This ‘n’ That

The sun came out yesterday! Looks like we should have three or four nice days before it starts raining again. Honestly, we need the rain and sometimes I even enjoy it but after three straight days of rain and not seeing the sun at all for even longer I get a little tired of it.

So, it looks like this will be the last season of Castle as we know it. If they’re going to write out Beckett and Lanie I wish they would just go ahead and end the series. I would like to say that I will not watch it without these two characters but I can’t make a firm commitment to not watching. Curiosity sometimes kills my intentions. Nathan Fillion hasn’t signed his contract yet so season 9 isn’t a certainty. On the last episode there was a huge opening for Castle and Beckett to literally ride off into the sunset together. I hope that’s what happens. It’s been a good eight seasons. Don’t spoil it, ABC. End it well.

Hmmm… sorry, that’s all I’ve got right now; here’s a cat video.

National Poetry Month

A poem for the kind of weather we are having right now. Waiting impatiently for the sun to come out.

The Rain by William Henry Davies

I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
‘Tis a sweet noise to hear
These green leaves drinking near.

And when the Sun comes out,
After this Rain shall stop,
A wondrous Light will fill
Each dark, round drop;
I hope the Sun shines bright;
‘Twill be a lovely sight.

It will indeed be a lovely site when it finally happens. More rain poems

Random Linkage

Castle for Sale – It’s not much of a castle, actually, but it’s cute. A weekend getaway place maybe?

Famous art for cats – Clever

Amusing Fun – Beautiful photos and art. I like these

Flower and Vegetable Tiles – Beautiful

Cats Who Collect Things – Funny story: I used to give my cat those plastic rings off of milk jugs to play with and she would always lose them under the refrigerator so I figured we would find a hundred of the things someday when we had to move it but when we had to replace our old refrigerator we did not find a single ring. Our homes definitely have interdimensional portals that stuff disappears into.

Rainbow Nests – What happens when you give wasps colored construction paper

Chroma – Playing with color in city photographs


The description on YouTube: “…hole from Covão dos Conchos, in Serra da Estrela, [Portugal] is made of concrete and granite, has 4.6m high, 48 meters crowning was built in 1955 and serves to forward the Naves river waters to Lagoa Comprida. It has 1519 meters in length and is able to reach 120 thousand cubic meters.”

National Poetry Month

Another one by Carl Sandburg:


Because I have called to you
as the flame flamingo calls,
or the want of a spotted hawk
is called-
because in the dusk
the warblers shoot the running
waters of short songs to the
homecoming warblers-
the cry here is wing to wing
and song to song-

I am waiting,
waiting with the flame flamingo,
the spotted hawk, the running water
waiting for you.

Spring Woods

My yard is a wonderful place.

Path through the woods, spring

Each of these lovely little flowers is about half an inch to five-eighths of an inch across.

Tiny yellow flowers

If you want to be truly happy learn to love these again, like when you were little.


A Few Links

Colorful abandoned places – A lot more photos on the photographer’s website. The thumbnails are not loading right now but just click on the first space where there’s supposed to be a picture and you’ll get the full size pic and you can click on the arrow to go through the whole bunch. (a little slow)

Bugs on the walls – An art exhibition; either creepy or fascinating depending on how you feel about such things. Maybe both.

Ma’agalim – Wonderful!

And the most purely silly thing I’ve seen in a long time. I envy both the imagination and the technical skill it takes to come up with something like this.

Peter William Holden Presents [ The Invisible ] from 686f6c64656e on Vimeo.



One of the dogwood trees in my front yard. Dogwoods remind me of my mom and of going to the Dogwood Festival in Siloam Springs years ago, back when it was still interesting and fun.

National Poetry Month: Carl Sandburg

It’s funny… if you ask me if I like poetry I would say yes and yet, I don’t seek out poetry. I appreciate poems that I encounter but I rarely go looking for them. I don’t know why that is but it can change.

I have always liked Carl Sandburg’s Fog. I saw it dozens of times in school – a short, charming little poem often used as an example of poetry that does not rhyme. Well, today I decided to look for more by Carl Sandburg and found a much longer poem that I like as well.


I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the
yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber
claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart.. .
After the sunburn of the day
handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
the pearl-gray haystacks
in the gloaming
are cool prayers
to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the
wheels.. . .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my
cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?. . .
Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
The mountains stand up.
The salt oceans press in
And push on the coast lines.
The sun, the wind, bring rain
And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
A love-letter pledge to come again.. . .
Towns on the Soo Line,
Towns on the Big Muddy,
Laugh at each other for cubs
And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up.. . .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke—out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise—out of
wild ducks woven in greens and purples—
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps—canoes stripped from tree-sides—flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber
claims—in the years when the red and the white men met—the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers,
threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter’s chatter, the police patrol, the
song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short.. . .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river—
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators—
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
what brothers these
in the dark
of a thousand years?. . .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats.. . .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
O farmerman.
Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
Kill your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
Hack them with cleavers.
Hang them with hooks in the hind legs.. . .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple balls.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer’s daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair.. . .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
Marching corn—
I saw it knee high weeks ago—now it is head high—tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears.. . .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of
Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and
kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons
of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.. . .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o’clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble,
the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among
gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
in a smoke-red dust.. . .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight, chewing
a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in
summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
“The shapes that are gone are here,” said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot
wind on the alfalfa.. . .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird’s nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs.. . .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God’s Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the
backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole
Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way.. . .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: “Any new songs for me? Any new songs?”

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting—your lover comes—your child comes—the years creep with
toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never
comes back—
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over
the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley.. . .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..
. .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
at sundown:
To-morrow is a day.

National Poetry Month: Take Two, They’re Short

If you ever need to prove to someone that poetry is not all stuffy or hard to understand introduce them to the poetry of Ogden Nash. Some of his poems are fairly long and I might post one of those later but for today here are two very short ones.

The Dog

The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I’ve also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.

Several of Nash’s poems have only two lines.

The Parent

Children aren’t happy with nothing to ignore,
And that’s what parents were created for.

Random Linkage

Cookbook Title Generator – Just keep refreshing the page. My favorite so far is “The Ingredient-Free Body Revolution.”

Vintage style Segway ad – This greatly appeals to my appreciation of the ridiculous as well as my appreciation of vintage advertising.

Retro-future space tourism posters – These look familiar. I might have linked to this before. I’m thinking I might print out one or two as t-shirt transfers.

Field of Light – Beautiful!

Stump that looks like… – Nature is awesome. (It looks like an octopus to me.)

Welcome, Aliens – Never mind that the guy’s wacko, trying to attract little gray men; this is a pretty cool work of art.

Vintage Underwater – Antique diving suits and submarine concept art.

Eastern Bluebird – Just a lovely nature poster

Architectural and Ethnographic Museum of Kostroma – Large log house with some nice architectural details.

Grub – uh… No thank you.

The XKCD Garden – Haven’t tried it yet. Looks cool.

X-rated decor – OMG! I’m so sorry about this but I can’t resist. In spite of the text it took me a couple of minutes to see it. NSFW? It depends on how observant your boss is.

Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month, as I found out from Byzantium’s Shores. I’m not going to post a poem every day. Obviously, it’s April 4th and I already haven’t. But maybe a poem now and then throughout the rest of the month. This is the first one that comes to my mind, an old favorite by Frances Darwin Cornford.

The Guitarist Tunes Up

With what attentive courtesy he bent
Over his instrument;
Not as a lordly conquerer who could
Command both wire and wood,
But as a man with a loved woman might,
Inquiring with delight
What slight essential things she had to say
Before they started, he and she, to play.

Quotes From Here and There

Sometimes doing the right thing does not make everyone happy; just the people who need it the

I know a little man both ept and ert.
An intro-? extro-? No, he’s just a vert.

I’m a firm believer that writers should read poetry in order to get a sense of what can be done with language, and to learn other ways of expressing

Everything happens for a Raisin.there


There used to be this “rule” that you should only wear white between Easter and Labor Day. Now I’m not going to be all judgey about people who don’t follow this rule and talk about how people have no sense of what’s proper anymore; (even though they really don’t) I break a few fashion rules myself. If there are any rules that are made to be broken it is fashion rules, but personally, I like rules like this. It seems to me that dressing appropriately for the season gives a pleasing kind of structure to life. And having a rule that you’re allowed to break adds a little fun to life.

I don’t wear white a lot anyway, though. I’m afraid of it showing dirt and stains. I am, I’m ashamed to admit, a rather messy eater. It’s like I’ve got a hole in my lower lip or something. No matter how hard I try, whatever I’m eating is going to end up on my clothes. So, white? Not a great idea for me. But a while back I got this brain fart idea that I really need a white skirt. Of course I dismissed the idea because it was just too crazy but it wouldn’t go away so I finally decided, just get some cheap white twill from Wal-mart, make a skirt and if I ruin it it won’t be a huge loss. I can always get some more cheap white twill and try again. I haven’t made it yet because I’m planning a button front skirt and I’m waiting on the world’s slowest online retailer to finally send me my fricking buttons! Yes, Wal-mart has white buttons too but I didn’t like the ones they had.

This year Easter was early so I’m not really feeling the white yet but I am also thinking about what shoes to wear with my new white skirt. I have the hardest time trying to find white shoes. Oh, there are lots of white shoes out there but none in a style I like, or can at least live with, in one of my few trusted brands. I own only one pair of white shoes, Dr. Scholl’s mocs, but they’re not really comfortable. They are sort of comfortable but also sort of not. Mostly not.

So anyway… I don’t know about the shoes but otherwise this year I’m going to give this wearing white thing a try.

Crazy Oklahoma Weather

We have been having spring-like weather all winter. In January and February we had lots of days when the temperature was over 70°F and a few over 80°. But now? Now that it is officially spring? Freezing nights and chilly days. For me, being a warm weather person, this is so disappointing. I suppose there is a good side to it: maybe there will be fewer mosquitoes and ticks than there would have been if the temps had stayed above freezing. That’s what people say anyway.

I probably complain about the weather as much as anyone else but the truth is, the weird weather is actually one of the things I like about living in Oklahoma. For 70% to 80% of the year we can have any kind of weather and for the other 20% to 25% we are practically guaranteed nice warm or hot sunny weather, which I know doesn’t make everyone happy but it makes me happy and complaining makes other people happy so everyone’s happy, right? (Except me when I have to listen to the complaining)

But anyway… It was 28°F first thing this morning but it looks like it’s going to warm up and we’ll have highs in the 70’s this week but no more 80’s for a while, which is not quite sundress weather but I’ll take it.


This week I finished Abaddon’s Gate, the third novel in James S.A. Corey’s Expanse series. This series just keeps getting better and better. Based on my past reading experiences, it’s kind of amazing to me that a space opera that doesn’t even have FTL can be so interesting and exciting. There are space ships and plenty of explosions and shooting for those who like that sort of thing and I do but what really impresses me is the real depth of the characters’ personalities.

And of course the writing itself is fantastic. I want to say it’s very intelligent. Here are two quotes that I particularly liked. These are just one page apart from one another.

If humanity were capable of being satisfied, then they’d all still be living in trees and eating bugs out of one another’s fur.

“Heroism is a label most people get for doing shit they’d never do if they were really thinking about it.”

Tempting as it is to binge on the whole series (six books total, I think) I am going to stick to my plan to take a break from it and read something completely different, a novel set in the real world but a part of it that is so far from the part that I’m familiar with that it might as well be another planet. That’s the greatest thing about books – they can take you anywhere, anytime.