Saturday, February 8, 2014

Overdue; It's a way of life; Solar collecting; Pistils, stamens; Solomon of Missoula


My father would lift me
to the ceiling in his big hands
and ask, How's the weather up there?
And it was good, the weather
of being in his hands, his breath
of scotch and cigarettes, his face
smiling from the world below.
O daddy, was the lullaby I sang
back down to him as he stood on earth,
my great, white-shirted father, home
from work, his gold wristwatch
and wedding band gleaming
as he held me above him
for as long as he could,
before his strength failed
down there in the world I find myself
standing in tonight, my little boy
looking down from his flight
below the ceiling, cradled in my hands,
his eyes wide and already staring
into the distance beyond the man
asking him again and again,
How's the weather up there?

"Weather" by George Bilgere
Keillor's Writers Almanac 2/5/14
inspired this post to the SRN


Could be Kweesh



Home solar is up and collecting

From John Helt to the Raccoon:

Dear Family, Friends, Neighbors, Brother Sun and Sister Moon:

As of a few minutes ago, our solar power system is up and running and "making juice," even on a dark, cloudy morning.

Thanks to our many supportive neighbors (pass this along to any others if you know their email addresses), friends, Arch Electric and the Village of Richfield!

We meet with our landscaper next week to get ordered our various spring plantings for screening.

It was two years ago yesterday that my sunny mother, Margaret Juengling Helt died, so we dedicate this to her powerful memory.

Here comes the sun!

John and Cindy


The Christmas amaryllis shown previously
has done its thing and sits on the arboretum shelf
adding energy through its leaves via sunlight
passing through the skylight
and lo!

It appears in a family way.
I wonder what happens next?

I used to know when I assistant-taught the sex class
at Waukesha High School in the 1950s.


Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief

Blue landing lights make
nail holes in the dark.
A fine snow falls. We sit
on the tarmac taking on
the mail, quick freight,
trays of laboratory mice,
coffee and Danish for
the passengers.

Wherever we're going
is Monday morning.
Wherever we're coming from
is Mother's lap.
On the cloud-pack above, strewn
as loosely as parsnip
or celery seeds, lie
the souls of the unborn:

my children's children's
children and their father.
We gather speed for the last run
and lift off into the weather.

"Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief" by Maxine Kumin from Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief. © Penguin, 1989

A shot I once took
of a router here at raccoon hdqtrs
suggests a tarmac experience
of note/
 a day of flying rectangular saucers/

was suggested by today's W. Almanac poem


Missoula song-write
"They're writing songs of love
but not for me...."

[says black cat, center floor...]



My grand-daughter Grace Kari
im Missoula Montana
is a student and a writer of songs

and lives in a round house
with her band
Gerygone and Twig

Here she holds Solomon cat
about whom allegedly
no one writes love songs...

Solomon forgets this paean
done recently write for him:

OK, a class assignment
but kind of a love song.