from Our Home to Yours . . .

I am my brother’s keeper,

and he’s sleeping pretty rough these days.

 -Archbishop Derek Worlock.

 

But if anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth. 

 - 1 John 3:17-18 ESV

And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

 - Matthew 25:40 ESV

from: When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd

     by Walt Whitman

1
When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,   
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,   
I mourn'd—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.   
   
O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;   
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.      

2
O powerful, western, fallen star!   
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!   
O great star disappear'd! O the black murk that hides the star!   
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!      

3
In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd
   palings,   
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich
   green,   
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume
   strong I love,   
With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich
   green,   
A sprig, with its flower, I break. 

The Parakeets

    by Alberto Blanco

translated by W. S. Merwin

They talk all day
and when it starts to get dark
they lower their voices
to converse with their own shadows
and with the silence.

They are like everybody
—the parakeets—
all day chatter,
and at night bad dreams.

With their gold rings
on their clever faces,
brilliant feathers
and the heart restless
with speech...

They are like everybody,
—the parakeets—
the ones that talk best
have separate cages.

from: Dawn of the Senses: Selected Poems of Alberto Blanco. Copyright 1995.

If Only . . .

The REAL STORY at Orion Magazine.

BOOK REVIEWS. Sort of.

The Lighthouse Keeper - Luisa Buehler     

Grace accepts a friends invitation to Canada, where she and brother Marty try to rest and recuperate (from the goings on in the last book). But alas, drama and plot twists abound. (Really!)

Loved it. Next!

The Innkeeper - Luisa Buehler    

Each successive book in the series brings to life more of the peripheral characters. Along with plots, they have developed, some comfortably, some not so. But all of it keeps me wanting more.

The Reenactor - Luisa Buehler          

The author prefaces this book with the fact that it is the last in the series and bids us say "good night, Gracie." It was a nice little series and though I'm sorry to see It end, I understand.

This last book continues with all the things that made me enjoy the series, until about half way through. Decisions and happenings start to feel forced, like Ms Buehler had her normal outline completed but just got tired of writing and rushed it.

All in all, this series was still fun and compelling. I enjoyed it tremendously.

NOTE: These are not, in any way, meant to be comprehensive reviews.  

They are intended to acknowledge that I have read the book and give my honest core impressions. 

If a real review is what you wish, there are many wonderful book blogs available, and I have provided some tools to find them under the tab marked "Useful."

On This Day . . .

April 7, 1848

 

The New York State Assembly passed the Married Woman's Property Act. This gave women the right to retain both property they brought into a marriage, and property they acquired during the marriage. Creditors could not seize a wife's property to pay a husband's debts.

 YAY!

Goldfish Are Ordinary

    by Stacie Cassarino

At the pet store on Court Street,
I search for the perfect fish.
The black moor, the blue damsel,
cichlids and neons. Something
to distract your sadness, something
you don't need to love you back.
Maybe a goldfish, the flaring tail,
orange, red-capped, pearled body,
the darting translucence? Goldfish
are ordinary, the boy selling fish
says to me. I turn back to the tank,
all of this grace and brilliance,
such simplicity the self could fail
to see. In three months I'll leave
this city. Today, a chill in the air,
you're reading Beckett fifty blocks
away, I'm looking at the orphaned 
bodies of fish, undulant and gold fervor. 
Do you want to see aggression?
the boy asks, holding a purple beta fish
to the light while dropping handfuls
of minnows into the bowl. He says,
I know you're a girl and all
but sometimes it's good to see.
Outside, in the rain, we love
with our hands tied, 
while things tear away at us.

from: Zero at the Bone. Copyright 2009.