9 Moons Ago

  

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

“High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., Public Domain.

  

Of Radish Tops on a Plate

There you are
4 buttons of purple-y red and pinky-white
Little disks of salad enhancement
Feathery green remnants on top
So simple, yet
Enough to make a meal just that
much hotter.
Like when I took your hand in mine
and you thought I was about to be sweet
But I slid your fingers
between my own just-washed, but not dried
gentle fingertips, and opened my
pretty mouth.
And popped you in, sucking a little with a shy smile.
It was unexpected
And a little bit, just a little bit, naughty.
Your hands are one of my favorite delicacies.
(I never did hear you object to such
playfulness.)
So, after that came a more spicy advance,
And that salad never did get made properly.
We ate greens with radishes anyway.
And I threw in black olives for good measure.
You threw in the dish towel and succumbed to my wicked game.
Thank God for that.

A. M. Lehr June 2008

  

E.E. Cummings

white gaurdians of the universe of sleep

safley may by imperishable your
glory escorted through infinate countries be
my darling (open the very secret of hope
to her eyes, not any longer blinded with
a world; and let her heart’s each whisper wear
all never guessed unknowable most joy)

faithfully blossoming beyond to breathe
suns of the night, bring this beautiful
wanderer home to a dream called time: and give
herself into the mercy of that star,
if out of climbing whom begins to spill
such golden blood as makes his moon alive

sing more will wonderfully birds than are

(Thanks, Christiana! Love ya!)

  

Well, got the rest of the house-sitting pictures up for y’all. Things are flying for us.. can YOU believe it’s the middle of January already?! We can’t!

No lizards in this batch, I promise, Chhavy! Just Boids.

A few weeks ago I gave meself a new look, which I’d been contemplating for at least half a year. I have not had bangs (aka a fringe) since before I was a teenager. (We won’t count that brief early-1990′s fling with the fluffed-up wispy bangs that complimented my frizzy poodle perm. Blergh.)

Better self-portraits another time. I haven’t had much of a chance for photo ops!

I need a photo opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. Don’t want to end up a cartoon, in a cartoon graveyard. Bone digger, bone digger. Dogs in the moonlight. Far away in my well-lit room…
-P Simon.

Things are very good here. It’s so nice to be located near all our dearest folk -on this half of the world, anyway!

p.s. HAPPY B-DAY SARAH! Woot-woot!