Hi everyone, this isn't a poem, just a little PSA: I'm super super super duper sick with that infernal flu that's making the national rounds. Ugh. My son and I are both holed up in the house, fevers in excess of 103, the doctor said to ride it out with a lot of fluids. This is the first moment I've had in two days to even check in as my eyes are all wobbly and I feel like I'm gonna barf. So, anyway, the poetry continues when the barfing stops.... Love to all and big germ-free online hugs...
Here's some T Bone Burnett for you! With the Punch Brothers! I'm a folkie, that's fo sho!
I am definitely up for a Husbki meetup! You will get so much inspiration from your wee one that it will make up for time slump a million times over. I miss those days, they were full of so much life.
Blob, you are always so kind to me. Thank you.
Awww, I'm tearing up again! Mr. 18 drove back down to NM Tech last night to start another semester of astrophysics, and I'm not able to get back to school this time as I can't afford it. But I will keep reading about the universe so that I can say smart things when he calls. The letting go was a bit easier this time, but I still required a few tissues. My youngest turns 16 in a couple of weeks, and he's excited about learning to drive. I will have new struggles when he's ready for college, but he's more Pirate than Time Traveler. So many adventures we get to have in one lifetime! So many!
Poem for 14 January, 2013 Online circular saw blades
look like small UFOs hovering above
a white trash wood paneled background,
floating with prices and sizes
and quantities listed next to them. I click on the ripblade,
a harsh shank with deep gullets,
flat-topped anti-kickback teeth,
and an aggressive twenty degree hook. With so much mental mulch,
and mahogany hardened thoughts,
one tool will dull
before finishing the job.
I will have to order two.
I wish I had a badge to give you, Saydrah , because this thread is giving me hope, even theadvancedapes struggling to make sense of being dumped. I haven't been in a relationship for a few years. I kind of gave up. I'm middle-aged, kind of weird, a dreamer, got a big nose and crow's feet, got one kid still at home, bills I can't pay and a non-career filling coffee cups for southwestern yuppies wearing bolos and tooled boots. I'm nobody's fantasy. But maybe! You folks make me believe, at least in the reading of your accounts.
Where are you and how can I get there?!?!?!?! That store is AMAZING!!!! Please tell your fiance that I adore it and her sense of style. :)
I think we're in a deep sigh right now. We've had several decades of frenetic "progress" and technological advance. The world is economically slumping at the moment, and we're all just catching our breath. Last year I had a million awesome ideas. Right now I'm desperately trying to find a job better than minimum wage coffee haggling, but my brain is mush and I've bought into the idea that life is short and difficult. The other thing that's happened is that we've left our bodies behind in many ways. Our children are riding the ether in school and at home, and even if they get outside and ride a bike or play basketball on the school team, they spend the rest of their hours doing what I'm doing right this second - conversing with the electric body of someone I may never meet, but nonetheless someone who is real and feels real to me. Our idea field hasn't quite caught up to the electric body but it will, and then all of us regular folk (as opposed to all those visionaries flying off into blackholes and stuff) will figure it all out.
You never know when you're going to meet a bear as you walk down the acequia. Good to be prepared.
Poem for January 13 Remove your old baseball cap,
toss it into the stands,
let some hopepful lad catch it. Wad your morning paper,
don't line the litter box
where it still replays
yesterday's events. File your uneven nails, drain the lukewarm bath, close the open cereal box, grab hold of your hair
and pull. Pull! You can rotate
your own moon. Yes. Look at my palms,
open flat,
nothing but sun
pressed reflection.
Also. I am following you now! Clever, clever Hubskier....
My feed, shared by thenewgreen, lil, mk, b_b
And here - a collection of hair weapons, ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Don't mess with me!!!
It really does! I generally will buy used things from Goodwill and will revamp them, make them into cool and unusual bohemian threads. I definitely have a unique look, thanks to learning how to sew. My grandma taught me, as I lived with her growing up. Oh! I also make really cool hair sticks and things! I forgot about that! I have very long hair, and make all kinds of hair swords and such to hold up my hair. Here are some hair arrows I made:
I am a musician and play banjo and sing in a little duo. I also spend time with my parrots and dogs. I am great at sewing and make all of my own clothes, and sometimes make things for other people when they ask.
Thank you so kindly for the nice words and the bee information! I miss those hives. I would love to keep bees, I think I would be good at it. They are fascinating creatures, all shimmer and light. I'm looking forward to hearing more about your bees. And the mead! I've never had it!
Oh, I like this!
I hope I've giving them enough credit! We humans have a way of improving with age, at least I like to think that's the case. I'm pathologically optimistic, though. I would rather three people read my stories and enjoy them than the great unwashed masses who shake their heads and don't "get" them. After the current situation settles a bit, I will post them here.
I love bees! My neighbor kept bees when I was a child! I bet that honey is wondrous, healing, full of memory and hard work. I want to hear more about it! The field behind my childhood home stretched for countless acres of tall pale grasses and hidden snake holes, all of them covered by swarms of honey bees. They landed on blue bachelor's buttons and the delicate stalks of goldenrod that made my mother sneeze. The bees "belonged" to our next door neighbor, as if thousands of migrant winged aliens living in a city of sand could belong to anyone. He crept through the fields in canvas overalls, carrying leather gloves and a bee-keeper's veil for the times he would dip his hands into the white boxes, small specks from our house, removing mounds of lumpy honey. My friends were terrified of bees. They never walked the field, never put foot softly in front of foot to feel for quail under the brush, never knew an ancient oval piece of black basalt lay at the ridge of Johnson's Hill. I knew these things, felt quail rush beneath my feet, knew the incessant sawing of worker bees floating through the white trumpets of morning glory. My neighbor siphoned angry bees into a glass bottle and gave it to me to hold. I studied hairs on tiny legs, learned to identify workers and sentries and the elusive queen. I carried his bucket to the hives and stood yards away while the flapping wings of the colony added to the gentle breeze, and smelled the rich scent of beeswax and honey he would carry home to bottle and sell. He called it "bee barf" and though he was right it made the honey hard to eat. He looked like a bee, with short stubbly arms and sun wrinkles like stripes across his face. Winter was a quiet time. The field slept, covered in crunchy layers of ice and snow, dead goldenrod encased in fairy tale icicles. My sisters would walk the field these cold days, to Johnson's Hill, unafraid of the frozen bees on the ground around the hives, and by February the snowy grass parted for our sled trails like tracks in a rail yard. One winter I collected frozen bees in a jar. I examined them carefully, made sure I had all worker bees, as they do not sting. I screwed the metal lid onto the jar and slipped it into the pocket of my down Eskimo coat. I put the bees behind the front door, in stasis, until my mom lay down on the coach to watch Day of Our Lives. I tiptoed to the kitchen and set the bottle on the spitting radiator, let the heat and steam and kitchen smells wake the bees, and saw wings start to vibrate, small sticky feet start to shake, until the jar was a rumbling bumble hive of summer. I snuck it to my room and slept that night to the snoring sound of busy insects on my windowsill. The next morning I bundled up in long underwear and turtleneck sweater and snow pants and red knit mittens and grabbed the reins to the old wooden sled. I placed the rumble bees, bottle wrapped in a towel, on the peeling paint and pulled through new snow, across the driveway, the yard, into virgin white field. By the time I reached the hives, the bees were already back in winter slumber, silent and static like fuzzy bitter popsicles. I poured them on top of the hive, knew they would wake once again, and padded off to Johnson's Hill. My life is like the bees these days. I'm in stasis, waiting for sunlight, ultraviolet rays of knowledge and understanding and rest. I'll wake up on some good radiator, reborn, life begins again.
Hi mk, thank you so kindly for your gentle words. I have no idea why I was a target. It might have been because I ignored and had publicly posted here at Hubski my Reddit link. Not sure, but either way, it's okay. Life goes on! It's just internet nonsense! I love Hubski and am so glad to be a part of this community. It's funny how you recognize your tribe when you meet them.