Jean Schmidt, Hottie

And I say: Hottie is as hottie does. . . .


Thanks, cChalfonte ♥

Small rain. On its way. . . .

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light!


Edna St. Vincent Millay
"First Fig," 1918

Close
Closer to the dark

We hold our breaths
What if
What if
This year it doesn't
Doesn't
Does
Not
Return?

Waiting, in the dark,
we turn to each other
for warmth
say a small prayer
for a large miracle

And wait, two, three days. . . .

And
JOY!
Again: the light begins
just begins, mind you,
to return.

The trail from Nazareth
leads here.

Again.

~~ Julie Li

In the midst of Winter, dreams of Summer. . .

One of the things I love most dearly about What Joy Farm is the river that runs through it, and the things that depend on that river for life. One of the most beautiful is this. The damselfly.

Crisco John, home at last ~~

He was a war-monger, but sure 'twas no wonder
For so were his father and mother before

Cockles and Mussels

In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!

She was a fish-monger, but sure 'twas no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
And they each wheeled their barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!

She died of a fever, and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!
Alive, alive-O! alive, alive-O!
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-O!

Take two beebunnies, and call me in the morning

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The Winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth, 1807

White House Briefing

Where the President Isn't

By Dan Froomkin
Special to washingtonpost.com
Wednesday, December 14, 2005; 1:45 PM

Here's a problem with following the president around all day long: Sometimes the story is where he's not.

Reporting that President Bush steered clear of the White House's own Conference on Aging yesterday -- making him the first president ever to do so -- fell to the regional newspapers and NPR, not the big guys.

It turns out that had Bush attended, he would have been facing a very hostile audience.

So instead, Bush held a photo-op with a hand-picked group of seniors at a swanky retirement home -- and it was well covered by the usual suspects.

More Here.

Thanks Maha!

A turkey stew for and because of Thankful

Two cups diced (roasted) turkey breast

1 cup Jasmine rice

1/2 cup sunflower seeds

8 cups water

Half stick butter

two teaspoons marjoram flakes

pepper/garlic salt to taste

All in crock pot on high. After a really long time, ladle into bowl. Eat.

Anonymous said...

We have fried Tookie...and now it is time to fry Mumia!

9:35 PM, December 13, 2005

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just curious as to what would make a person say something like this? In this place?

To cause pain? Cause pain to people one does not know, simply for the joy of causing pain?

How sad and twisted a soul. How pitiful their life, that this would bring pleasure.

The Beecat

The beecat is a cunning and stealthy creature that hails from the Northern lands of Scandinavia. Many people are perplexed by the beecat, and so they should be. The unassuming beecat is a multi-purpose animal. The tale of how they came to be is a sad and epic tale, and one that would be best told as an Icelandic Saga. But, alas, I have neither the time nor the storage space to tell the story in full.

History

We should start with a brief history lesson. The original habitat of the beecat is the forests of Finland, where wild beecats climbed the tall pine trees to pounce on unsuspecting badgers (their main food source). This trait of climbing and flying can still be seen today, as the beecats like to roost on top of wardrobes (more on this later). All was good with the beecat race for a time, until a new power arose in Sweden. This evil could not be concealed by the power of the beecats - it was known, and will be known until the end of time, as the corporation of Ikea.

Evil Corporation

The corporation sent their finest hunter across the border into Finland, a man known only as 'Rivig' - it is from him that the beecats lost their original name and were hence forth called Rivig, named after the man who single handedly caught beecats (with a net - like the kind you catch butterflys with, but much bigger), and then stuffed them by hand.

Extinction

After driving the wild beecats to extinction, the corporation of Ikea decided to insult the memory of these wonderous creatures by selling them across Europe as "bolster cushions" and even produced childrens cups depicting the beecats national dress - orange jumpers. But there are some of us who know more about the creature and its ways, and will never forget the plight of the beecats.

There's more: clicky!

When I was a Freshman in college, I got asked to be a judge for the State High School Debating Teams. For nearly a year I listened to the best and brightest of the Utah school system debate. The subject? The Death Penalty. Verdict? It doesn't work.

In cultures that abolish it, murder and other capital crimes diminish. There is evidently a strain of the human race that uses the state to commit suicide.

As a mother, I early learned the value of time outs over spanking. A time out leaves the child with time to think about what they did: the value and the use of their "crime" ~~ a spanking, or a spat, diverts their attention to the injustice of the punishment: YOU did it because you were bigger, and therefore were able to do it. Leaves them dreaming of when they are big enough to hurt another human, being.

In my view of it corporal, much less capital, punishment is a failure of the soul of the punisher. Today, my country failed me.

MY LAI CONVERSATION

How old are you, small Vietnamese boy?
Six fingers. Six years.
Why did you carry water to the wounded soldier, now dead?
Your father.
Your father was enemy of free world.
You also now are enemy of free world.
Who told you to carry water to your father?
Your mother!
Your mother is also enemy of free world.
You go into ditch with your mother.
American politician has said,
"It is better to kill you as a boy in the elephant grass of Vietnam
Than to have to kill you as a man in the rye grass in the USA."
You understand.
It is easier to die
Where you know the names of the birds, the trees, and the grass
Than in a stranger country.
You will be number 128 in the body count for today.
High body count will make the Commander-in-Chief of free world much encouraged.
Good-bye, small six-year-old Vietnamese boy, enemy of free world.

~~ Eugene McCarthy

March 29, 1916 ~~ December 10, 2005

COURAGE AFTER SIXTY

Now it is certain.
There is no magic stone.
No secret to be found.
One must go
With the mind's winnowed learning.
No more than the child's handhold
On the willows bending over the lake,
On the sumac roots at the cliff edge.
Ignorance is checked,
Betrayals scratched.
The coat has been hung on the peg,
The cigar laid on the table edge,
The cue chosen and chalked,
The balls set for the final break.
All cards drawn,
All bets called.
The dice, warm as blood in the hand,
Shaken for the last cast.
The glove has been thrown to the ground,
The last choice of weapons made.

A book for one thought.
A poem for one line.
A line for one word.

"Broken things are powerful."
Things about to break are stronger still.
The last shot from the brittle bow is truest.


~~ Eugene McCarthy