Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Today is Book Club at Betty's house.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
think of buttocks, breasts, this plump pulp.
And carrots, mud clinging to the root,
gold mined from the earth's tight purse.
And asparagus, that push their heads up,
rise to meet the returning sun,
and zucchini, green torpedoes
lurking in the Sargasso depths
of their raspy stalks and scratchy leaves.
And peppers, thick walls of cool jade, a green hush.
Secret caves. Sanctuary.
And beets, the dark blood of the earth.
And all the lettuces: bibb, flame, oak leaf, butter-
crunch, black-seeded Simpson, chicory, cos.
Elizabethan ruffs, crisp verbiage.
And spinach, the dark green
of northern forests, savoyed, ruffled,
hidden folds and clefts.
And basil, sweet basil, nuzzled
by fumbling bees drunk on the sun.
And cucumbers, crisp, cool white ice
in the heart of August, month of fire.
And peas in their delicate slippers,
little green boats, a string of beads,
And sunflowers, nodding at night,
then rising to shout hallelujah! at noon.
All over the garden, the whisper of leaves
passing secrets and gossip, making assignations.
All of the vegetables bask in the sun,
languorous as lizards.
Quick, before the frost puts out
its green light, praise these vegetables,
praise what comes from the dirt.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Ah yes, those of Latino descent must be so proud to have the tradition of Mexi-Cone Food carried on at the fair. One can get the famous "Bean Cone" here--a scoop of refried beans placed in a cone of fried tortilla and sprinkled with cheese. I myself have enjoyed more than a few Bean Cones at the fair. Viva El Bean Cone.
When my friend Marvin moved into his apartment, there was a drawing of a horse's head with a frame painted around it, and the painted banner beneath it that read "Bunky: The Wonder Horse." At first he thought it was delightfully campy and kept it. It was just above his bed. Soon, however, he found he could not sleep with Bunky The Wonder Horse looking over him as he slept and after many sleepless nights he had to paint over it. Even then, he had trouble falling asleep knowing that Bunky was just under that paint, looking down at him, his horsey thoughts hovering just above all of Marvin's dreams.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
you can take it with you
2 little girls who live next door
to this house are on their trampoline.
the window is closed, so they are soundless.
the sun slants, it is going away;
but now it hits full on the trampoline
and the small figure on each end.
alternately they fly up to the sun,
fly, and rebound, fly, are shot
up, fly, are shot up up.
one comes down in the lotus
position. the other, outdone,
somersaults in air. their hair
flies too. nothing, nothing, noth
ing can keep keep them down. the air
sucks them up by the hair of their heads.
i know all about what is
happening in this city at just
this moment, every last
grain of dark, i conceive.
but what i see now is
the 2 little girls flung up
flung up, the sun snatch
ing them, their mouths rounded
in gasps. they are there, they fly up.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
School starts soon and at this time of the year, all over the place, teachers are feeling like this little big sitting on this big white globe. There is a lot to plan, to organize, a lot to control, a lot to try and balance. You feel small when you think about all you have to do, but all you can do is look ahead and hope the winds are kind.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Is there anything better than coming back to your own home after being away on a trip?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
THIS is the place that I love the best,
A little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
Sifts through the vine-made window screen--
Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls
On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
The breath of clover brings to me.
All through the languid July day
I catch the scent of new-mown hay.
Over the doorway twist and twine;
And every day, when the house is still,
The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
I sink to sleep when the day is done;
And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,
By a singing bird on the roof o'erhead.
Are the living pictures I see at home--
My aged father, with frosted hair,
And mother's face, like a painting rare.
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best--
This little brown house like a ground-bird's nest?
--Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
There I am with two of my sisters I on a tractor like the one we drove on the farm. Our dad would have been so proud to see us on this John Deere!