
the wide world would be a Serengeti
and every husband's dreams
peaceful.
Now, I can look at you,
ice-eyes lidded & peaceful,
and the bow of your mouth unstrung;
you look like a child.
You've thrown your arm out now-
unconsciously touching mine.
Something strikes me,
hard;
Love, full force, arrests my heart.
There is only one question in the universe:
How can I ever look away from you?
Golden, midnight falls upon you
but you do not stir. Even your hair is resting.
Is this how your mother felt,
watching you sleep?
Did the same fierceness overpower her demurity?
For, though a moment ago I murmured gently in your arms,
now
I find I am a lioness,
hot-blooded. Willing to tear the throat out of
anything
that threatens you,
my young love.
Perhaps it is always so for woman, but
somehow I think not, for surely if there were others thus transformed,
the wide world would be a Serengeti
and every husband's dreams
peaceful.
Drought is a bad neighbor.
The entire prairie is ablaze -
from a hundred miles away, smoke dapples the sky.
Deer, buffalo, and all the small fry
are on the move.
And so are we.
Goodbye, Father's farmland.
Goodbye, Mother's washline.
Goodbye, Plum Creek & Stoneford Farm,
and all the places our rag-dolls love.
Orange sun, orange flame, orange goodbye--
burn
burn
burn.
My heart is saying goodbye to Home
with all the pathos
of the mewling kitten
which Mary's holding in her apron.
Run, deer and buffalo.
Run, mice and shrews and muskrats.
Goodbye, golden land. You are being eaten
by the hungry orange
of prairie flame.
from a hundred miles away, smoke dapples the sky.
Deer, buffalo, and all the small fry
are on the move.
And so are we.
Goodbye, Father's farmland.
Goodbye, Mother's washline.
Goodbye, Plum Creek & Stoneford Farm,
and all the places our rag-dolls love.
Orange sun, orange flame, orange goodbye--
burn
burn
burn.
My heart is saying goodbye to Home
with all the pathos
of the mewling kitten
which Mary's holding in her apron.
Run, deer and buffalo.
Run, mice and shrews and muskrats.
Goodbye, golden land. You are being eaten
by the hungry orange
of prairie flame.
12/01/2009
WWII
pin-striped skeletons walking east of Dachau
black and white bravery, circa 1945.
confusion, hysteria, and FREEDOM,freedom everywhere
Stars and Stripes and freedom,
pouring out of jeeps, startling as grenades,
handsome, well-fed,
bold as brass.
all yelling
to hell with the blockade,with the guard towers,
with the smell of death,
freedom's coming, freedom.
he looks at me.
that was a bright word in a grim time -
he looks at me and says,
girl,
that was an era of heroes.
black and white bravery, circa 1945.
confusion, hysteria, and FREEDOM,freedom everywhere
Stars and Stripes and freedom,
pouring out of jeeps, startling as grenades,
handsome, well-fed,
bold as brass.
all yelling
to hell with the blockade,with the guard towers,
with the smell of death,
freedom's coming, freedom.
he looks at me.
that was a bright word in a grim time -
he looks at me and says,
girl,
that was an era of heroes.
11/24/2009
snow snow snow
my sister came in from the tundra
murmuring a man's name & smiling at Death.
we laid her by the fire. My father cut
off her frozen boots
but
she wandered far in her mind.
A clear coldness was in her face.
My mother did not cry.
The eagle must fly or must fall - such is the way of it!
I have never seen my sister so beautiful
or so strange. Her blue eyes showed a winding path
through the heart of another,
& lostness.
she had lost the path & could not track it through the winter snow.
I do not think my brothers understand
why ice crystals remain all over me -
and I do not walk with them
over the tundra.
murmuring a man's name & smiling at Death.
we laid her by the fire. My father cut
off her frozen boots
but
she wandered far in her mind.
A clear coldness was in her face.
My mother did not cry.
The eagle must fly or must fall - such is the way of it!
I have never seen my sister so beautiful
or so strange. Her blue eyes showed a winding path
through the heart of another,
& lostness.
she had lost the path & could not track it through the winter snow.
I do not think my brothers understand
why ice crystals remain all over me -
and I do not walk with them
over the tundra.
you say your love is free
wind on the sea
a new galaxy
an ocean
a bird
yet,
i hear
just a word.
you call your love strong
to right every wrong
some mystical song
a forest,
a sword
yet
i doubt you, Lord.
Make the waves to rise in me.
Make the stars to shine in me.
Make the eagle fly in me.
Make the song to sing in me.
Make the trees to grow in me.
Make the warrior fight in me.
You made Grace real,
permanent seal,
a power to heal
a gift
from your Son,
so
the work is begun.
wind on the sea
a new galaxy
an ocean
a bird
yet,
i hear
just a word.
you call your love strong
to right every wrong
some mystical song
a forest,
a sword
yet
i doubt you, Lord.
Make the waves to rise in me.
Make the stars to shine in me.
Make the eagle fly in me.
Make the song to sing in me.
Make the trees to grow in me.
Make the warrior fight in me.
You made Grace real,
permanent seal,
a power to heal
a gift
from your Son,
so
the work is begun.
11/16/2009
11/11/2009
“New Love”
I am telling my hands
not to blossom into roses
I am telling my feet
not to turn into birds
and fly over rooftops
and I am putting a hat on my head
so the flaming meteors
in my hair
will hardly show
- Eve Merriam, from Fresh Paint (1986)
so,
i knew about
the blossoming roses,
& the birds over rooftops,
secrets & meteors & flame
but
nobody mentioned the clarity
of moral purpose
or the constant singing that fills my house.
I am telling my hands
not to blossom into roses
I am telling my feet
not to turn into birds
and fly over rooftops
and I am putting a hat on my head
so the flaming meteors
in my hair
will hardly show
- Eve Merriam, from Fresh Paint (1986)
so,
i knew about
the blossoming roses,
& the birds over rooftops,
secrets & meteors & flame
but
nobody mentioned the clarity
of moral purpose
or the constant singing that fills my house.
11/08/2009
A Shaft of Sunlight
Three deer in a western cornfield
appear - my glance out the window turns into a poem
and i forget to curve. The craterous pot-holes of Telegraph Springs Road
snicker as my poor tires scrabble along, my car
a silver rag on a dirty washboard.
I down-shift absently, still trapped in
a shaft of sunlight,
breathing softly & flicking my white-tail.
Driving in November can be hazardous if you have eyes.
appear - my glance out the window turns into a poem
and i forget to curve. The craterous pot-holes of Telegraph Springs Road
snicker as my poor tires scrabble along, my car
a silver rag on a dirty washboard.
I down-shift absently, still trapped in
a shaft of sunlight,
breathing softly & flicking my white-tail.
Driving in November can be hazardous if you have eyes.
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