WAUKESHA SEWER RACCOON NEWS: Dead bird walking; Zep and Dee; Another Stand by me; Dance me to the end of love; Hackett's cove; Finnish pancakes (Krapsu); Poetry corner; More Guthrie

When I find myself in times of trouble

Let It Be

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree,
There will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be.
Let it be, let it be. Yeah
There will be an answer, let it be.

And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.

I painted this in 2008.

At the time I sensed trouble ahead.

Bird hits windshield, maybe,

still walks.

^,^

Zip a dee do dah

(or Zep and Dee)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feKEIeq5ozk&feature=youtu.be

Rendition beats Doris do dah Day!

- thanks again to Dr. Bentz for this
AND the juggler from last week -

^,^

Play Vimeo
for a difference
from earlier version
in The Raccoon:

https://vimeo.com/115289302

^,^

DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE 1992

Leonard Cohen

Info https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_Me_to_the_End_of_Love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEVow6kr5nI&feature=youtu.be

Lyrics

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love

INFO: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_Me_to_the_End_of_Love
another from the Raccoon's best stringer, Tom Bentz, Rev., poet

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Hackett's Cove
by Mark Strand

Listen Online

Those nights lit by the moon and the moon’s nimbus,
the bones of the wrecked pier rose crooked in air
and the sea wore a tarnished coat of silver.
The black pines waited. The cold air smelled
of fishheads rotting under the pier at low tide.
The moon kept shedding its silver clothes
over the bogs and pockets of bracken.
Those nights I would gaze at the bay road,
at the cottages clustered under the moon’s immaculate stare,
nothing hinted that I would suffer so late
this turning away, this longing to be there.

[Knopf 2007 Hackett's Cove]

^,^

I wonder if my Finnish son-in-law

Phil Kari

knows about this Finnish pancake?

I bet he does. I must ask, or they may

let me know by phone/ E mail from Wasilla AK

Dee tried the pancakes yesterday.

They were like nothing I've had before.

Excellent!

OK, sort of like a souffle; puffy when first out of the oven.

But taste of it's own.

Recipe given us by Cindy Helt of Colgate WI.

We sprinkled powdered sugar over them.

Super GOOD. (Attn: Cleo Glasenapp)

^,^

Vocational Training
by Carrie Shipers

Listen Online

I sound so much like my mother
that when people called our house for help,
I’d have to stop them halfway through
their stories. Hold on, I’d say, I’m not her.
When I went with her on calls, I hovered
in doorways, holding her equipment, watched
her walk to the center of what was wrong.
I knew I could memorize facts, anatomy,
the math of giving oxygen or shock,
but I needed her to teach me what the body
wanted. What I learned was common sense:
Apply pressure to bleeding. Stay as calm
as you can. I’ll never have her hands,
the power I saw her wield, but sometimes
I feel her voice in my mouth: Get some ice
and you’ll be fine. It doesn’t need stitches,
it’s only a scratch. Even when I’m the one
speaking, my mother’s voice knows what to do.

"Vocational Training" by Carrie Shipers from Family Resemblances. © University of New Mexico Press, 2016.

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Note:To explain the mixing in of the poetry (so called)
written by the editor with real honest to goodness
poetry gleaned from THE WRITERS ALMANAC
as above
we wish to acknowledge that we mostly recognize
good poetry from our own.
Below find a brief example of what we mean
and I don't intend to mention this again.

I Was Gonna Say

No you weren’t

Yes I was, I was gonna say

Bullshit, you were NOT gonna say

No, really, I WAS gonna say

I truly doubt that

Say WHAT?

I truly doubt that you were gonna say

Yes, damit, I was too gonna say

Look, you were NOT gonna say

Yeah I was !

And I’m gonna pop you one

If you don’t cut this out

Cut what out?

This denying me the right to say

What I was gonna say

Was it that you felt pre-empted by me?

That I went and said what you were gonna say?

Is that what this is all about?

That I said what you were gonna say?

Well, yes

Or could it be that you were merely

Signaling simpatico with me by adding your

I was gonna say

To the tail end of my statement?

And that you had absolutely

No similar thought in mind?

No, I was gonna say

No you weren’t

I’m tellin’ you I WAS GONNA SAY

I truly doubt that

You’re gonna die !

Yes, we all will someday

No, I mean you’re gonna die real soon !

I truly doubt that

[D. Zep Dix 2016]

and this real one:

My Father Whistled
by Thomas Lux

Listen Online

only when he was nervous
about fixing something, anything.
It was an aptitude he lacked.
He worked as a weaver
in a silk mill, then as a chauffeur,
and then he fell
into his life’s work, at which he excelled:
he drove a truck filled
with clinking milk bottles,
and deposited them on doorsteps,
front and back, and some even in the fridge.
I called it whistling, but there was little or no
sound: he’d make the whistle-lips
and blow a song of air, of breath,
hitting the muffled higher notes
when the nut did not fit the bolt,
when a belt needed an extra hole.
He put the snow chains on himself.
He’d usually get it done.
He never asked for help,
and was given none.

"My Father Whistled" by Thomas Lux from To the Left of Time. © Mariner Books, 2016

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More Guthrie