Monday, July 28, 2014

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,
Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.


Sunday, July 27, 2014

Love In The Asylum

- Dylan Thomas

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
 

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Saturday Farmer's Market - Thy Days Go On *



Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.


Man, is it hot! 
My garden has been happier, but it is still hanging in there.


I didn't realize that our area's notorious hard water was going to cause problems with my soaker hoses, but it has.

I had been scouring gardening books and web sites trying to find what was wrong with my roses, when I realized that the soil around them was bone dry when it should have still been moist from the hose.

I've taken steps to remedy the situation, but I may have lost three bushes. Time will tell.

My twenty-one year old garden cat, probably senile and most definitely incontinent, has moved indoors for the duration and I miss her company.

But one of my "cowts," Joon-bug, moves from window to window while I'm outside and tries to keep a close eye on me. (She follows me around inside the house too.)


 The only Rose bushes blooming right now are the two that my husband gave me for my birthday last year. 



They are really beautiful, smaller than the Floribundas with only a few flowers at a time, but steady bloomers.





One has sweet Yellow Roses














And the other has White Roses











The B.L.T.s were delicious!


Our first two Tomatoes of the season, and well ahead of the rest.

I started the plants inside my little Conservatory this year.

This variety is called "Boxcar Willie."








The Garlic didn't do so well, though. The sun on the west side of the house is just too intense for many of my vegetables.

I think I need to put it in a completely different spot next year.

At least what I got tastes good.





How about some Bird pictures? 
I need to invest in a telephoto lens to get really good pictures of them, but these aren't too bad.





We have tons of fat little brown birds. I think they are several different species but I haven't gotten a good close look.

It's time to invest in a good Bird Guide.








Hope is the thing with feathers
- Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.







This, I believe, is a House Finch.























And this is a Western Scrub Jay.


These are in addition to the Anna's Hummingbirds, Lesser Gold Finchs, and Ring Neck Doves I've featured in past posts.

We also have an incredibly verbose Mockingbird. He sits atop the phone pole and runs through his repertoire, which includes several different bird's songs, frogs, and a car alarm (the entire catalog of car alarm sounds).







I planted the Bananas I ordered from the shopping channel.










I have three plants and if they survive they will provide a tropical hedge of sorts in front of the back gate.

They will also provide some summer shade for my kitchen window.

Not to mention . . . Bananas!








Most of the Pomegranates are about the size of baseballs, but the plant is still blooming and setting new fruit.

They are such a beautiful color.











And finally, the Butterfly Bush I rescued is perking up and has some small flowers.












* from: De Profundis by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Richard Feynman Wrote a Poem

There are the rushing waves
mountains of molecules
each stupidly minding its own business
trillions apart
yet forming white surf in unison.
Ages on ages
before any eyes could see
year after year
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
On a dead planet
with no life to entertain.

Never at rest
tortured by energy
wasted prodigiously by the sun
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.

Deep in the sea
all molecules repeat
the patterns of one another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves
and a new dance starts.

Growing in size and complexity
living things
masses of atoms
DNA, protein
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.

Out of the cradle
onto dry land
here it is
standing:
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.

Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the universe.


The Value of Science, public address at the National Academy of Sciences (Autumn 1955)

Thursday, July 24, 2014

This Guy Has Some of the Best Sound Bites on FaceBook . . .



"If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. 
If you want to be happy, practice compassion."
 - Dalai Lama

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London

- Dylan Thomas

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking 
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further 
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

from: The Poems of Dylan Thomas. Copyright 1952.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,
Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.