Fond memories of the college variant of “Star Light Star Bright”
Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the heck you are I think,
I’m not under what they call
The alfluence of incohol.
I’m not drunk as thinkle peep,
I’m just a little slort of sheep.
- (remembered by) Steve Grooms
Regrets do come with advancing age,
You often wish you could turn back the page,
To the time when you had to choose,
Not that this life you would willing lose.
But how many branches in my way
Were very obvious on that day?
How many were subtle and small,
And I did not see them clearly, if at all.
Frost says that some time in the past
He chose one way, the die was cast.
But I think the big choices are often three,
That has been all the difference to ME.
For I chose the middle road, the safe one,
Not that I regret much of what I have done.
But what if my choices had been bolder,
If I had chosen more of life to shoulder.
If I had been more saint or sinner,
If I had eaten more or less at dinner,
Meaning not the meal to feed the beast,
But life’s big banquet, God’s great feast.
If I chose to be really rich or intentionally poor,
And not fight the bills falling at my door.
That is the one I wonder about the most,
Would I have had more time to serve the Host?
Too often my life has been driven by others,
This is another of my larger drothers.
To left or right might have been better,
Than to take the way of the middle-class debter.
When I chose to teach I wrote in sand.
What finally results is not of my hand.
My students will succeed or they will fail,
Who knows what part I played in their tale.
On any branch there would have been strife,
Only would THINGS claimed so much of my time,
If I had lived by reason and rhyme,
Not by hearing the modern American chime?
But I got to here with children and wife,
That has been the best of this life.
God, they say, will take me to rest,
He may tell me this was mostly a jest.
- Clyde
(Posted by tim on May 21, 2011, wrongly predicted to be the day of the rapture by Harold Camping)
the world ends on bob dylans 70th birthday. how appropriate. i never thought id see the day when id say bob is doing prety good for being 70.70 is not so old… geez.
i see the girl on the front of the freewheeling album died a month or two ago.i would gather my family around and call the ones that aren’t around id throw on a dylan album or yo yo playing the bach cello concertos and grab a fistful of kids hug until its over.
i was on a plane once that was in a death spiral for 3 minutes as i got to contemplate death and if you gotta you gotta. try the alternative.
i think mpr has dylan tributes today after garrison and also on 89.3. it still bugs me to promote mpr but there is this dylan thing i have. i should check xm too. good wine, or whiskey, a cigar if i was alone, my kids don’t like it and i wouldnt want to send them out with a bad vibe, look at the horizion, grab my dog, take a minute to think about what i have to be thankful for and breate deep. cigarettes have no appeal, i must have them partially licked. if we have 10 minutes i could have sex and still have 8 or 9 minutes left. write one last poem and away we go
the world is over its been a trip
the stuff i’ve seen and done
i wouldnt have traded it for anything
and for the most part its been fun
the best stuff is the stuff you feel
deep down and can’t express
as fully as you would think you should
ive gotten the most from less
its the simple things like kids and wine
and sunshine that call out
and i cant remember a day at the office
that i care much about
its friends and family sun and stars
the glass of wine and thou
lifes pretty simple isn’t it dawg
get out and bow wow wow
thanks to the doomsdayers for this little reminder
of all that i hold dear
come over and have a sip of my wine
and lend me your smile and your ear
friends and sunrises and music and dreams
are the things that keep me alive
if i started with 10 minutes id better stop
cause i gotta be getting towards 5
when its all over i’ll see you again
if the scriptures are worth half their salt
and if they were wrong the premise was good
and the phrophets should not be at fault
treat each other as you would like that is the rule
and its a pretty good guide dont you think
so red rover red rover send all ya all over
and i trust that you’ll be in the pink
the mere thought of ending these thoughts that im sending
has got me realizing i’m gona miss it
life has been good, as good as it could
and if it had lips i would kiss it
my blog friends, my dog friends my kids and my wife
my brother and sisters and mom
my dad left last year, beat us all out of here
bet i see him in old kingdom come.
if not today then tomorrow the pain and the sorrow
are tollerable when put in perspective
when i get upset i will remember this yet and i’ll
give myself this small directive
just go sit in a chair and see it all from there
all that matters is easily found
life is so easy we all know it down deep
just enjoy it while you are around
Boiled to pudding ivory, broken spindle from a chair,
On the back, back porch used Mondays out of mind.
Lost through time. Why do I unexpectedly care?
The clothes of the family, always needing to be clean,
Most pre-soaked, all sweaty, stained, and grimed.
Dumped load-by-load in the wringer washing machine.
Into water boiled by wood we cut and stored,
Larded with soap rendered from animals we had known,
Water toted from well and into stove-top boiler poured.
Not by a simple step or two, but by labor of us all,
Clean clothes were earned, not from a dryer pulled.
But out of all of this yesterday I did recall,
Her precious washing stick, long worn to fit her hand.
For hours with it into the wringer she would guide
Hot heavy clothes into cold rinse water on its stand.
Tediously she cleaned them all load by load.
Twice or more the rollers would wring out water.
Water, soap, and bluing on her hands showed.
Why suddenly unbidden flashed her washing stick into my mind?
Mrs. Stewart’s Bluing always there on the back porch windowsill?
Smell of soap, slightly rancid, the home-made kind?
Not any demon of guilt in me rose its head,
Nor any blame from me of how I was raised,
But to something, some thing my heart was being led.
Two Germans of the soil, by them I was raised.
Two years ago she died, years before that my father,
Rarely to speak of love, and only seldom praised.
Sometimes I know the wringers caught her fingers.
Love said in hard work, and everyday small risks.
Little of this in my memory had lingered.
Until I did envision, without thought, her worn out washing stick.
She too was eventually boiled to soft pudding white.
After close to ninety years even her mind was worn sick.
From age to age we think the common things alter.
New rules are written for how a family works,
So many are sure their parents did falter.
But for us three those two did provide,
A sense of place in time, a will do to what needs being done,
An inner voice that is almost always a guide.
Her washing stick was not meant to be a measure
But by it I can chart out what is often forgotten,
What it took to make our lives of greater leisure.
- Clyde
The telephone has been cited recently in some high profile voice and text communications that, on second thought, were artless and probably should have been withheld by the senders. Such is the hazard of impulsive communication.
Unfortunately, in the case of Virginia Thomas calling Anita Hill, Brett Favre sending texts and photos to Jenn Sterger, and Juan Williams losing his radio gig over comments made on TV, there was no flowery, sing-songy greeting card designed to do the same, difficult job … until now.
No artwork yet, but writing the dopey poem inside is the hardest part.
Anita,
Just a card to say hello
And also, dear, to let you know
We’re gracious, tolerant and wise.
And now you may apologize!How lovely it would surely be
To see you fall on bended knee.
We’re waiting, feeling slightly slighted.
Apologize! You’ve been invited.Take this offer ‘fore it closes.
Ignore what it presupposes.
Show remorse! If you don’t need to,
Still, you must! You’ve been decreed to!Sincerely,
Ginni (and Clarence)
Jenn,
Wishing we could get together
You have not responded.
Don’t you understand, dear?
With my heart you have absconded!
All my parts have shaken loose
I’m grizzled and decrepit.
I’ve put them in a box for you
But no one here will schlep it.
I’m in pieces, that is clear.
A lovelorn southern chap.
Can I change your feelings
With this photo of my lap?
Uh, Brett.
Juan,
We’re saddened
By the thought you had
That we could not endorse.It made us
So uncomfortable
We’re firing you, of course.Life’s a highway
Fast and cruel
Quick exits are unfair lanes.When harshly judged
For what we said or
What we wear on airplanes.Sorry,
Your Former Employer
- DC
This year has been a monster
and I’ve spent it on a binge.
From New Year’s through September
I did stuff that makes me cringe.
But now the warmth is ending
And the leaves are blowing free.
So sober through October
Is how I intend to be.
Sober through October
Is the promise that I make
Sober through October
‘Cause it’s wrong to drink and rake.
The air turns crisp, and if I booze
While flowers fade to brown.
I’m worried I might vanish
Beneath leaves piled on the ground.
So Darlin’, if you’re listening,
Here’s what I’m tryin’ to say.
I’m tryin’ not to be the man
who filled your car with hay.
I hate the ways I hurt you.
‘Least the ways that I recall.
So sober through October
Is how I will start my Fall.
Sober through October
Is my mission to complete.
Sober through October
‘cause it’s sad to drink or treat.
I’m askin’ you to help me
As I fight my private wars.
I want you by the bonfire
Should I slip and beg for ‘smores.
- DC
Often, our first taste was bestowed by father or brother
Most all of us have engorged at one time or another
A wonderfully satisfying dish, served on any platter.
To truly gratify the soul, we must create a special batter.
You may substitute with genuine ambition
But most people start with decades of tradition
For this ingredient has always been properly flavored
With sites, sounds, tastes, aromas that demand to be savored
Into this starter the tangibles our hands firmly kneed
Our favorite shotguns, boots and dogs of any hunting breed
Brush pants, chest waders, blazon vests and jackets in camo
No matter if it is lead or steel, be sure to add plenty of ammo
Now set the mixture aside packed tightly, usually a duffle
Add spices if you wish, a camera or cards to later shuffle
Don’t rush this succulent preparation, relish this portion of the fun
I often sample this dough, even days before the hunt has begun
As important as ingredients are to success, so to is the rise
So we begin to travel with friends old and new, to rhapsodize.
For Driving North to hunt, this banter it will only augment.
So enjoyable, yet it could seem to cure most any ailment
Ah, to deer, duck or grouse camp we have finally arrived
It is to this end we have so heavily invested and contrived.
Each seems to know their duties; cook, unpack and barkeep
The hunt begins to perfectly bake as we lay down to sleep.
Morning comes fast, we all gradually, yet eagerly awake
We dress for the day, gather our tackle, and prepare to partake
Whether it be a day in the forest or perhaps on the waterfront
Nothing will be as enduring, gratifying, and intoxicating as this hunt.
- Dan in Woodbury
o hey great brittan
land of bp
come clean our oceans
come clean our sea
the companys namesake
stayed awfully quiet
while the world was quaking
with an oil spill riot
now the news crews have moved on
the message has passed
the cameras are elsewhere
they’ve moved on at last
onward brittania
who once ruled the seas
tell your humble servant
to make it right please
- tim
god morning good morning
all you babooners
we meet in the morning
now without tuners
we chat and we laugh
and discuss events daily
the land of baboon
we romp and we playlee
from morning til night
you can just check back in
and type with your fingers
while your rubbing you chin
oh baboon land baboon land
my mothers milk home
i sing of the blog site
and no longer roam
at six theres a new thought
to digest and to noodle
today its a dinosaur
tomorrow a poodle
and then dr heartland
bubby and the rest
we all think about it
then blog with the best
oh baboon land baboon land
how i love the way
your the blog of my heart
and the heart of my day
- tim
a weekend with hours of freetime
is as rare annd as loved as a good ryhme
i think i should laugh
play a giraffee
and dance around circles in time
labor day is a nice holiday
it requires nothing to haul away
no things you should do
if you heart were so true
you could sllep the whole weekend away
maybe we should all have unemployment day
and let people know we are worth some pay
please help us find jobs
and remove these corn cobs
from the spot where they never see any light of day
the summer is done feel remorse
and take a long weekend of course
to escape form the grief
and the time bandit thief
who has stolen one more year with force
the time thats gone never returns
enjoy this life lessons we learn
to just do the best
that you can and the rest
will follow and kharme we earn
- tim
