hey people
-
hester_prynne
-
judih
- Site Admin
- Posts: 13399
- Joined: August 17th, 2004, 7:38 am
- Location: kibbutz nir oz, israel
- Contact:
big mama dear,
the deer was huge - like a moose, strolling through the yard.
nibbling on leaves, like an overgrown snail, blending in with nature.
larger than large.
hug a tree? hug a 3 course meal. The diners are out tonight
morning comes, promise of heat
sweaty fingers dust the keyboard
birthday party day.
Papa and 80 years shake hands
witnesses will shower him with stories
That's no lady, that's my wife (prepare for the old jokes - seatbelts recommended)
morning all,
judih
the deer was huge - like a moose, strolling through the yard.
nibbling on leaves, like an overgrown snail, blending in with nature.
larger than large.
hug a tree? hug a 3 course meal. The diners are out tonight
morning comes, promise of heat
sweaty fingers dust the keyboard
birthday party day.
Papa and 80 years shake hands
witnesses will shower him with stories
That's no lady, that's my wife (prepare for the old jokes - seatbelts recommended)
morning all,
judih
....
J,
Deer i saw her tame
curled hair
I lost that camera
(G,morning)
Deer i saw her tame
curled hair
I lost that camera
(G,morning)
http://frombeerstobabies.blogspot.com/
-
stilltrucking
- Posts: 20646
- Joined: October 24th, 2004, 12:29 pm
- Location: Oz or somepLace like Kansas
deja vu of me once living in these unspoiled forests, made a huge emotional grab on my heart.
Good morning deer big sister
from the state of the heart
USA is blessed with the sweetest neighbors of any nation that ever existed. But it was not always that way. It is my prayer that one day Israel is so blessed. I was sitting here with my last bowl and thinking of you, I hope you get to visit the country of your birth. I will never understand why you left Canada? A kibbutz can be anywhere. Pockets of sane socialism as a seed in the capitalist quagmire
************************
well another day shot to hell
Rose always told me "Jackie don't let go to pot"
I think she meant a pot to p*ss in.
Thinking of anniefay's hair. I wish my words could reach her. Maybe in the next universe over
"every mother's son has to cry today."very weepy - so much beauty has been paved and trailer'd and well you know the lament. Lamenting i have been doing all along the highway.
Ten four, if it was any better in the USA, it would be no good at all.hope all's well.
Good morning deer big sister
from the state of the heart
There it is. Thanks Z ..Nice of you to visit us and bring your grace, beauty and poetic soul to North American turf.
USA is blessed with the sweetest neighbors of any nation that ever existed. But it was not always that way. It is my prayer that one day Israel is so blessed. I was sitting here with my last bowl and thinking of you, I hope you get to visit the country of your birth. I will never understand why you left Canada? A kibbutz can be anywhere. Pockets of sane socialism as a seed in the capitalist quagmire
************************
well another day shot to hell
Rose always told me "Jackie don't let go to pot"
I think she meant a pot to p*ss in.
Thinking of anniefay's hair. I wish my words could reach her. Maybe in the next universe over
-
Zlatko Waterman
- Posts: 1631
- Joined: August 19th, 2004, 8:30 am
- Location: Los Angeles, CA USA
- Contact:
Elizabeth Bishop's famous apparitional vision of a moose in the Northeast for you, judih:
(paste)
The Moose
For Grace Bulmer Bowers
From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,
where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;
where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;
on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,
through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;
down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.
Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.
Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;
the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.
One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.
A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.
On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.
A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.
Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.
The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .
In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices
uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;
deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.
He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.
"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative. "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."
Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.
Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.
A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.
Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."
Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"
Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?
"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,
by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.
--Elizabeth Bishop
(paste)
The Moose
For Grace Bulmer Bowers
From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,
where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;
where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;
on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,
through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;
down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.
Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.
Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;
the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.
One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.
A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.
On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.
A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.
Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.
The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .
In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices
uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;
deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.
He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.
"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative. "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."
Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.
Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.
A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.
Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."
Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"
Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?
"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,
by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.
--Elizabeth Bishop
-
judih
- Site Admin
- Posts: 13399
- Joined: August 17th, 2004, 7:38 am
- Location: kibbutz nir oz, israel
- Contact:
thank you so much for these gifts.
Z - love the poem.
still t - was in Canada last week, but this place, the US is the country of my birth. (proud possessor of 3 passports)
Wireman - grab the words and let yourself stir up a hot summer jam
i'm tired - wiped out. Long day. Gathering with friends and relatives who've known me since i was twirling and rolling on grassy knolls (hmmm, well, since i started to twirl and roll)
would love to comment to each of you here, but eyes close, and darkness seems like an easier twilight than flicking on a lamp and taunting my closing eyes.
tomorrow NYC. Off to meet my eldest daughter and check out her various physical embellishments (tattoo, hair colours, adapted auras and evolved expressions)
shalom
Z - love the poem.
still t - was in Canada last week, but this place, the US is the country of my birth. (proud possessor of 3 passports)
Wireman - grab the words and let yourself stir up a hot summer jam
i'm tired - wiped out. Long day. Gathering with friends and relatives who've known me since i was twirling and rolling on grassy knolls (hmmm, well, since i started to twirl and roll)
would love to comment to each of you here, but eyes close, and darkness seems like an easier twilight than flicking on a lamp and taunting my closing eyes.
tomorrow NYC. Off to meet my eldest daughter and check out her various physical embellishments (tattoo, hair colours, adapted auras and evolved expressions)
shalom
judih...was wondering how the visit with the eldest went.
Today was my eldest son's birthday. He is thirty-two and a fine man but I was transported back in time to that day he arrived, wet and new. I had studied Lamaze (there were no plethora of classes, like now) The poor young women in the beds near me were screaming and yelling at the staff in the throes of their childbirth. I remember thinking that I wished I could strangle them all with IV tubing so they would shutup and I could concentrate. The doctor lied to us, said Cecil would be able to be at my side during the process but he was kept outside the door. Mostly because we were dirt poor, had no insurance, and there were quite a few babies that wanted to come that day. I was the only gringa in the group, Noah arrived (with Cecil outside the door...still trying to talk his way in.) without a hitch. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, big (almost nine pounds), lusty and hungry for life.
The first child has a special place in memory.
Love to you and her.
SooZen
Today was my eldest son's birthday. He is thirty-two and a fine man but I was transported back in time to that day he arrived, wet and new. I had studied Lamaze (there were no plethora of classes, like now) The poor young women in the beds near me were screaming and yelling at the staff in the throes of their childbirth. I remember thinking that I wished I could strangle them all with IV tubing so they would shutup and I could concentrate. The doctor lied to us, said Cecil would be able to be at my side during the process but he was kept outside the door. Mostly because we were dirt poor, had no insurance, and there were quite a few babies that wanted to come that day. I was the only gringa in the group, Noah arrived (with Cecil outside the door...still trying to talk his way in.) without a hitch. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, big (almost nine pounds), lusty and hungry for life.
The first child has a special place in memory.
Love to you and her.
SooZen
Freedom's just another word...
http://soozen.livejournal.com/
http://soozen.livejournal.com/
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