Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Green Pants and a Bamboo Flute

- Brenda Hillman

Oaks tear up the storm floor
Nothing left to warn
The poisoned rat has poisoned the owl
The striped air of the state is choked
With pointed salty star materials
They've cut the tips off dollar bills
Now chipped stars everywhere seems like
Death planes with Daisy Chains
Bomb planes with cute little names
Swordfish stab the water's skin
The sea has no plot

Earlier thinkers thought of air
As a mist not a context
With each bomb the part
That was narrow shrinks.
Our god passes by briefly
From another existence
With his pretty floating rib
The one they call the twelfth
The webbed arch of caravans
Frames the desert horror
The owl's eyes follow them
on this side of the pale

One night in a vision
Your future car was buried
Today they drive the buried car
Turn like a three-part song
Electricity wants not to be anymore
Or to be darktricity
The brain is an atmosphere of rooms
A situation without a future
Where us presides over an it
The doom's-whim-bride's-trace fog
Doubles as a shroud

If the flute cannot be found
Its breath is in you
Making an @ sign of sex or grain
What was it thinking of
The catkins look so like grenades
Maybe the particle spirits
Will spin in the at of each address
Knock the wheel of fate from its orbit
Race to a curled up
Solomon's sleep in the clock's
Ring moist with air

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


Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (ebook) - Simon Brett   

"I regard it as a point of honor to discharge all my husband's unfinished business."

I have always felt that there are times when what is legal isn't right, and what is right isn't legal.

The Reason I Jump (ebook)- Naoki Higashida

"And when the light of hope shines on all this world, then our future will be connected with your future. That's what I want, above all."

I picked up this book after reading Chris's review and the comments it elicited, and I'm glad I did. 

There were no earth shaking revelations, nor did I expect there would be. But by what seemed to me to be answering some of the many questions he has been asked over the years, the young author helped me to adjust my perspective just a bit. 

It is not always easy to see things from the other side, but things can look quite different if we try. 

Darkness Take My Hand (audiobook) - Dennis Lehane

"...I once again felt an odd flush of admiration for my partner's faith in a religion I had long ago abandoned. She doesn't advertise it or announce it at every turn, and she has nothing but scorn for the patriarchal hierarchy that runs the church, but she nevertheless holds firm to a belief in the religion and ritual with a quiet intensity that can't be shaken."

A dark, driving, relentless plot, definitely not for the squeamish.

The Coroner's Lunch (audiobook) - Colin Cotterill 

"He put his hand on his forehead and scoured the French department of his memory for a word. He knew it was in there. He'd put it in almost fifty years before and hadn't had cause to remove it. But for the life of him he couldn't find it."

Two murder mysteries wrapped up in the political intrigue of The People's Democratic Republic of Laos in 1976, along with some very likeable characters.

The Memoir Project: A Thoroughly Non-Standardized Text for Writing and Life - Marion Roach Smith

"From this minute forward, your intent is to write with purpose. And trust me when I tell you that the difference between morning pages and writing with purpose is the difference between a wish and a prayer."

Instead of practicing on exercises, practice on the real thing. Then polish it.

Sounds good to me.

Poets Against the War - Sam Hamill, Sally Anderson, et al.

"Never before in recorded history have so many poets spoken in a single chorus; never before has a single-theme anthology of this proportion been assembled; never before had such wide-reaching national - and eventually global - "Days of Poetry Against the War" been organized."

I have been peppering the blog with pieces from this anthology throughout the month. Some very powerful poetry inhabits its pages. The 175 choices offer a wide of range styles. Something for everyone?

Death in the 12th House (audiobook) - Mitchell Scott Lewis

"There will never be anyone as huge and important to movies as Charlie Chaplin. Go into a Blockbuster’s and ask someone under the age of thirty for a Chaplin film. If he ever heard of him he probably couldn’t name a single one of his movies."

Just try and find a Blockbuster these days. They no longer exist either.

Who was it that said that the only constant in this world is change?

Murder as a Fine Art (ebook) - David Morrell

"Eighteen Forty-Eight. The widening division between rich and poor became so extreme that revolutions spread throughout almost every nation on the Continent."

Historical fiction set in Victorian England, but if you're sensitive to blood and gore, this might not be the book for you.

If they made a movie, the director would be either John Carpenter or Tim Burton.

Lost Light (ebook) - Michael Connelly

"It's only a wonderful world if you can make it that way. There are no street signs pointing to Paradise Road."

Harry has gone from detective to sort of private detective, and he still doesn't play well with others, but he wants to.

The Drunken Botanist (audiobook) - Amy Stewart

"This is horticulture, in all of these bottles."

"Before we left we stood in the doorway and looked around us. There wasn't a bottle in the store we couldn't assign a genus and species to."

Lots of history, biology, and chemistry, along with growing tips for intrepid gardeners, and drink recipes . . . I should get college credit for reading this book!

My guess is the research phase had its good times and not so good times.

Sacred (audiobook) - Dennis Lehane

"Work and its results always outlived those who labored at it as any Egyptian slave-ghost will tell you."

These murder mysteries are by far the darkest that I've read, but they are worth every minute spent with them.

Black is white; up is down; and still this detective duo refuses to back down.

Princesses Behaving Badly (audiobook) - Linda Rodriguez McRobbie
"Princess Alfhild had a choice to make.
On the one hand, a really awesome guy had finally managed to bypass her father’s deadly defenses and call on her without finding himself impaled or poisoned. She could marry this brave young man and enjoy the life of domestic bliss that women of her era were supposed to aspire to. Or she could ditch the pampered royal life and become a pirate."

Not a serious book of history, but history none the less - the kind of history usually sacrificed for expediency.

I never wanted to be a princess until now!

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

A Summer Garden

- Louise Glück

Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
The sun was shining. The dogs
were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping,
calm and unmoving as in all photographs.

I wiped the dust from my mother’s face.
Indeed, dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent
haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood.
In the background, an assortment of park furniture, trees and shrubbery.

The sun moved lower in the sky, the shadows lengthened and darkened.
The more dust I removed, the more these shadows grew.
Summer arrived. The children
leaned over the rose border, their shadows
merging with the shadows of the roses.

A word came into my head, referring
to this shifting and changing, these erasures
that were now obvious—

it appeared, and as quickly vanished.
Was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion?

Summer arrived, then autumn. The leaves turning,
the children bright spots in a mash of bronze and sienna.


When I had recovered somewhat from these events,
I replaced the photograph as I had found it
between the pages of an ancient paperback,
many parts of which had been
annotated in the margins, sometimes in words but more often
in spirited questions and exclamations
meaning “I agree” or “I’m unsure, puzzled—”

The ink was faded. Here and there I couldn’t tell
what thoughts occurred to the reader
but through the bruise-like blotches I could sense
urgency, as though tears had fallen.

I held the book awhile.
It was Death in Venice (in translation);
I had noted the page in case, as Freud believed,
nothing is an accident.

Thus the little photograph
was buried again, as the past is buried in the future.
In the margin there were two words,
linked by an arrow: “sterility” and, down the page, “oblivion”—

“And it seemed to him the pale and lovely
summoner out there smiled at him and beckoned...”


How quiet the garden is;
no breeze ruffles the Cornelian cherry.
Summer has come.

How quiet it is
now that life has triumphed. The rough

pillars of the sycamores
support the immobile
shelves of the foliage,

the lawn beneath
lush, iridescent—

And in the middle of the sky,
the immodest god.

Things are, he says. They are, they do not change;
response does not change.

How hushed it is, the stage
as well as the audience; it seems
breathing is an intrusion.

He must be very close,
the grass is shadowless.

How quiet it is, how silent,
like an afternoon in Pompeii.


Beatrice took the children to the park in Cedarhurst.
The sun was shining. Airplanes
passed back and forth overhead, peaceful because the war was over.

It was the world of her imagination:
true and false were of no importance.

Freshly polished and glittering—
that was the world. Dust
had not yet erupted on the surface of things.

The planes passed back and forth, bound
for Rome and Paris—you couldn’t get there
unless you flew over the park. Everything
must pass through, nothing can stop—

The children held hands, leaning
to smell the roses.
They were five and seven.

Infinite, infinite—that
was her perception of time.

She sat on a bench, somewhat hidden by oak trees.
Far away, fear approached and departed;
from the train station came the sound it made.

The sky was pink and orange, older because the day was over.

There was no wind. The summer day
cast oak-shaped shadows on the green grass.

Source: Poetry, January 2012.

Monday, April 28, 2014

Kilt Monday!

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

Sometimes the Wider World Can only Be Apprehended Obliquely

- Marie Harris

Snakes are always all of a sudden, no matter where I encounter them. These two were baking under a sheet of black plastic that covered the old bales of mulch hay I needed for the onion row. A garter (imagine it wound in delicate coils around a stockinged thigh!) and another I can't name (silver-white core emblazoned along its length with brown ovals etched in delicate black). Exposed and surprised by light, uncoiling, they tongue the bright air. Spiders hurry away carrying bulging white sacs. Ants rearrange their ranks. There has been a profound disturbance. Each small movement occasions an intricate series of counter movements. I couldn't have predicted, for instance, the thousands of reactions to my shadow.

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

Sunday, April 27, 2014

from: Beautiful Boyfriend

- Marilyn Chin

                  For Don (1958–2011)
My skiff is made of spicewood       my oars are Cassia bract
Music flows      from bow to starboard
Early Mozart     cool side of  Coltrane   and miles and miles     of   Miles
Cheap Californian Merlot       and my young boyfriend

If   I could master      the nine doors of my body
And close my heart       to the cries of   suffering
Perhaps     I could love you like no other
Float my mind      toward the other side of   hate

The shanty towns of   Tijuana       sing for you
The slums of   Little Sudan       hold evening prayer
One dead brown boy is a tragedy
     Ten thousand is a statistic
So let’s fuck    my love       until the dogs pass

All beautiful boyfriends are transitory
They have no souls     they’re shiny brown flesh
Tomorrow they’ll turn into      purple festering corpses
Fissured     gored    by a myriad flies

Down the Irrawaddy River       you lay yourself   to sleep
No sun no moon          no coming no going
No causality   no personality
No hunger     no thirst

Malarial deltas      typhoidal cays
Tsunamis don’t judge     Calamity grieves no one
The poor will be submerged     the rich won’t be saved
Purge the innocent     sink the depraved

What do I smell        but the perfume of   transience
Crushed calyxes         rotting phloems
Let’s write     pretty poems        pretty poems      pretty poems
Masque stale pogroms    with a sweet whiff of oblivion

NOTES: Read the Q&A with Marilyn Chin about this poem
Source: Poetry (December 2012).

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Saturday Farmer's Market - Happy Saturday! [UPDATED]

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

The camera really doesn't do this Iris justice. 
It is a pale, powdery blue and has a stunning fragrance to rival the roses.

The 'mailbox bed' is filling in nicely. The Sedum overwintered like a champ and is covered in tiny yellow flowers. Between it and the Coreopsis there isn't much room left.

Just behind them is the Fortnight Lily, which is sending up lots of flower spikes.

My African Daisies (on the backside, along the sidewalk) didn't survive the winter, so I just replaced them with Portulaca. Even if they are only an annual here, they'll make a beautiful (and water-wise) show for the summer. I'll get a picture when there starts to be more flower than dirt.

The color in front is pansies. I love pansies and plant lots of them in the fall (they love the winter here) and early spring. But the heat of the CA summer is harsh, and they fade as spring progresses into summer.

There is a Cape Honeysuckle that will cover the fence along the back with bright orange flowers. It seems to be a slow grower, so unless it takes off soon, that may take a while.

Not seen in this picture are the Agave I just planted and my four Sunflowers.

I have a clump of large sized Hens & Chicks near my Rosemary, and this precious little gem is their handiwork.

I'm not usually impressed by the flowers succulents send up, but these are lovely.

I finally transplanted the peppers from the cold frame.

I planted one plant each of Jalapeno, Sweet Red, and Sweet Green Peppers.

My Chives (I had both garlic and regular) finally gave up this winter so I had to replace them.

I headed to my local un-box nursery to replace them and the squash eaten by the slugs.

Well, I should have gotten moving sooner. By the time I got there the veggies were very picked over, and I was only able to get the Garlic Chives.

One of the first things that any reference material says about Gardenias is that they are evergreen.

Mine. Not so much.

I have two of them and this is pretty much what they both look like. I figured their water needs are similar to roses so they would be happy near them.

No. Not happy.

There is new growth on them. There is every spring. But it doesn't even get close to being full before winter is here again. I have PHed & amended, mulched, covered & ...

In short, I've given all kinds of extra attention to them that I swore not to give to individual plants.

And do they appreciate it? No.

I just pulled this one out of the ground and potted it to see if I can find a way to help them. Maybe bring them inside. I don't know. I'm stumped. Anybody have any ideas?

This is my Sweety working on an old pallet that the boys found along the river on one of their walks. With a little bit of modification it will become a vertical garden planter.

I plan to fill it with pesto Basil. I know I'm running a bit late with this project, but 'timely' is not my middle name

Poppies & Roses

The poppies on this side have been self seeding for years. They look like such a delicate and fragile plant, but it's not unusual for them to last through the winter unfazed and double their size come spring.

The Irises are spent, but the Roses have just begun.

This bed separates the driveway from the yard.

One of last year's Birthday Roses in bloom.

It has clusters of tiny buds and blooms in little nosegays.

The forecast says rain, and it's been threatening all week, but I have my doubts.
And just think, there was once a time when I was an optimist.
UPDATE: Shows what I know. It started pouring yesterday afternoon and rained most of the night! 

- Joy Harjo

Yes that was me you saw shaking with bravery, with a government issued rifle on my back. I’m sorry I could not greet you, as you deserved, my relative.

They were not my tears. I have a reservoir inside. They will be cried by my sons, my daughters if I can’t learn how to turn tears to stone.

Yes, that was me standing in the back door of the house in the alley, with fresh corn and bread for the neighbors.

I did not foresee the flood of blood. How they would forget our friendship, would return to kill the babies and me.

Yes, that was me whirling on the dance floor.  We made such a racket with all that joy.   I loved the whole world in that silly music.

I did not realize the terrible dance in the staccato of bullets.

Yes. I smelled the burning grease of corpses.  And like a fool I expected our words might rise up and jam the artillery in the hands of dictators.

We had to keep going.  We sang our grief to clean the air of turbulent spirits.

Yes, I did see the terrible black clouds as I cooked dinner. And the messages of the dying spelled there in the ashy sunset. Every one addressed:  “mother”.

There was nothing about it in the news.  Everything was the same.  Unemployment was up.  Another queen crowned with flowers.  Then there were the sports scores.

Yes, the distance was great between your country and mine.  Yet our children played in the path between our

No.  We had no quarrel with each other.  

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

Friday, April 25, 2014

Sheepherder Coffee

- Sam Hamill

I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,

and when it's hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.

It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods, all those years ago.

Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.

But when I think of that posture now,
I can't help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,

the Afghan shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the Tibetan monk who can't go home.

There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes

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

Thursday, April 24, 2014

A Mash-Up of Art and its Inspiration

The River Thames


"St. Paul's Cathedral on Lord Mayor's Day"

by Canaletto

A remix of old and new London by redditer shystone, who found the locations depicted in 18th and 19th century works and then layered the paintings on top of the contemporary photographs. Sometimes the match up is uncanny.

SOURCES (and more pics): Imgur, The Dish, & My Modern Met

A Powerful Haiku from a Budding Poet

terror in their eyes
children now lost forever
innocent, like me

- Madeleine-Therese Halpert (age 9)

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

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

We interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Day . . .


- Sidney Hall, Jr.

A word from a song
Printed brightly on a blue banner
Hung on the highest balcony.

Impossible to imagine
A war that has not begun,
A black-headed boy buried
Along with his soccer ball,
A young mother's broken breast
On a red sidewalk.

A word from a song.

Impossible to imagine
One quarter of a million people
In the streets trying to end
A war that has not begun.

Impossible to imagine the echo
Of incensed humanity
Twisting up the avenue
Between the white buildings,
Or the face of a man next to me in the march,
Under a thick blue hood,
Behind a grey beard,
Crying as secretly as he can.

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

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Cat and Mouse

- Ted Hughes
On the sheep-cropped summit, under hot sun,
The mouse crouched, staring out the chance
It dared not take.
                               Time and a world
Too old to alter, the five mile prospect -
Woods, villages, farms - hummed its heat-heavy
Stupor of life.
                               Whether to two
Feet or four, how are prayers contracted!
Whether in God's eye or the eye of a cat.

Just Because

Monday, April 21, 2014

Kilt Monday!

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


- Robert Aitken

When people talk about war
I vow with all beings
to raise my voice in the chorus
and speak of original peace.
from: Poets Against the War, Sam Hamill, Sally Anderson, et al, ed.

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

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

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

from Japan, leaving only dim memories: years lit by
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

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

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}

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Quote of the Day

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
 - William Wordsworth

Saturday Farmer's Market - and Spring Continues . . .

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

I know. I know. It's not Saturday. 
I pushed the wrong button and the post didn't schedule properly, but better late than never. 

First up, some bad news: Something ate one of my Snow Pea plants (right) and both of my Zucchini plants. (left)

My Peonies did poorly last year and I thought they might not make it back this year. Surprise! Two big, healthy plants are blooming right now. They have an exceptionally short bloom period, so with no further delay . . .

 Another bit of happy news:

We had two very Old Rose Bushes that neighbors told us had been on the property at least since the house was built in '55.

We nurtured them and they did well until two years ago when the first of two bad (for California) winters hit and we lost the largest bush from frost damage.

The next winter damaged the remaining bush, but it is recovering well.

Last year's birthday presents!

Believe it or not, these are White Roses (great photography)

... and California Poppies.

 These actually are Yellow Roses.

 This Rose is new this year.

This Blue Iris was also a gift from my son, and it has a wonderful scent.

 But these Dutch Iris were a surprise. I had forgotten I'd even planted them.

I had a bit of a mishap this week.

I scored three agave plants on Craigslist. Two of them are quite large, but the third is smaller and I decided I could plant it myself.

It was so root-bound that I had to cut the plastic pot off, and there was hardly any soil left. 

That, however, was not the big problem.

The plant had barbs on the edges of its leaves . . . and they tried to do serious damage. By the time I finished with the planting, my arm and hand were covered with blood. My arm now looks like I tangled with an angry cat.

Here it is. Happy at last.

I don't believe these plants are the type to ever be giving me tequila, but I'm not much of a drinker anyway.


 Here are the other two.

They will be at the end of the long bed, near the stumps.

Most importantly, they don't have barbs!