oh, Annabelle . . .

LordAMercy.

Tonight is graduation night for Annabelle's Puppy Kindergarten Obedience Class.

I guess I shouldn't complain - we did not get to go over the "Don't Mess With The Toilet Paper!" chapter of the puppy obedience textbook.

Song for Spring Equinox

It is the first day of spring, the children are singing

(they are supposed to be sleeping) the clock is ticking

the cats are waiting for supper, one of them pregnant

kittens to herald the spring, nothing is blooming

nothing seems to bloom much around farms, just hayfields and corn

farms are too pragmatic, I look at ads

for hydrangea bushes, which I hate they remind me of brooklyn

for chinese wisteria vines, which I can’t picture

but they sound exotic and mysterious

a kind of blue purple, I decide I’ll get some

will I be disappointed, will they be yellow?

will I hate the Shetland pony we are buying

will we run out of wholewheat flour this week

before a new supply drives up from the city?

oh, it is very like being a pioneer,

but then everything is in this country, and in the country

especially. it was like being a pioneer on 5th street, too

and houston street, and amsterdam avenue

and in brooklyn, under the streetlights growing up

rollerskating at dusk with stickball games in the street

was the most pioneery of all,

it is slightly boring,

it tastes a lot of the times crossword puzzle

and ordering things thru the mail, which never come

or turn out wrong, or come the wrong color (wisteria)

I can’t blame Alan for planning to go to India

to free his kundalini, so that his ears peel

or something dreadful happens to his physique

we are built for the exotic, we americans, this landscape leaves us

as open as a piece of chocolate cream pie

Diane di Prima

After We Saw What There Was to See

After we saw what there was to see
we went off to buy souvenirs, and my father
waited by the car and smoked. He didn’t need
a lot of things to remind him where he’d been.
Why do you want so much stuff?
he might have asked us. “Oh, Ed,” I can hear
my mother saying, as if that took care of it.

After she died I don’t think he felt any reason
to go back through all those postcards, not to mention
the glossy booklets about the Singing Tower
and the Alligator Farm, the painted ashtrays
and lucite paperweights, everything we carried home
and found a place for, then put away
in boxes, then shoved far back in our closets.

He’d always let my mother keep track of the past,
and when she was gone—why should that change?
Why did I want him to need what he’d never needed?
I can see him leaning against our yellow Chrysler
in some parking lot in Florida or Maine.
It’s a beautiful cloudless day. He glances at his watch,
lights another cigarette, looks up at the sky.

by Lawrence Raab

LET AMERICA BE AMERICA AGAIN - Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? 
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free?  Not me?
Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

 - Langston Hughes

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesnt interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if have been opened
by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn't interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."


It doesn't interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.


It doesn't interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.


It doesn't interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.


I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

First Sunday of the Month

And, so . . . 

I'm off to play at Jungle Red.

Today, in honor of National Poetry Month, I'm sharing a few of my favorite piecs of poetry.

I hope you'll drop by!

http://www.jungleredwriters.com/

April - National Poetry Month

For the past few years, I've celebrated National Poetry Month by posting a piece of poetry every day, during the month of April.

I'm going to continue the tradition this year.

You might see an old favorite here, or you may find a new poem/poet that stirs a little something.

Whichever it is, I hope you enjoy the pieces I choose.

If you have a poem you love that you'd care to share, I hope you'll do that in the comments.  (remember -  I have "comments" set to be moderated, so don't worry if you do not see your comment right away; you will).

“Inside this pencil
crouch words that have never been written
never been spoken
never been taught'

- W.S. Merwin

Annabelle - Bad Girl Busted

So.

Annabelle walked over to the back door and rang her bell, which is my cue that she wants to go out.

Being a good mom, I walked over and opened the door for her, but she had disappeared.

When I turned around this is what I saw - little dickens!

I guess she likes yogurt with granola . . . 

Annabelle plays and plays and plays

It's a gorgeous day outside. 

Much too pretty to work on taxes (even if I am scheduled to drop them off tomorrow).

So.

I decided to join Annabelle outside.

And I talked her into posing for me.

She let me know when she started getting bored . . . 

And reminded me when she thought I didn't catch the hint

Then just turned her back on me 

Pouted for a few minutes
 

and then ran off 

 and grabbed a stick

When she got bored with her stick, it was time to run across the deck a few times

And now Annabelle wants to rest.

And I need to work on taxes.

Which one's more fun ?

It's National Puppy Day

Lefty Award Winners - 2017

The Lefty awards have been announced at the Left Coast Crime banquet at the Hilton Hawaiian Village Waikiki Beach Resort. 

My congratulations to all!

Lefty for Best Humorous Mystery Novel
* Ellen Byron, Body on the Bayou (Crooked Lane Books)


Lefty for Best Historical Mystery Novel (Bruce Alexander Memorial) for books covering events before 1960

* Catriona McPherson, The Reek of Red Herrings (Minotaur Books)


Lefty for Best Debut Mystery Novel
* Alexia Gordon, Murder in G Major (Henery Press)

Lefty for Best Mystery Novel (not in other categories)

* Louise Penny, A Great Reckoning (Minotaur Books)

The Left Coast Crime Convention is an annual event sponsored by mystery fans, both readers and authors. Usually held in the western half of North America, LCC’s intent is to host an event where readers, authors, critics, librarians, publishers, and other fans can gather in convivial surroundings to pursue their mutual interests. Lefty Awards have been given since 1996.