Monthly Archives: April 2010

Today’s Latin Pick Up Line


I’m non Fred Flintstone tamen EGO can planto vestri cubile silicis.

(I’m not Fred Flintstone but I can make your bed rock.)

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The Merry Giant Suck-a-Thon

Is a strange ship with a stranger crew.
The decks are manned by the Unemployed,
From them no Hooting Hullabaloo.
Daily round the capstan stamp we,
Through the doldrums daily tramp we.
No storm, no towering seas or spray
Can steer us wide of our fiery mission,
To deliver the fearsome resume.

Today’s Poem by Robert Service

Good Enough

I have heard my old man say,
As he smoked in mellow mood:
“I spine that ‘better’ may
Be but the enemy of ‘good’.
I think upon the way I trained
Thews of youth to steely bands
Till life my heart I strained,
Walking on my silly hands.

Then again I’ve often writ
What I deemed was decent stuff;
Yet fiddled round with it,
Couldn’t polish it enough.
Couldn’t shape it to my mind.
Till I chucked it with a groan . . .
So it is, I often find,
Better to let well alone.

Now a moderate am I
Poets my perfection plan;
To be an average I try,
Just a gentle jingle man.
And though upon my lack I brood,
I have found by acid test:
Better be content with ‘good’,
Than break one’s heart for ‘best’.

Today’s Moment of Zen

I was just out walking the dog when I found this “poetry post” a few blocks from my house. The poem on display?
Bob Dylan’s Subterranean Homesick Blues!

Today’s Accidental Still Life

Reminders

I fear this sorrow is to make me somehow
More cognizant of careful now.
I’m hesitant with woeful things
Like a wobbly puppet on hidden strings,
I take no pleasure the knowing
That soon there comes the time of going.
So keep me under your spreading wings,
Swimming with candidates and kings.
And if I wish to stray somehow from
The fierce urgency of now,
Grab hold the scruff of grevious care,
Sweep me up if unaware
Of lifes one constant ere unfolding,
In the Now eternity beholding.

Today’s Journal Entry

They say Thoreau mumbled the words “moose” and “Indian” just before he died. Maybe he had a vision of his beloved Concord woods and their former inhabitants beckoning him to join them in a risen world. When someone asked him a week earler how he stood in his relations with God, he said a snowstorm meant more to him than God. With his trademark clarity intact, he had surrounded himself with what was vividly real to him, entering into Nature on his own terms.

When I visit my dying friend, though I see him surrounded by family, his smile and quiet humor still intact, I also see him beginning weeks of brutal radiation treatments to his brain that offer him only the illusion of control and borrowed time. I can’t help but wonder if the woods of so-called modern medicine many of us wander in at the end of our days contain anything as redemptive as Thoreau’s risen Garden.