Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
new poem
A new poem by yours truly has been posted at Gold Coast Writers. It's about animals and light.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
how about a joke?
A precious little girl walks into a pet shop and asks, in the sweetest little lisp, between two missing teeth, "Excuthe me, mithter, do you keep widdle wabbits?"
As the shopkeeper's heart melts, he gets down on his knees so that he's on her level and asks, "Do you want a widdle white wabbit, or a thoft and fuwwy, bwack wabbit, or maybe one like that cute widdle bwown wabbit over there?"
She,in turn, blushes, rocks on her heels, puts her hands on her knees, leans forward and says, in a tiny quiet voice...
"I don't think my python weally gives a thit."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
a moment
I just want to take a moment and solemnly fail to remember the idea for a poem which surfaced and drifted away yesterday, while I was exercising at the gym. I went in there with a bottle of water and my iPod, so when the idea appeared I had no way to record it. Whatever it was, and I think it was something nice, it's gone. What a drag.
Here's a flower.
Here's a flower.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
funny, they don't look elfish
"Santa’s workshop has nothing on Valle Verde residents in terms of productivity.
Members of the Santa Barbara retirement community have been working all year to create hundreds of handmade toys and clothing items for children, which they donated to Unity Shoppe last week." [Noozhawk.com]
You just gotta love people like this. They keep other people's children in their hearts, all year long.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
where is sacred?
The words, “sacred spaces” have been bubbling around in my brain for several days, like a snippet of a song I can’t quite remember. I think it started while I was listening to music. Maybe it’s the title of a piece of instrumental music. Doesn’t matter. I’ve been thinking about the spaces that have served the sacred in me.
This shouldn’t be confused with sacred places, like a church. I’m thinking of something more personal, subjective, and intimate than that. Otherwise, what I’m thinking about would exclude those of us not given to the practices of priest or acolyte. Even if you are not religious, I maintain that your experience includes time abiding in spaces that are sacred to your soul.
I’m mulling it over, and a certain lost kitchen keeps appearing in my mind, with a soft light, people now with God, and hopefully there will be smells of cooking. You can mull it over too, if you want, and see what comes up for you.
Namaste.
This shouldn’t be confused with sacred places, like a church. I’m thinking of something more personal, subjective, and intimate than that. Otherwise, what I’m thinking about would exclude those of us not given to the practices of priest or acolyte. Even if you are not religious, I maintain that your experience includes time abiding in spaces that are sacred to your soul.
I’m mulling it over, and a certain lost kitchen keeps appearing in my mind, with a soft light, people now with God, and hopefully there will be smells of cooking. You can mull it over too, if you want, and see what comes up for you.
Namaste.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
the car of the future
This is the coolest thing I've seen in a long time. If there wasn't just one in the world, and if I had about $8M sitting around, I'd have to order one tonight.
Zoom Your Word
From Kyle's Tips for Geeks, here's a shortcut to zoom in and out in MS Word.
Don't say ya never learned nuthin' on Metaphor.
If you have a mouse with a wheel. press and hold the CTRL key and roll the wheel up to zoom in. Roll the wheel down to zoom out.
Don't say ya never learned nuthin' on Metaphor.
committment
Here's a fine post at Daring to Write, about making the committment to write, and all the cop-outs we try to take along the way. Thanks, Wenda.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Young Dead Soldiers
The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.
by Archibald MacLeish
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough
(1913) Ezra Pound
"Make it new."
Monday, November 2, 2009
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