Saturday, November 30, 2013

I Hope Today Finds You Healthy & Hoppy!

Quote of the Day

If among you, one of your brothers should become poor, in any of your towns within your land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother, but you shall open your hand to him and lend him sufficient for his need, whatever it may be. 

Take care lest there be an unworthy thought in your heart...and your eye look grudgingly on your poor brother, and you give him nothing... 

You shall give to him freely, and your heart shall not be grudging when you give to him, because for this the Lord your God will bless you in all your work and in all that you undertake. 

For there will never cease to be poor in the land. Therefore I command you, "You shall open wide your hand to your brother, to the needy and to the poor, in your land.

- Deuteronomy 15:7-11 

Friday, November 29, 2013


You Know When the Men are Gone - Siobhan Fallon   

Perhaps it is the relentless and ever distant background of war that permeates the story, but I really did not like this novel.

Military wives endure an existence I cannot even fathom, and this novel reduced them to gossipy stereotypes, with stories that seemed to meander on then stop with no resolution.

Deadly Heat - Richard Castle    

A murder mystery written by a fictional character, who based his (fictional) characters on the (fictional) people with whom he (fictionally) works - what could be better? (Did I mention that they're all fictional?)

This is the fifth book in the series. I have read them all and will continue doing so, as long as 'Richard Castle' continues to (fictionally) write them.

Are you curious about the real identity of the author? {then click here}

The Last Sherlock Holmes Story - Michael Dibdin  

No. Just no.

Dibdin, author of the Aurelio Zen Mysteries, gives us a take on the Sherlock Holmes cannon some might consider blasphemous. It definitely headed in a dark and unexpected direction.

Dust - Patricia Cornwell  

Let me start by saying that I think inserting a fictional character into a recent real life tragedy that touched the nation and fueled ongoing heated and acrimonious debate is not a good choice.

That being said, Scarpetta seems to be continuing on her path back toward the things that made her so initially compelling.

All in all, it was a fairly satisfying read.

Tea, Anyone?

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Have a Happy Thanksgiving . . . and Stay Warm!

Some Thoughts on a Very Inclusive Thanksgiving!

Personally, I think Thanksgiving is (and was) about giving thanks to God, but I am too eclectic nowadays to confine my giving of thanks to the capricious Calvinist God of the Pilgrims. So in the spirit of Pascal, who placed a wager on the Christian god, I'm putting a marker down, too. But why confine your wager to one divinity? Here is my own Thanksgiving litany to the gods.

To Kali, black goddess of fierce justice, thanks for scaring me to death. I know the skulls around your neck and the blood dripping from your mouth frighten a lot of people, but somebody has to lord over the cremation grounds, and I'm happy to have it be you (really).

To Christopher Hitchens (the closest my atheist friends get to a divinity nowadays), thanks for channeling Kali and for not converting on your deathbed (right?). “I hate the pack of gods,” wrote Marx. You showed us what that passion sounds like.

To Allah, thanks for reminding us of the gap between God and human beings. And for being the word Arab Christians use for "God," too. And for this Thanksgiving day verse from the Quran: “Give food, for the love of Him, to the needy, the orphan, the captive” (76:8).

To the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, thanks for the rhythm of exile and return, for teaching us how to argue and for the biblical book of Ecclesiastes (Oh, and Bob Dylan and Woody Allen, of course).

To Jesus, thanks for taking on a human body and for loving Mary and for "Godspell" and for saving that wedding day by turning that water into wine. I will raise a glass (or two) to you this Thanksgiving.

To the Amida Buddha of Infinite Light, thanks for spinning the Pure Land out of your grace and your imagination, and for being at the end of the tunnel in those near-death experiences. Luther said all we need is faith. Thanks for not even requiring that.

golda and orange leaf on grassTo Krishna, thanks for reminding us that the gods can be playful (and mischievous), too. And for this grand promise from the Hindu scripture the "Bhagavad Gita" (4:11): “In whatsoever way any come to Me, in that same way I grant them favor.”

Finally, to the unknown gods (and anti-gods) of East and West, thanks for your mysterious silence (and for keeping the comments below relatively civil).

Om, Amen, Ahhhh!

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Going Green. Old School.

Atoms With Consciousness, Matter With Curiosity

- Richard Feynman

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
atoms with consciousness;
matter with curiosity.
Stands at the sea,
wonders at wondering: I
a universe of atoms
an atom in the Universe.

A Poetical Physicist!

Monday, November 25, 2013

Kilt Monday!

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

Quote of the Day

The extremists are afraid of books and pens. The power of education frightens them. They are afraid of women. The power of the voice of women frightens them.

And that is why they killed 14 innocent medical students in the recent attack in Quetta. And that is why they killed many female teachers and polio workers in Khyber Pukhtoon Khwa and FATA. That is why they are blasting schools every day.

Because they were and they are afraid of change, afraid of the equality that we will bring into our society.

- Malala Yousafzai, 

Sunday, November 24, 2013

It's Nice to Take a Few Moments and Enjoy the Beauty All Around

Ways of Talking

 - Ha Jin
We used to like talking about grief
Our journals and letters were packed
with losses, complaints, and sorrows.
Even if there was no grief
we wouldn’t stop lamenting
as though longing for the charm
of a distressed face.

Then we couldn’t help expressing grief
So many things descended without warning:
labor wasted, loves lost, houses gone,
marriages broken, friends estranged,
ambitions worn away by immediate needs.
Words lined up in our throats
for a good whining.
Grief seemed like an endless river—
the only immortal flow of life.

After losing a land and then giving up a tongue,
we stopped talking of grief
Smiles began to brighten our faces.
We laugh a lot, at our own mess.
Things become beautiful,
even hailstones in the strawberry fields.

from: Poetry, Copyright 1994).

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Featured Poet - Wislawa Szymborska

Essayist * Editor * Columnist * Translator * Nobel Laureate
. . . and one of my favorite poets

I know, I know, I say that all the time. 

Described as a "Mozart of Poetry," she achieved a goal sought unsuccessfully by most poets - her book sales often rivaled those of prominent prose authors.

Ms Szymborska never failed to amaze me with the deceptive simplicity of her poetry. For her, the personal and the political existed on the same plane, and her poetry came from the places they intersected.

No poem brought that home to me more so than Photograph From September 11th. It is difficult poem to read because of the subject matter and choice of narrative. But it is probably one of the most powerful pieces I've ever read.

She continued writing poetry until she left us in 2012, peacefully in her sleep, at the age of 88.

Here are a few of her poems. They are not light reading. They can be uncomfortable, and they challenge us to rethink the way we look at the lives we live.

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to tidy up.
Things won't pick
themselves up, after all.

Someone has to shove
the rubble to the roadsides
so the carts loaded with corpses
can get by.

Someone has to trudge
through sludge and ashes,
through the sofa springs,
the shards of glass,
the bloody rags.

Someone has to lug the post
to prop the wall,
someone has to glaze the window,
set the door in its frame.

No sound bites, no photo opportunities,
and it takes years.
All the cameras have gone
to other wars.

The bridges need to be rebuilt,
the railroad stations, too.
Shirtsleeves will be rolled
to shreds.

Someone, broom in hand,
still remembers how it was.
Someone else listens, nodding
his unshattered head.

But others are bound to be bustling nearby
who'll find all that
a little boring.

From time to time someone still must
dig up a rusted argument
from underneath a bush
and haul it off to the dump.

Those who knew
what this was all about
must make way for those
who know little.
And less than that.
And at last nothing less than nothing.

Someone has to lie there
in the grass that covers up
the causes and effects
with a cornstalk in his teeth,
gawking at clouds.

A Few Words on the Soul

We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.
Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.
For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.
Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.
It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.
Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.
We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.
Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.
It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.
We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.

Children of Our Age

We are children of our age,
it's a political age.

All day long, all through the night,
all affairs--yours, ours, theirs--
are political affairs.

Whether you like it or not,
your genes have a political past,
your skin, a political cast,
your eyes, a political slant.

Whatever you say reverberates,
whatever you don't say speaks for itself.
So either way you're talking politics.

Even when you take to the woods,
you're taking political steps
on political grounds.

Apolitical poems are also political,
and above us shines a moon
no longer purely lunar.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
And though it troubles the digestion
it's a question, as always, of politics.

To acquire a political meaning
you don't even have to be human.
Raw material will do,
or protein feed, or crude oil,

or a conference table whose shape
was quarreled over for months;
Should we arbitrate life and death
at a round table or a square one?

Meanwhile, people perished,
animals died,
houses burned,
and the fields ran wild
just as in times immemorial
and less political.

Love at First Sight

They're both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is more beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they'd never met before, they're sure
that there'd been nothing between them.
But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--
perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them
if they don't remember--
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
a curt "wrong number"caught in the receiver?--
but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

They'd be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn't read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood's thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night. perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.


See how efficient it still is,
how it keeps itself in shape -
our century's hatred.
How easily it vaults the tallest obstacles.
How rapidly it pounces, tracks us down.
It's not like other feelings.
At once both older and younger.
It gives birth itself to the reasons
that give it life.
When it sleeps, it's never eternal rest.
And sleeplessness won't sap its strength; it feeds it.
One religion or another -
whatever gets it ready, in position.
One fatherland or another -
whatever helps it get a running start.
Justice also works well at the outset
until hate gets its own momentum going.
Hatred. Hatred.
Its face twisted in a grimace
of erotic ecstasy.
Oh these other feelings,
listless weaklings.
Since when does brotherhood
draw crowds?
Has compassion
ever finished first?
Does doubt ever really rouse the rabble?
Only hatred has just what it takes.
Gifted, diligent, hard working.
Need we mention all the songs it has composed?
All the pages it has added to our history books?
All the human carpets it has spread
over countless city squares and football fields?
Let's face it:
it knows how to make beauty.
The splendid fire-glow in midnight skies.
Magnificent bursting bombs in rosy dawns.
You can't deny the inspiring pathos of ruins
and a certain bawdy humor to be found
in the sturdy column jutting from their midst.
Hatred is a master of contrast -
between explosion and dead quiet,
red blood and white snow.
Above all, it never tires
of its leitmotif - the impeccable executioner
towering over its soiled victim.
It's always ready for new challenges.
If it has to wait awhile, it will.
They say it's blind. Blind?
It has a sniper's keen sight
and gazes unflinchingly at the future
as only it can.

To find out more about one of the world's finest poets, you can try The Poetry Foundation, Nobel PrizeDotOrg, PoetsDotOrg, & The New York Review of Books.

Here is a partial Bibliography: Poems New and Collected; View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems; Here; Miracle Fair: Selected Poems of Wislawa Szymborska; Monologue of a Dog; Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts; Nonrequired Reading: Prose Pieces; Nothing Twice: Selected Poems; People on a Bridge: Poems; Poems, New and Collected: 1957-1997.

1996 Nobel Prize in Literature: 
"... for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality."

Friday, November 22, 2013


Some Words From Our Past . . . Looking Toward Our Future

* Let us not seek the Republican answer or the Democratic answer, but the right answer.  Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.

* As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.

* A nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation 
that is afraid of its people.

* Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.

John F. Kennedy

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Pssst . . .

Personal Letter No. 3

- Sonia Sanchez

nothing will keep
us young you know
not young men or
women who spin
their youth on
cool playing sounds.
we are what we
are what we never
think we are.
no more wild geo
graphies of the
flesh. echoes. that
we move in tune
to slower smells.
it is a hard thing
to admit that
sometimes after midnight
i am tired
of it all.

from: I've Been a Woman: New and Selected Poems, Copyright 1985.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013


Sonnet to Science

- Edgar Allan Poe.

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Monday, November 18, 2013

Kilt Monday!

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

Quote of the Day

If people persist in trespassing upon the grizzlies' territory, we must accept the fact that the grizzlies, from time to time, will harvest a few trespassers.

- Edward Abbey

Sunday, November 17, 2013


Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them. Dalai Lama Quote

sweet reader, flanneled and tulled

 - Olena Kalytiak Davis

Reader unmov’d and Reader unshaken, Reader unseduc’d   
and unterrified, through the long-loud and the sweet-still   
I creep toward you. Toward you, I thistle and I climb.

I crawl, Reader, servile and cervine, through this blank   
season, counting—I sleep and I sleep. I sleep,
Reader, toward you, loud as a cloud and deaf, Reader, deaf

as a leaf. Reader: Why don’t you turn

pale? and, Why don’t you tremble? Jaded, staid   
Reader, You—who can read this and not even

flinch. Bare-faced, flint-hearted, recoilless   
Reader, dare you—Rare Reader, listen   
and be convinced: Soon, Reader,

soon you will leave me, for an italian mistress:   
for her dark hair, and her moon-lit   
teeth. For her leopardi and her cavalcanti,

for her lips and clavicles; for what you want   
to eat, eat, eat. Art-lover, rector, docent!   
Do I smile? I, too, once had a brash artless

feeder: his eye set firm on my slackening
sky. He was true! He was thief! In the celestial sense   
he provided some, some, some

(much-needed) relief. Reader much-slept with, and Reader I will die
without touching, You, Reader, You: mr. small-
weed, mr. broad-cloth, mr. long-dark-day. And the italian mis-

fortune you will heave me for, for
her dark hair and her moonlit-teeth. You will love her well in-
to three-or-four cities, and then, you will slowly

sink. Reader, I will never forgive you, but not, poor   
cock-sure Reader, not, for what you think. O, Reader   
Sweet! and Reader Strange! Reader Deaf and Reader

Dear, I understand youyourself may be hard-
pressed to bare this small and un-necessary burden   
having only just recently gotten over the clean clean heart-

break of spring. And I, Reader, I am but the daughter   
of a tinker. I am not above the use of bucktail spinners,   
white grubs, minnow tails. Reader, worms

and sinkers. Thisandthese curtail me   
to be brief: Reader, our sex gone
to wildweather. YesReaderYes—that feels much-much

better. (And my new Reader will come to me empty-
handed, with a countenance that roses, lavenders, and cakes.   
And my new Reader will be only mildly disappointed.

My new Reader can wait, can wait, can wait.) Light-
minded, snow-blind, nervous, Reader, Reader, troubled, Reader,
what’d ye lack? Importunate, unfortunate, Reader:

You are cold. You are sick. You are silly.
Forgive me, kind Reader, forgive me, I had not intended to step this quickly this far
back. Reader, we had a quiet wedding: he&I, theparson

&theclerk. Would I could, stead-fast, gracilefacile Reader! Last,   
good Reader, tarry with me, jessa-mine Reader. Dar-
(jee)ling, bide! Bide, Reader, tired, and stay, stay, stray Reader,

true. R.: I had been secretly hoping this would turn into a love

poem. Disconsolate. Illiterate. Reader,   
I have cleared this space for you, for you, for you.

from: shattered sonnets love cards and other off and back handed importunities, Copyright 2003.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Saturday Farmer's Market - Autumn Color

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

UPDATE from Last Week:

Remember these from a few Saturdays ago?  I told you that they were an important part of my garden and were going to be a part of a project that I would tell you about in the future.

Surprise! Project's finished! (finally)

These are my hose guides. They are inexpensive, easy to make, and have sparked lots of conversations over the years.

When asked what they are, my answers usually include talk of some sort of clandestine surveillance by otherworldly beings or sentient earthworms. (I never have to worry about neighborhood kids on my lawn.)

They needed a new coat of paint and I did something I have wanted to do for a long time. I gave them Eyeballs. Now they really are spooky things watching my garden.

Today's poem is:

         Christina Rossetti's Goblin Market.

This is only an excerpt, and you can find the full text {here} I know it's kind of long,
but the beauty of its terror is incredible.

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”

               Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.

                  . . . Read On . . .

Spring started early this year, only to be punctuated by one last freeze after the bulbs and buds were well on their way.

Luckily, the early bloomers all escaped harm to perform beautifully.

We also had a last rain shower well into the beginning of summer, after trees were fully flowered, which caused some problems. For Orchardists it raised issues with splitting fruit and mold. For folks like myself the problems had more to do with the weight added to fully flowered branches. I had to do some emergency pruning to avoid splitting of major branches.

Right now Spring flowers are beginning to greet their fall cousins still in bloom. The garden is full of birds, mostly hummingbirds, scrub jays, and finches. Sometimes it seems that there are as many finches as there are leaves fallen off the trees.

Speaking of leaves. We have never been blessed with especially showy displays of autumn color here, but this year was different. Well, let's face it, this year has been different all the way around. My crepe myrtle has had the most spectacular reddish orange color. It has never been so beautiful. Unfortunately I didn't think to actually take pictures until the leaves started dropping - and they're dropping fast. I just wish my pictures could do it justice.

Friday, November 15, 2013

I've Been Thinking of Going Back to School . . . But I'm Not Sure if I'm Up to it . . . Again . . . Yet.

Quote of the Day

Haters and racists thrive in darkness, and they thrive on silence. They look for approval from whatever source they can muster. For them, silence equals tacit approval.

But paying attention to haters and, moreover, standing up to them requires both constant vigilance and a keen awareness of the dangers inherent in doing so.

In my experience, the best response it to make a complete mockery of them, as a crowd of counter-protesters did several years ago in Olympia. …
-  David Neiwert

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Ewe Mean So Much To Me . . .

She walked into the lab, kissed my neck.

"You know, you never actually ‘touch’ anything," I told her. "Electrons on the surface of our atoms consistently and completely repel each other."

"No matter how close we get," she said, "we will always be apart…"

I sighed. “Romantic, huh?”

"I don’t mind." She stared at me, moved her hand on top of mine.

"The fundamental forces of the universe can’t stop me from trying."

                                                                                        - Trying,
 from: Scientific American blogger, and science communicator Kyle Hill.  

Sci-Fi in Six

A Tumblr full of science fiction short stories, told in six paragraphs or less.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Quote of the Day

The promise of America will never be fulfilled 
as long as justice is denied to even one among us.

- Senator Ted Kennedy

What the Body Told

- Rafael Campo

Not long ago, I studied medicine.
It was terrible, what the body told.
I’d look inside another person’s mouth,
And see the desolation of the world.
I’d see his genitals and think of sin.
Because my body speaks the stranger’s language,
I’ve never understood those nods and stares.
My parents held me in their arms, and still
I think I’ve disappointed them; they care
And stare, they nod, they make their pilgrimage
To somewhere distant in my heart, they cry.
I look inside their other-person’s mouths
And see the wet interior of souls.
It’s warm and red in there—like love, with teeth.
I’ve studied medicine until I cried
All night. Through certain books, a truth unfolds.
Anatomy and physiology,
The tiny sensing organs of the tongue—
Each nameless cell contributing its needs.
It was fabulous, what the body told.

from: The World In Us: Lesbian and Gay Poetry of The Next Wave. Copyright 2000.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Kilt Monday! Veteran's Day Edition

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


Saturday, November 9, 2013

Saturday Farmer's Market - Good Grief!

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

As I was out watering the other day I noticed something unusual. My snow drops are blooming, and the other spring flowers are coming up. It's lovely but I wonder what will happen to them in the spring.

The garden has been a bit neglected over the past few weeks, and it's times like this I wish I had an assistant like on the gardening shows. Every winter I have to fight back yellow clover. It's invasive and crowds out everything else if I let it. Well, needless to say, it has gotten quite a foot hold now and I will probably be fighting it all winter. Here you can see it starting to take over in the herb garden.

I have been hearing lately that we here in California are coming to the end of our luck water wise. If this winter is as dry as the past few years have been, we won't have enough water in the reservoirs to cover the summer demand. You know what that means.

My husband and I had an idea we thought was pretty good. Because of my hand limitations I use quick connects on my hose, etc. They are indispensable, and we found a way to make them even more useful.

I have soaker hose laid in the herb/rose beds and it works beautifully while keeping my water consumption down. The rest of the beds have no ready access to water for the soaker hoses, but if we lay the hoses any way and put a quick connect on the end, I can simply hook the hose up to it when I want to water. This way I can rotate watering the beds, save water, and be discrete - all without major excavation.

But you probably already thought of that.

I picked the pomegranates. They are wonderful! My little tree gave me just enough to fill my big basket and I will be making jelly.

I'm still harvesting tomatoes and peppers.

The Verbena has not faded one tiny bit.

 The Lavender is all wild and happy.

My Bay Laurel an Holley are doing great. They have both grown quite a bit this summer.

To Autumn
- John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.