Showing posts from June, 2010

Saturday in CinCity--the Start of Vacation Edition!!!

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

My Ancestral Home

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, we had come to the…


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 her I am not here.

Tell her …

and He has His own FaceBook page...


A Little Rainy Night Music

Sunday in CinCity

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...

Saturday in CinCity

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 full.
I'll stand a…

Judges in Summer

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.

Summer Song

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
where would they carry me?

please note: art by Dale Hueppchen

Against Hesitation

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.

Sunday in CinCity--The Day Before Work Edition

please note:art by Doug Savage

Saturday in CinCity

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.

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 her steady breathin…


Thursday in CinCity

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 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 and oddly

muscular. We can…

The Afternoon Sun

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