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Showing posts from November, 2012

Sunday in CinCity. For All the Mamas with Baby Chicks (big and small) at Home

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Homecoming

by Blas Falconer


Rain against the roof sounds like a slow tire

over gravel, as if a friend has come.

The train rumbles through the dark, and my body, tuned

to hear you cry before you cry, stirs.



The lamp floats in the window, the only window lit

at this late hour on the empty street.

Your hands unfurl as you fall asleep.



Small Clock of Needs, Law that I Abide,

the leaves gloss and shine. Like this we rock

and sink into the long night of our rocking.





Saturday in CinCity. The 3.14 Edition.

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TGIF

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(We saw a flock of birds looking very similiar to this--wild turkeys--after dinner at Grandma PatPat's)


Turkeys

by Mary Mackey



One November

a week before Thanksgiving

the Ohio river froze

and my great uncles

put on their coats

and drove the turkeys

across the ice

to Rosiclare

where they sold them

for enough to buy

my grandmother

a Christmas doll

with blue china eyes



I like to think

of the sound of

two hundred turkey feet

running across to Illinois

on their way

to the platter

the scrape of their nails

and my great uncles

in their homespun leggings

calling out gee and haw and git

to them as if they

were mules



I like to think of the Ohio

at that moment

the clear cold sky

the green river sleeping

under the ice

before the land got stripped

and the farm got sold

and the water turned the color

of whiskey

and all the uncles

lay down

and never got up again


please note: photo by Mark Hamilton





Thanks Giving

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If the only prayer you ever say in your whole life is "thank you," that would suffice.

--Meister Eckhart

Every Land

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by Ursula Le Guin



The holy land is everywhere. —Black Elk



Watch where the branches of the willows bend

See where the waters of the rivers tend

Graves in the rock, cradles in the sand

Every land is the holy land.



Here was the battle to the bitter end

Here's where the enemy killed the friend

Blood on the rock, tears on the sand

Every land is the holy land.



Willow by the water bending in the wind

Bent till it's broken and it cannot stand

Listen to the word the messengers send

Life from the living rock, death in the sand

Every land is the holy land.


please note: my own photo of the beautiful Ohio near Coney Island



it's a monday

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Genius


by George Bilgere



It was nice being a genius

worth nearly half-a-million dollars

for the two or three minutes it took me

to walk back to my house from the mailbox

with the letter from the Foundation

trembling in my hand. Frankly,



for the first minute

I was somewhat surprised at being a genius.

I'd only published a few small things at that point.

I didn't even have a book.

I was just a part-time lecturer

at a small mid-western college.



But early into the second minute

I had fully embraced the fact of my genius.



I mean, these people know what they're doing, right?

Who am I to tell the Foundation its business?

And I was already practicing the kind of modest,

Hey, it's no big deal tone of voice I'd be using

on the phone for the rest of the day

as I called all my friends, and especially

my enemies, to treat them to the good news.



But when I opened the letter

and saw it was merely a request

for me to recommend someone else to be a genius,

I lost interest and made m…

Saturday in CinCity. The Stuffing Edition.

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"There is one day that is ours. Thanksgiving Day is the one day that is purely American."

    --O Henry


I love Thanksgiving. Full disclosure, I love the fall with the change in colors, the chill, and the slowdown to the quiet of winter. I love the annual dog show on television in the morning and the Macy's Parade which jabbers in the background while I read and reread recipes and mince, chop, and slice. I get tired of the kitchen that day, but I enjoy the cooking. It is the day that White Christmas may be dusted off, but I don't want to hear any Christmas music or movies before the day after Thanksgiving. It should be autumn music. A little Yo-Yo Ma, perhaps. Autumn should get it's time and we should take a moment to be grateful before the headlong rush into Commercialmas. IMHO.




This year Hubby's working 12hrs, I'm off, HoneyHaired will come home and MissNewOrleans will be in New Orleans. HoneyHaired and I will drive over to the next state and have Thanksg…

...a pyrates' life for me...

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The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral Benbow

SQUIRE TRELAWNEY, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17__ and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.



I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow — a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he …

Monday, Monday

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Ode to the Vinyl Record


by Thomas R. Smith



The needle lowers into the groove

and I'm home. It could be any record

I've lived with and loved a long time: Springsteen

or Rodrigo, Ray Charles or Emmylou

Harris: Not only the music, but

the whirlpool shimmering on the turntable

funneling blackly down into the ocean

of the ear—even the background

pops and hisses a worn record

wraps the music in, creaturely

imperfections so hospitable to our own.

Since those first Beatles and Stones LPs

plopped down spindles on record players

we opened like tiny suitcases at sweaty

junior high parties while parents were out,

how many nights I've pulled around

my desires a vinyl record's cloak

of flaws and found it a perfect fit,

the crackling unclarity and turbulence

of the country's lo-fi basement heart

madly spinning, making its big dark sound




Sunday in CinCity. The With Deepest Gratitude Edition.

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"The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."

Douglas MacArthur

TGIF. The Purple Haze Edition.

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Not quite as "1 Fish 2 Fish Red Fish Blue Fish" as shown over and over again.

please note: map demographic found on FaceBook by Cousin Cole

Thursday in CinCity. The "We Remain More Than a Collection of Red States and Blue States. We Are and Forever Will Be the United States of America." Edition.

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“People are often unreasonable and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are honest, people may cheat you. Be honest anyway.

If you find happiness, people may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow. Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough. Give your best anyway.

For you see, in the end, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway."  

--attributed to Mother Teresa

Line in the Sand

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by Ken McCullough




What he said was vast, given his limits.
At some mojave of the soul, we stopped

to gas up, and I was inclined to bolt—

wrong look, wrong answer, might raise his demons,

but what did I know, who was I to say?

He tuned Tom Harmon on the radio,

sneered and nodded like a slow woodpecker—

"Would that they had broke the mold," he chuckled

with sand in his pipes. The sun had stumbled.

His eyes turned on me—"What'll it be, rook?

Only one of us will walk away, son."

He coughed, spat. ''Are you in or are you out?

If you think you are fast enough, just once,

you might have a blind salamander's chance."








Sunday in CinCity. The Fall Arrives! Edition

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The Fall Almost Nobody Sees


by David Budbill



Everybody's gone away.

They think there's nothing left to see.

The garish colors' flashy show is over.

Now those of us who stay

hunker down in sweet silence,

blessed emptiness among



red-orange shadblow

purple-red blueberry

copper-brown beech

gold tamarack, a few

remaining pale yellow

popple leaves,

sedge and fern in shades

from beige to darkening red

to brown to almost black,

and all this in front of, below,

among blue-green spruce and fir

and white pine,



all of it under gray skies,

chill air, all of us waiting

in the somber dank and rain,

waiting here in quiet, chill

November,

waiting for the snow.


Well, I don't know what the hell I've been doing for the past month or so. I obviously wasn't here. Biggest change other than the temperature is that we've gone completely to electronic/computerized charting at BigFatTeaching Hospital and I have pretty much lost my mind. It has been a struggle and rightfully, I don'…