Sunday, April 20, 2014

Happy . . . Easter . . . Dudes!



The Discipline of Craft, Easter Morning

- Judith Harris

No use going hunting for angels,
for a Christ in the tree-mops,
a Moses winding his way up the mount
into the fire of God’s fresh stubble.
There is just a serious rain,
a steady crutch for the air,
colder than any April should be.
I am up to my neck in chores:
the cat needs more food,
my daughter’s clutter piles up like ant hills,
I fold her little sleeves, ghost by ghost.
What melody springs from the heart so well?
These lone trees can’t be dazzled by sun today,
they have such tremors like the Pope’s.
Lost loons pitched into sky folds,
their crusty buds just blinking
as if to test how fierce the light is.
They sag and meander from their stems,
they bleed from transparency.
Needless or hopeless, as overused fountains,
they are my metrics, my fortitude;
plants with lemony grass spigots
that will never go dry.

from: The Bad Secret: Poems.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Saturday Farmer's Market - Inventory +



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

There is not much to report this week, but it's time for an inventory: 




First, I got my remaining two Agave planted.

My son-in-law did the honors this week.

They look a lot smaller now, but much happier.









I'm fighting slugs and snails for the souls of my Snow Peas and Cucumbers. At this point I'm still trying to avoid poisons.

Normally, I have plenty of birds to do the job for me, but something perplexing is going on. Since the last big storm, about two weeks ago, all my birds have disappeared. Hummingbirds, finches, etc., all are gone. I have no Idea what happened. My feeders sit untouched and I've had to replace two batches of nectar. The birds usually emptied the feeders weekly, at least.

I will have to purchase Zucchini plants to replace the lost ones; and my Chives didn't return this year, so I will need to purchase them too.

Finally! The mailbox bed at the front corner of the property was the last bed to finally receive its soaker hose. All the beds are now much more water wise.





As the heat builds, the pansies, violets, and violas start to fade, and mine won't be around much longer.

So I thought I'd share a picture while they're still around.












The cucumber plants are still very small, about eight inches, but we have flowers.

And if you look real close you can see the beginnings of a tiny pickle under the right hand one.


 
I planted three packages of Sunflowers in the mailbox bed this year.

I got three sunflowers.

That's better than the last time I tried to grow sunflowers; I got zero and my neighbor (who planted none) ended up with two in her back yard.

I'm pretty sure the birds watch me plant them and sneak out later to dig them up.

Next year I'll sprout my own, plant the seedlings, and see how that goes.






The Lettuce is still looking good. I'll have to thin the plants soon.







 







Of course, the new crop of Oranges is setting up.














Yes, more Daffodils. They're starting to fade and will be gone real soon.












Here is another Blue Iris. They are all taking turns to make sure each one is the center of attention.








Mississippi - 1955

 - Langston Hughes
(To the Memory of Emmett Till)
Oh what sorrow!
oh, what pity!
Oh, what pain
That tears and blood
Should mix like rain
And terror come again
To Mississippi.

Come again?
Where has terror been?
On vacation? Up North?
In some other section
Of the nation,
Lying low, unpublicized?
Masked—with only
Jaundiced eyes
Showing through the mask?

Oh, what sorrow,
Pity, pain,
That tears and blood
Should mix like rain
In Mississippi!
And terror, fetid hot,
Yet clammy cold
Remain.


Friday, April 18, 2014

I Ask the Impossible

I ask the impossible: love me forever.
Love me when all desire is gone.
Love me with the single mindedness of a monk.
When the world in its entirety,
and all that you hold sacred advise you
against it: love me still more.
When rage fills you and has no name: love me.
When each step from your door to our job tires you--
love me; and from job to home again, love me, love me.
Love me when you're bored--
when every woman you see is more beautiful than the last,
or more pathetic, love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself
in your solitude.
Love me as you relish your loneliness,
the anticipation of your death,
mysteries of the flesh, as it tears and mends.
Love me as your most treasured childhood memory--
and if there is none to recall--
imagine one, place me there with you.
Love me withered as you loved me new.
Love me as if I were forever--
and I, will make the impossible
a simple act,
by loving you, loving you as I do.

from: I Ask the Impossible: Poems.

 

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Mama's Promise

- Marilyn Nelson 

I have no answer to the blank inequity
of a four-year-old dying of cancer.
I saw her on TV and wept
with my mouth full of meatloaf.

I constantly flash on disasters now;
red lights shout Warning. Danger.
everywhere I look.
I buckle him in, but what if a car
with a grille like a sharkbite
roared up out of the road?
I feed him square meals,
but what if the fist of his heart
should simply fall open?
I carried him safely
as long as I could,
but now he's a runaway
on the dangerous highway.
Warning. Danger.
I've started to pray.

But the dangerous highway
curves through blue evenings
when I hold his yielding hand
and snip his minuscule nails
with my vicious-looking scissors.
I carry him around
like an egg in a spoon,
and I remember a porcelain fawn,
a best friend's trust,
my broken faith in myself.
It's not my grace that keeps me erect
as the sidewalk clatters downhill
under my rollerskate wheels.

Sometimes I lie awake
troubled by this thought:
It's not so simple to give a child birth;
you also have to give it death,
the jealous fairy's christening gift.

I've always pictured my own death
as a closed door,
a black room,
a breathless leap from the mountaintop
with time to throw out my arms, lift my head,
and see, in the instant my heart stops,
a whole galaxy of blue.
I imagined I'd forget,
in the cessation of feeling,
while the guilt of my lifetime floated away
like a nylon nightgown,
and that I'd fall into clean, fresh forgiveness.

Ah, but the death I've given away
is more mine than the one I've kept:
from my hands the poisoned apple,
from my bow the mistletoe dart.

Then I think of Mama,
her bountiful breasts.
When I was a child, I really swear,
Mama's kisses could heal.
I remember her promise,
and whisper it over my sweet son's sleep:
When you float to the bottom, child,
like a mote down a sunbeam,
you'll see me from a trillion miles away:
my eyes looking up to you,
my arms outstretched for you like night.

from: Mama's Promises. Copyright 1985.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Rural Electric

- Ted Genoways

                     Bayard, Nebraska, June 1945

The workcrew worked closer, standing poles into postholes,
while the boy, not yet my father, watched at the window,

men sinking timbers, straight and tarred black as
  exclamation points

that trailed banner headlines, set boldface in inky
  newsprint

as if to conquer the silence, but soon the night house
droned like a hive, tungsten-hum and the constant buzz

of the radio's blue tubes drowning out where he was
months later when programs were interrupted for the
  news

from Japan, leaving only dim memories: years lit by
  kerosene,
days at the window watching the workcrew working,

the last innocent night by the glow of the moon,
waiting for the second the blast and flash would fill the
  room.

from: Poets Against the War, Sam Hamill, Sally Anderson, et al, ed.
{BackStory}

Real Readers . . .



 

Do you feel that only people who read their books on a certain platform (i.e. print, eBook, audiobook, ...) or in a certain way (one at a time, many at once, fifteen minute segments, ...) deserve to be called real readers?



Heard (or read) any of these:

  • It has to be printed books . Not the software and hardware inside a computer laptop or I pad . The look and feel of a book only touches your heart.
  • Technology is for sissies.. Concerning e books anyway .. : )
  • Listening to Audio books isn’t cheating but it isn’t reading either. Listening to an audiobook but saying that you read the book is a complete lie.

I agree with dr b at Book Riot that there is no such thing as a Real Reader.

I consume my books in print, but also as eBooks and audiobooks. Just as I read different books in different moods or mindsets, I find that the different platforms enable me to sneak reading time into even more areas of my life than ever before.

{Photo Source}