Attention members of First Cong. UCC church:
Festival of Talents silent auction
we will be offering in addition to the already touted
gourd rattle, under construction, a Pierre Cardin long sleeve XL shirt
to which we have affixed a wide string-tie as seen in
the raccoon recently. Look it up. Last week's SRN.
The photo above is only to indicate that we have signed -
per our custom - the tie shirt, this time in gold leaf, hidden
in the context of the fabrication but which may be
found if provenance is ever sought.
This could be an everyday garment, but
our thoughts are that it will be more of a
ceremonial sort of thing.
All proceeds go to the church.
smilin' at me
nothin' but blue skies
do I see.....
No, wait, I see something else in those skies:
a police surveillance camera
mounted atop the old Friedman's building.
(previously reported on)
Alaskan wildcat named
Paul Anka seriously sheds shower curtain.
His existence is a wild country cat-
Wasilla (say no more!)
has the Ankan cat
ever on the alert for things
himself to strike at.
It is a Robert Service/Jack London Call of the Wild sort of thing.
It would be a Repubican, probably
Paul has seen many nasty things in the woodshed
For Leland, a kindergarten teacher n Harlem:
READY OR NOT, HERE THEY COME: THE KINDERGARTEN CLASS OF 2013
August 21, 2013 | 08:53 am|
- See more at: http://www.childtrends.org/ready-or-not-here-they-come-the-kindergarten-class-of-2013/#more-11174
This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch's little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa's ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken's diminished to skin and skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
into the winter night.