Saturday, January 26, 2013

Red Hot Horn; Resignation; It's OK for a man to cry; Send More Snail; Banjo and Buddy

During the recent cold snap
we let fly the thermostats at the Odd Fellows
and unleashed the 'Chimney-Free' electric stove
to combat the sub-zero temps.
We also added some blasts of song throughout
the lodge stomping grounds
on the horn home grown as a gourd at 517
some years back.

It was preheated on the stove and as you can see
began to glow red.
We once used that instrument to signal
the approach of The King during a ritual
at the Pythian lodge No. 21, Wauwatosa.

Some older knights are said to still remember vividly
how startled they were to hear how much volume
was derived from that papery-light device.

Now it gets played more tunefully:
As in Cecilia; Ja-da;
I Love You, etc.

The world's really great music.
As in 1983.

KD heads for the hills during music sessions.


              I like trees because they seem more resigned to
              the way they have to live than other things do.

                                                                      Willa Cather

Here the oak and silver-breasted birches
Stand in their sweet familiarity
While underground, as in a black mirror,
They have concealed their tangled grievances,
Identical to the branching calm above
But there ensnared, each with the others' hold
On what gives life to which is brutal enough.
Still, in the air, none tries to keep company
Or change its fortune. They seem to lean
On the light, unconcerned with what the world
Makes of their decencies, and will not show
A jealous purchase on their length of days.
To never having been loved as they wanted
Or deserved, to anyone's sudden infatuation
Gouged into their sides, to all they are forced
To shelter and to hide, they have resigned themselves.

"Resignation" by J.D. McClatchy, from Mercury Dressing: Poems. © Knopf, 2011


It's OK to cry

(sent to the raccoon attention by Rev. Dr. Tom Bentz of New Jersey)

Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds

A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.

"Their Lonely Betters" by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems. © Modern Library, 2007


KD Cat
watches from on high
as a letter gets written
her two facial features
the only two visible ones
no pink nose or lips
reflect the flash

Blue Moon beer on ice
is sipped through a straw
per hospital and nursing home
 personnel who taught us how 
with non-alcoholic beverages
as usual we stamp the letter




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