A Tidings of Magpies

Back Yard by Carl Sandburg Shine on, O moon of summer. Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak, All silver under your rain to-night. An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion. A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are throwing you kisses. An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back yard. The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down. Shine on, O moon, Shake out more and more silver changes. please note: photo by Wallace Billingham

by Louis Jenkins We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos I'd seen I knew this was the place. The house and barn were painted in the traditional Falu red, trimmed with white. It was nearly mid- summer, the trees and grass, lush green, when we arrived the family was gathered at a table on the lawn for coffee and fresh strawberries. Introductions were made all around, Grandpa Sven, Lars-Olaf and Marie, Eric and Gudren, Cousin Inge and her two children… It made me think of a Carl Larsson painting. But, of course, it was all modern, the Swedes are very up-to- date, Lars-Olaf was an engineer for Volvo, and they all spoke perfect English, except for Grandpa, and there was a great deal of laughter over my attempts at Swedish. We stayed for a long time laughing and talking, It was late in the day, but the sun was still high. I felt a won- derful kinship. It seemed to me that I had known these people all my life, they even looked like family back in the States. But as it turned out, ...

by Robert Hass I have just crossed the Rio Grande, And by a string of clever switchbacks Have, for the moment, outwitted the posse. Ahead lie the ghosts of Sierra Madre. Behind, I have nothing but sun, While the condor's shadow circles over my bones. Though the mountains are steep, my horse doesn't falter, And now I know why starving bandoleros Will never shoot their animals for food. Beyond my mirage, I see the white adobe— Yes, the one with the red-tiled roof— Which one afternoon I will lean against, with my hat down And knees up, after a bottle of tequila. In that siesta, I am sure to dream Of the lovely senorita Who has stolen away from her father To meet me in the orchard. But enough of that. There is work to be done. I have cattle to rustle and horses to steal Before the posse picks up my trail. (In a poem of Mexico, it would be unwise For a poet to mention the posse is his wife.) So, mi amigo, if you find her Prowling my mountains With a wooden spoon in her hand, Tell he...

What to do, what to do, what to do today...? Went to the Concourse d'Elegance at the beautiful Ault Park per Hubby's request. Funny. Those gorgeous cars we grew up with and rode around in on Friday nights and took for granted...

It's a gloriously rainy morning here in the river city. So rainy that one can think of nothing to do but sit and rest and listen to the changing rhythms of the water. I'm exhausted from the last two days of work. My head feels full of cotton and my legs throb. Busy with head bleeds, home invasion gun-shot wounds, and several motorcycles vs cars/trucks/pavement. Lots of road trips, which, when it involves a critical care patient, might as well be a gyspy caravan with all the equipment we carry with us. If someone out there can invent a portable Starbucks coffeemaker we'll take it and make a place for it on the bed. As for me, I'm getting another cup of home brewed joe and putting my feet up on hubby's lap. I may, or may not, contemplate the ceiling :>) In the Land of Words by Eloise Greenfield In the land of words, I stand as still as a tree, and let the words rain down on me. Come, rain, bring your knowledge and your music. Sing while I grow green and ...

by Barry Spacks Sometimes people who judge and judge turn lovely in summer, with gin & tonics. They shop at little roadside stands; brood in a trance over silks of corn. Lounging around, still starched from swimming, they speak mild words in the evening air and leave the work of keeping up standards to bickering children, questions of worth to the waves. In town, in handkerchief dresses, rumpled white suits, they smile, they visit— they water the garden; hum with the cat. In shirt and jeans they climb the rocks with wine in a thermos, a bag of bread to throw to those ravenous muscles the gulls— and there they offer a round of applause (of the gentle sort once used watching tennis) to see the fat sun dip away through its showy orange time.

by William Carlos Williams Wanderer moon smiling a faintly ironical smile at this brilliant, dew-moistened summer morning,— a detached sleepily indifferent smile, a wanderer's smile,— if I should buy a shirt your color and put on a necktie sky-blue where would they carry me? please note: art by Dale Hueppchen

by Charles Rafferty If you stare at it long enough the mountain becomes unclimbable. Tally it up. How much time have you spent waiting for the soup to cool? Icicles hang from January gutters only as long as they can. Fingers pause above piano keys for the chord that will not form. Slam them down I say. Make music of what you can. Some people stop at the wrong corner and waste a dozen years hoping for directions. I can’t be them. Tell every girl I’ve ever known I’m coming to break her door down, that my teeth will clench the simple flower I only knew not to give . . . Ah, how long did I stand beneath the eaves believing the storm would stop? It never did. And there is lightning in me still.

please note:art by Doug Savage

ahhhhhh, it's so heavenly to be away from sick people. To not be spat upon and have to wrestle a quite muscular 29 year-old simply to change the dressings on his not insignificant road rash obtained from a motorcycle collision. Without a helmet. But, with alcohol. There are a few lovely things going on this weekend, but I think there might be people at these events and I'm tired of seeing people. I wish someone would invent 3-D glasses for that. Dharma by Billy Collins The way the dog trots out the front door every morning without a hat or an umbrella, without any money or the keys to her dog house never fails to fill the saucer of my heart with milky admiration. Who provides a finer example of a life without encumbrance— Thoreau in his curtainless hut with a single plate, a single spoon? Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers? Off she goes into the material world with nothing but her brown coat and her modest blue collar, following only her wet nose, the twin portals of h...

Time Warner Cable has got to rank up there with the all time bad-nics of all time--British Petroleum, Enron, Cruella deVille, Nero. Wicked. Big Fat Liars, they are, my precious. Telling me my internet will be on soon. In fact, a technician is on their way over even as we speak. Lies, lies, lies. Our internet, phone, and sometimes, television has been more off than on for the past 4 weeks and it's been tragic. No Dancing with the Stars finale. No Hulu.com so I can watch the LOST finale over and over again searching for answers to the meaning of life. Couldn't check my work email. Not that I do, but that's irregardless. I actually read the newspaper... Well, my friends, it's lovely to be back online. And now that I am, I'm getting off to wash dishes and catch up with Glee . Wickedly good, they are. A Green Crab's Shell by Mark Doty Not, exactly, green: closer to bronze preserved in kind brine, something retrieved from a Greco-Roman wreck, patinated...

by C. P. Cavafy Translated by Aliki Barnstone This room, how well I know it. Now they rent it and the one next door as commercial offices. The whole house became offices for agents and merchants and companies. Ah. this room, how familiar. The couch was near the door, here; in front, a Turkish rug; near the couch, two yellow vases on a shelf. On the right, no, across from it, was an armoire with a mirror. In the middle, the table where he wrote and three wicker chairs. Next to the window was the bed where we made love so many times. These sad things must still be somewhere. Next to the window was the bed; the afternoon sun spread across halfway. ...One afternoon at four o'clock, we separated, just for a week....Alas, that week became forever. please note: photo by Tara Bradford