Saturday, May 28, 2016

Typewriter; Cleo; Blessings; Bedroom sounds; Like poets opening the mail; Bell signals; Oddysey; The boys' cat brushes

From the Sat. Raccoon:

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Cleo strikes a classic pose
at a recent Danish cousine get-together.  Thanks to the unidentified
photographer who snapped his!


by Ronald Wallace

Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
leading a horse to water
and making him drink.
I have a clue.
I can see the forest
for the trees.
All around me people
are making silk purses
out of sows’ ears,
getting blood from turnips,
building Rome in a day.
There’s a business
like show business.
There’s something new
under the sun.
Some days misery
no longer loves company;
it puts itself out of its.
There’s rest for the weary.
There’s turning back.
There are guarantees.
I can be serious.
I can mean that.
You can quite
put your finger on it.
Some days I know
I am long for this world.
I can go home again.
And when I go
I can
take it with me.

"Blessings" by Ronald Wallace from Long for This World. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003


Up in the bedroom


At the Feeder

First the Chickadees take
their share, then fly
to the bittersweet vine,
where they crack open the seeds,
excited, like poets
opening the day’s mail.
And the Evening Grosbeaks—
those large and prosperous
finches—resemble skiers
with the latest equipment, bright
yellow goggles on their faces.
Now the Bluejay comes in
for a landing, like a SAC bomber
returning to Plattsburgh
after a day of patrolling the ozone.
Every teacup in the pantry rattles.
The solid and graceful bodies
of Nuthatches, perpetually
upside down, like Yogis…
and Slate-Colored Juncoes, feeding
on the ground, taking only
what falls to them.
The cats watch, one
from the lid of the breadbox,
another from the piano. A third
flexes its claws in sleep, dreaming
perhaps, of a chicken neck,
or of being worshiped as a god
at Bubastis, during
the XXIII dynasty.
“At the Feeder” by Jane Kenyon from Collected Poems. © Graywolf Press, 2005


Bell Signals

The churchbell lodged in ancient timbers
At the steepletop
Rung by rope knotted into a gigantic wooden pulley wheel
- mechanical advantage -
Strung down through air and pigeon leavings
Emerging cleanly in the vestibule   
A strong Sunday-dressed child can ring it

Doves lodged in ancient timbers
Flutter in and out through louvers
Chicken-wired but time-worn
Keeping their high watches over the town
From coved and linteled archways
Cooing mildly   feather-cuddling  silent

Generations of doves nestled
In sanctuary at this height
Lived with the sleeping giant
Awakened only on Sunday mornings to summon
The attention of the worshipers gathered below
An under-used instrument
Calling not because of fire, death,
Disaster or rebellion

Struck in a foreign foundry over a century ago
Freighted to this town to be hoisted aloft
To be rung sedately by Congregationalists
A ton of bronze lodged in ancient timbers
With peaceful quiet doves
Might be sounding greater attentions
 in times like these

Might be rung in shifts 24 hours a day
With all bells everywhere
Across the world ringing out   
our own ton of bronze
With thousands more might speak out
In mad clamor to the heavens
Our ancient dusty megaphone
Oiled for Sunday use only

Treasured mighty bell
Voice above us though out of our sight;
The news from The Holy Land
God’s Earth
makes me think we should ring you
Until we lose consciousness

[David Dix]


A Space Oddysey


The boys' brushes

A thank you card from the kids
of Tom and Malena Koplin

The special cat-hair brush from
Paws for a Moment salon (top view)

For one of these super brushes for your cat,
shop Paws for a Moment Salon and boutique.
316 South St., downtown Waukesha.
Expert grooming.

From Tom Koplin, CPA, Katman too

Coming next week:

Ukelele moves to Montana
used bigtime once again