Monday, June 19, 2017

Kilt Monday!

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

Saturday, June 17, 2017

It's A Garden Party! - and . . . We're back (I hope)

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PtWNgMHfF-Y/VRb5uIDGg1I/AAAAAAAAQNU/dK0QGdkrr-Q/s1600/P5050138%2Bc.JPG
This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and was then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.



 If anyone would like to share their own gardening adventures with me - large or small, inside or out - 
I would love to see them.
Just leave a link to your post in the comments.


My garden has never been one to follow along with the crowd, and this year is no different. 
So, from my garden to you:

Happy Easter, 2017!

Friday, June 16, 2017

Factory of Souls

 
It takes just two people to bring the world
to ruin. So goes the history of love.
At the end of the day we tally the casualties
of war, victory for the one who gets wounded
 
the least. You say it’s time for a change
but I don’t know to what end, change being
just the skin of some incandescent creature
whose grotesque beauty is what we adore,
 
whom some people call love, whom we
venerate because it consumes us, slim pickings
for its huge soul. My people say, don’t look
or you’ll go blind. You say the end was always
 
just around the bend. I say all we have
is unconditional surrender to the future.
So unreliable is the past that I feel compelled
to leave unmourned the blind, relentless loves
 
that may have scorched into our hearts
the way the saints accepted stigmata. My people say,
look back or lose your way. Or, walk backwards,
if you can. So I found myself on a bus to New York City
 
to lose myself completely. Past Hunters Point
we hit the factory of souls—a thousand tombstones
from which a silk-like canopy of smoke rose to meet
God knows what—a spacious emptiness, the end.
 
I’ve heard the world’s never going to end.
I’ve heard it will go on and on, and we will be
as nebulous as Nebuchadnezzar, our live
not worth a footnote, our grandest schemes
 
no more than feeble whispers, all memory
shifting like the continental plates. In the future,
all science will finally come around; genetic
engineering, I’ve been told, will be all the rage,
 
and we will be a super race in a world
infallibly perfected, where trains run on time,
love never dies, and hope can be purchased
by the pound. It’s called immortalization
 
of the cell lines. We will choose what will survive.
Our destiny made lucid, we will find the world
contemplating itself, like the young Narcissus,
one hand about to touch the pool, his body
 
lurched towards that marvelous reflection.
I suppose we’ve always felt compelled
to desensitize our failures. My people say,
to go unnoticed, you play dead. I myself
 
may have chosen to forget a face, a name,
some cruel word uttered carelessly, but not,
after all the harm is done, intending any pain.
And many others may have chosen to forget me.
 
It works both ways. My people say, nasa huli
ang pagsisi: regret is the final emotion.
It’s what you see when you look back.
It’s what’s no longer there.

from: Zero Gravity, Copyright 1999.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Quote of the Day

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Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed: everything else is public relations.


- Attributed to George Orwell 
(Post by: Robert Reich)

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

For your contemplation. . .


Summer night -
even the stars
are whispering to each other.

- Isaa


Monday, June 12, 2017

Kilt Monday!

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


Friday, June 9, 2017

The Philosopher Did Not Say

- Jennifer Franklin

What secret had Nietzsche discovered
when he walked the Turin streets
before he flung his arms around
a horse being beaten and collapsed
into a decade-long coma? Clinging
to the cowering brown beast, he said
Mother, I am stupid. Wild hair and a three-
piece tweed suit constrained the body
that held the mind that knew too much.
Why am I mining dead men for answers
when they were all as mad as I am?
The horse, his eyes hollow as those
of the Burmese elephant that Orwell shot
decades later, had the look of every
betrayed creature. Perhaps Nietzsche
saw the shock in the animal’s eyes—
how every human contains the capacity
to inflict cruelty. The look that turns
to recognition, to resignation, to an eye
reflecting a field full of fallen horses.

Copyright © 2016 Jennifer Franklin

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Quote of the Day


Our human compassion binds us the one to the other - 
not in pity or patronizingly, 
but as human beings
 who have learnt how to turn our common suffering 
into hope for the future. 

- Nelson Mandela

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

hate blows a bubble of despair

- e.e. cummings

hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and young
 
pleasure and pain are merely surfaces
(one itself showing,itself hiding one)
life's only and true value neither is
love makes the little thickness of the coin
 
comes here a man would have from madame death
nevertheless now and without winter spring?
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
 
how much more than enough for both of us
darling.  And if i sing you are my voice.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Kilt Monday!

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

Saturday, June 3, 2017


Grief
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,
In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death—
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.

Friday, June 2, 2017

Spring to Summer



Beauty and Beauty
- Rupert Brooke

When Beauty and Beauty meet
   All naked, fair to fair,
The earth is crying-sweet,
   And scattering-bright the air,
Eddying, dizzying, closing round,
   With soft and drunken laughter;
Veiling all that may befall
   After—after—
Where Beauty and Beauty met,
   Earth’s still a-tremble there,
And winds are scented yet,
   And memory-soft the air,
Bosoming, folding glints of light,
   And shreds of shadowy laughter;
Not the tears that fill the years
   After—after—