A Tidings of Magpies

It's been a rough summer in the land of Neurodramaville. I personally think the frequent weather changes and variations in barometric pressure add to the numbers of head bleeds that we get. Crack cocaine is another. Traumas have been down, but no less heartbreaking. A young man planning on proposing to his girlfriend this week. He's now dead and she's has significant head trauma after a wrong left turn by another driver. Another 16 yr old with a gun shot wound to the head after a lost game of Russian Roulette. And room after room of crying spouses and children after hearing that this head injury, fall, stroke, infection is non-survivable. Thank God for hospice. There's lots of short staffing, as there is in every hospital. Fortunately most shifts are full of people who pitch in and the work gets piece-mealed together. Although, unlike some other very cool teams we are not allowed to wear pink cami pants or carry assault weapons. Very non-visionary, I know. I haven't...

by Robert Hass For several weeks the weather has been mild And we have wallowed in this picnic sun, (Our baskets stuffed with bread and wine) beguiled By a string of buttered days, which one by one Have lulled us into such complacency That any thought of rain or want or cold Would seem killjoy to a mind disposed to see A clump of daisies nodding by the road. But lightning flash upon the ridge portends A sudden change of weather is at hand. Caught unaware, we face the rising wind And count the interval before the sound Of thunderclap announces the return Of darker times we had soon forgotten. The dog cowers. The weather vane turns Wildly, and we scramble forth to batten Down the shutters banging out their warning. No use pretending storm clouds won't draw near. They're certain now. The anvil head is mounting High above the things we've held so dear. We light the lantern as clouds obscure the sun, And gather frightened children in our arms. The lightning flash and thunder mer...

by Li-Young Lee From blossoms comes this brown paper bag of peaches we bought from the boy at the bend in the road where we turned toward signs painted Peaches. From laden boughs, from hands, from sweet fellowship in the bins, comes nectar at the roadside, succulent peaches we devour, dusty skin and all, comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat. O, to take what we love inside, to carry within us an orchard, to eat not only the skin, but the shade, not only the sugar, but the days, to hold the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into the round jubilance of peach. There are days we live as if death were nowhere in the background; from joy to joy to joy, from wing to wing, from blossom to blossom to impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

by Barbara Goldberg A woman drives to the video store to rent a movie. It is Saturday night, she is thinking of nothing in particular, perhaps of how later she will pop popcorn or hold hands with her husband and pretend they are still in high school. On the way home a plane drops from the sky, the wing shearing her roof of her car, killing her instantly. Here is a death, it could happen to any of us. Her husband will struggle the rest of his days to give shape to an event that does not mean to be understood. Since memory cannot operate without plot, he chooses the romantic — how young she was, her lovely waist, or the ironic — if only she had lost her keys, stopped for pizza. At the precise moment the plane spiraled out of control, he was lathering shampoo into his daughter's hair, blond and fine as cornsilk, in love with his life, his daughter, the earth (for "cornsilk" is how he thought of her hair), in love with the miracle of bubbles, how they rise in a slow dance, sw...

Miles: Prince of Darkness by Philip Bryant I remember my father's stories about him being cold, fitful, reproachful, surly, rude, cruel, unbearable, spiteful, arrogant, hateful. But then he'd play Some Day My Prince Will Come in a swirl of bright spring colors that come after a heavy rain making the world anew again and like the sometimes-tyrannical king who is truly repentant of his transgressions steps out onto the balcony to greet his subjects and they find it in their hearts to forgive him for his sins yet once again.

by Joyce Sutphen In the afternoon of summer, sounds come through the window: a tractor muttering to itself as it pivots at the corner of the hay field, stalled for a moment as the green row feeds into the baler. The wind slips a whisper behind an ear; the noise of the highway is like the dark green stem of a rose. From the kitchen the blunt banging of cupboard doors and wooden chairs makes a lonely echo in the floor. Somewhere, between the breeze and the faraway sound of a train, comes a line of birdsong, lightly threading the heavy cloth of dream.

by Martin Espada Never pretend to be a unicorn by sticking a plunger on your head

They need me.

"...But what about the men themselves? What about the 39-year-old pilot who returns from the moon and knows with a mortal certainty that he has already done the most noteworthy thing he'll ever do and now must keep himself busy for the next half-century? What about the existential whiplash that comes from being on the moon one week and in your living room the next — and having to find your own way to process the vast gulf between those two worlds? "I remember coming back to Houston after the moon, and my neighbors had a barbecue for me," Dave Scott, commander of Apollo 15, told me. "I thought, 'What am I doing here?' " And what happens when the press pack moves on, when the interviews stop and the faces of the flyers once limned with light become lined with age? "Remember where you're standing when the spotlight goes off," Lovell warned me once, when our book was a best seller and the movie it spawned was in theaters. "You'll ...

Oh, to be thirteen again and watching this for the first time. The feeling of possibilities...

by Robert Bly ...Turning toward Milan, we see the other one, the moon, whole and rising. Three wild geese make dark spots in that part of the sky. Under the shining one the pastures leap forward, Grass fields rolling as in October, the sow-colored fields near the river. This rising one lights the pair of pintails alert in the shallow pond. It shines on those faithful to each other, alert in the early night. And the life of faithfulness goes by like a river, With no one noticing it. please note: photo by zanmanzmama

by Deborah Garrison Peonies are the only flower I care for and when I saw them from the window yesterday, tumbled and heavy along a fence, fully exploded, nodding at the ground, hanging their heads but not yet spoiled, I remembered a summer (maybe seven years ago, or was it ten?) I wasn't sure our love would come again, and here I am, almost kissing the grass like that, bursting and rich, cracked all over like broken cake— makes you cry but still sweet.

Kathleen has noted that I "haven't been around the neighborhood much lately," which is true. VGrrrrl noted in a recent post that the blogging world seems a little quiet and wondering if it was a seasonal phenomenom. To be honest, I have been reading in the neighborhood, just not much commenting. By way of explanation, here is my essay on "What I Did on My Summer Vacation."--- After 17 years of doing NOTHING with this house, Hubby has decided that NOW is the time. So, we're looking at paint chips(adobe cream, Sherwood Forest green) for the porches and trim, and metal roof companies, and deciding on whether to repaint or strip the front doors and go with the wood(wood). He also hates mowing the front yard and has been moving towards a natural habitat that involves a lot of violets-gone-wild over the lawn and, basically, weeds. With the assistance of several federal mediators from Washington we've reached a compromise--mow a path through the natural habi...

by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin She used to love the darkness, how it brought Closer the presence of flesh, the white arms and breast Of a stranger in a railway carriage a dim glow— Or the time when the bus drew up at a woodland corner And a young black man jumped off, and a shade Moved among shades to embrace him under the leaves— Every frame of a lit window, the secrets bared— Books packed warm on a wall—each blank shining blind, Each folded hush of shutters without a glimmer, Even the sucked-sweet tones of neon reflected in rain In insomniac towns, boulevards where the odd light step Was a man walking alone: they would all be kept, Those promises, for people not yet in sight: Wellsprings she still kept searching for after the night When every wall turned yellow. Questing she roamed After the windows she loved, and again they showed The back rooms of bakeries, the clean engine-rooms and all The floodlit open yards where a van idled by a wall, A wall as long as life, as long as work. The b...

by Martin Carter Not wanting to deny, I believed it. Not wanting to believe it, I denied our Bastille day. This, is nothing to storm. This fourteenth of July. With my own eyes, I saw the fierce criminal passing for citizen with a weapon, a piece of wood and five for one. We laugh Bastille laughter. These are not men of death. A pot of rice is their foul reward. I have at last started to understand the origin of our vileness, and being unable to deny it, I suggest its nativity. In the shame of knowledge of our vileness, we shall fight.

by Carolyn Miller Everyone here believes that the roses are blooming only for them, there where the air by the formal beds is layered with the scent of roses. From deep in their flushed and darkening hearts pour odors of lemons and pepper, apricots, honey, vanilla and myrrh and musk and semen, apples and quince, raspberries and wine and ocean, the faint scent of blood and the fragrance of death and the breath of the life we are living now, in this place where the roses are blooming for each of us, alone.

Highway Hypothesis by Maxine Kumin Nothing quite rests the roving eye like this long view of sloping fields that rise to a toyshop farmhouse with matchstick barns and sheds. A large yellow beetle spits silage onto an upturned cricket while several inch-high cars and trucks flow soundlessly up the spitcurl drive. Bucophilia, I call it— nostalgia over a pastoral vista— where for all I know the farmer who owns it or rents it just told his wife he'd kill her if she left him and she did and he did and now here come the auctioneer, the serious bidders and an ant-train of gawking onlookers.

by Carol Ann Duffy Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss. Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer - Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

I blame it on the full moon. Or fluctuating barometric pressure, hormones, an unseen voo-doo doll somewhere, someplace. The fact is, I'm feeling quite grumpy. I'm tired of planning dinners. I'm tired of scheduling everyone else and constantly looking 5 days ahead. My job is mind-numbingly repetitive yet disjointed. It constantly threatens to rain outside and doesn't. I'm tired and can't get to sleep. Who wouldn't want to wander London Town wreaking havoc and mayhem? The arguments for "Beast" are looking more and more attractive... You'd think it'd be a little Warren Zevon to soothe my soul, but instead it's a road trip with Brook Benton.

by Carolyn Miller Although I watched and waited for it every day, somehow I missed it, the moment when everything reached the peak of ripeness. It wasn't at the solstice; that was only the time of the longest light. It was sometime after that, when the plants had absorbed all that sun, had taken it into themselves for food and swelled to the height of fullness. It was in July, in a dizzy blaze of heat and fog, when on some nights it was too hot to sleep, and the restaurants set half their tables on the sidewalks; outside the city, down the coast, the Milky Way floated overhead, and shooting stars fell from the sky over the ocean. One day the garden was almost overwhelmed with fruition: My sweet peas struggled out of the raised bed onto the mulch of laurel leaves and bark and pods, their brilliantly colored sunbonnets of rose and stippled pink, magenta and deep purple pouring out a perfume that was almost oriental. Black-eyed Susans stared from the flower borders, the orange cherry ...

by Sharon Olds After we flew across the country we got into bed, laid our bodies delicately together, like maps laid face to face, East to West, my San Francisco against your New York, your Fire Island against my Sonoma, my New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas burning against your Kansas your Kansas burning against my Kansas, your Eastern Standard Time pressing into my Pacific Time, my Mountain Time beating against your Central Time, your sun rising swiftly from the right my sun rising swiftly from the left your moon rising slowly from the left my moon rising slowly from the right until all four bodies of the sky burn above us, sealing us together, all our cities twin cities, all our states united, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

by Mark Strand Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow's dust flares into breath. please note: art by Marc Chagall

by Charles Simic Of neighbors' voices and dishes Being cleared away On long summer evenings With the windows open As we sat on the back stairs, Smoking and sipping beer. The memory of that moment, So sweet at first, The two of us chatting away, Till the stars made us quiet. We drew close And held fast to each other As if in sudden danger. That one time, I didn't recognize Your voice, or dare turn To look at your face As you spoke of us being born With so little apparent cause. I could think of nothing to say. The music over, the night cold.

Well, we missed the annual and fabulously phenomenal Northside Fourth of July Parade in order to make it down to CollegeGrrrl's Grandma's house for Gma's birthday/picnic celebration. It's a fairly short drive along the interstate to arrive at a manmade "country" environs with wild turkey and deer alongside the roadway. Grandma is 76 this year, looks much younger, and revels in this patchwork family that has been created through children, divorces, and second marriages. It works for us. I found these parade highlights on youtube . No videos found of the Lawn Chair Brigade or the Men's Drill Team...if I find them, I will post them. We made it home in time to see some fireworks on the horizon briefly light the sky. It was a rainy, foggy evening though and difficult to get much height before fizzling out. Walked over to the cemetery down the street where our neighbors had some action going. Lotsa noise and smoke, but come on, fireworks in a graveyard is alway...

by Linda Rodriguez The problem with words of emotion is how easily meaning drains from their fiddle-sweet sounds and they become empty instruments. I can say love and mean desire to give— open-handed, open-hearted— or I am drawn to the light shining from your soul— or my life is empty without you— or I want to run my hands and mouth down the length of you— or all of these at once. Need, now, is a plain word. I need a nail to hang this picture. I need money to pay my bills. I need air and light, water and food, shelter from storm and sun and cold. To be healthy, to be sane, to survive, I need you.

of the Thirteen United States of America ...We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are acc...

by Joyce Sutphen You looked so good at the top of the stairs that I wonder if you might consider standing at the bus stop near Franklin and 22nd at about 6:30 AM, wearing a dark overcoat and a red scarf, nodding (just slightly) when I pass, and I wouldn't mind looking Out my office window at about 10 AM and seeing you (so small I couldn't be sure) waving from the far corner of the parking lot, and then, at lunch, you could be the mysterious man sitting in the bar, the one who never turns around until I am almost out the door with friends who would have no idea who you are, and it would be wonderful to see you disguised as a UPS man, coming in at 3 PM with a large package full of various useless things and a note, telling me exactly where I could find you later on tonight. PS. Burn Notice marathon. Delicious.

by Norman Williams Here our fathers stopped their westward push, Not, God knows, for love of scenery or soil, But because an ox gave out, an axle broke, Or a child took with cholera or chills. Now, their sons cross the fields like roofwalkers, Chucking dirtclods at the crows, while in the shade The women mutter of lost limbs and hopes. Like a periodic curse, a drought this month Has once more settled on the western plains, Thickening the creeks, working into wayside barns, And famishing the stock. On kitchen radios One hears again the pulpit-pounding talk And familiar promises of punishment, That we have ourselves to blame for this, Who lusted, craved and coveted— But if sin lingers in these washed-up towns, It could be only pride or stubbornness: Each spring another crop of debt is sown, And, though agencies attach the land, Outbuildings, crops and unborn young, still The beak-nosed men walk head-up and proud, Convinced, against all evidence, that what They've planted, built or re...

please note: sung with exiled Iranian singer, Andy Madadian as always, peace be with you...