The caption for the Astronomy Picture of the Day for April 11, 2008 inspired me. Go look at the picture, then read the poem. Or vice versa.
At first, he couldn't see the Moon
But then, as small and shy
and thin as hope can be,
it came --
the evening's tiny
Mona Lisa smile.
This was my view yesterday, captured on my crappy cellphone camera.
On the far left is a dogwood tree in flower. Then there's a big pine tree, then a couple of magnolia trees all bedecked in wisteria. Trust me, it's much prettier in person. :) There were more folks coming by on Sunday than there were on damp, rainy Saturday, but still not too many. I really wonder how attendance at the park will be affected by the rising gas prices.
For a poem for today, go over to this entry at Bedlam Farm Journal and read "The Road to Life". I've read several of Jon Katz's books, but I just started reading his blog. He's doing some nice photography and some nice work in other parts of his life. And there's often good dog eye candy. :)
Whew. Second day in a row for a 4-hour spinning session out at Stone Mtn. I don't usually like to double-up like this, because it totally wears me out. But I gotta go back to work sometime, so I might as well start here.
BTW, that bobbin I spun at retreat? About 1000 yds of laceweight. I was pleased with the amount.
Here's more Ogden Nash. I love the line at the end and quote it often.
Taboo to Boot
One bliss for which
there is no match
Is when you itch
to up and scratch.
Yet doctors and dowagers deprecate scratching,
Society ranks it with spitting and snatching,
And medical circles consistently hold
That scratching's as wicked as feeding a cold.
Hell's flame burns unquenched 'neath how many a stocking
On account of to scratch in a salon is shocking!
'Neath tile or thatch
That man is rich
Who has a scratch
For every itch.
Ho, squirmers and writhers, how long will ye suffer
The medical tyrant, the social rebuffer!
On the edge of the door let our shoulder blades rub,
Let the drawing room now be as free as the tub!
I'm greatly attached
To Barbara Frietchie.
I bet she scratched
When she was itchy.
I found this in the Wall Street Journal about 30 years ago.
The rain, it falleth on the just
And on the unjust fella,
But mostly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just's umbrella.
Based on Matthew 5:45:
"That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he
maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on
the just and on the unjust."
I don't know why I have a compulsion to explicate things these days, but I do.
Possibly my favorite Ogden Nash poem, spoiled with links in case your classical mythology is a little shaky.
Once there was a Greek divinity of the sea named Ceto and
she married a man named Phorcus,
And the marriage must have been pretty raucous;
Their remarks about which child took after which parent
must have been full of asperities,
Because they were the parents of the Gorgons, and the
Graeae, and Scylla, and the dragon that guarded the
apples of the Hesperides.
Bad blood somewhere.
Today the Gorgons are our topic, and as all schoolboys including
you and me know,
They were three horrid sisters named Medusa and Euryale
and Stheno.
But what most schoolboys don't know because they never
Get beyond their Silas Marners and their Hiawathas,
The Gorgons were not only monsters, they were also highly
talented authors.
Medusa began it;
She wrote Forever Granite.
But soon Stheno and Euryale were writing too, and they
addressed her in daily choruses,
Saying we are three literary sisters just like the Brontës so
instead of Gorgons why can't we be brontësauruses?
Well, Medusa may have been mythical but she wasn't mystical,
She was selfish and egotistical.
She saw wider vistas
Than simply being the sister of her sisters.
She replied, tossing away a petrified Argonaut on whom
she had chipped a molar,
You two can be what you like, but since I am the big fromage
in this family, I prefer to think of myself as the
Gorgon Zola.
I shall wear Turquoise and soft gray sweatshirts...
and a bandana over my silver hair.....
and I shall spend my Social Security Checks on
Sweet Wine and My Dogs......
and sit in my house on my well-worn chair
and listen to my dog's breathing.
I will sneak out in the middle of a warm Summer night
and take my dogs for a run, if my old bones will allow...
and when people come to call,
I will smile and nod as I show them my dogs...
and talk of them and about them...
The Ones so Beloved of the Past
and the Ones so Beloved of Today....
I still will work hard cleaning after them
and mopping and feeding them
and whispering their names in a soft, loving way.
I will wear the gleaming sweat on my throat, like a jewel
and I will be an embarrassment to all...
and my family...
who have not yet found the peace
in being free to have dogs as your Best Friends....
These friends who always wait, at any hour, for your footfall...
and eagerly jump to their feet out of a sound sleep,
to greet you as if you are a God.
With warm eyes full of adoring love and hope that you will stay
and their big, strong necks...
and kiss their dear sweet heads...
and whisper to their very special company....
I look in the Mirror...
and see I am getting old....
this is the kind of woman I am...
and have always been.
Loving dogs is easy,
they are part of me,
accept me for who I am,
my dogs appreciate my presence in their lives...
when I am old this will be important to me...
you will understand when you are old....
and if you have dogs to love too.
--Author unknown
Moon in heaven's garden, among the clouds that wander,
Crescent moon so young to see, above the April ways,
Whiten, bloom not yet, not yet, within the twilight yonder;
All my spinning is not done, for all the loitering days.
Oh, my heart has two wild wings that ever would be flying!
Oh, my heart's a meadow-lark that ever would be free!
Well it is that I must spin until the light is dying;
Well it is the little wheel must turn all day for me!
All the hill-tops beckon, and beyond the western meadows
Something calls for ever, calls me ever, low and clear:
A little tree as young as I, the coming summer shadows,—
The voice of running waters that I always thirst to hear.
Oftentime the plea of it has set my wings a-beating;
Oftentime it coaxes, as I sit weary-wise,
Till the wild life hastens out to wild things all entreating,
And leaves me at the spinning-wheel with dark, unseeing eyes.
--Josephine Preston Peabody
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