Oh my. Fresh figs and cheeses (young parm, mozzarella, and chèvre) from the Farmer’s Market. Everything else from my garden. Heavenly.

My kitchen, my photos, my tummy^^

THREE SONGS AT THE END OF SUMMER

By Jane Kenyon


A second crop of hay lies cut   
and turned. Five gleaming crows   
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,   
and like midwives and undertakers   
possess a weird authority.

Crickets leap from the stubble,   
parting before me like the Red Sea.   
The garden sprawls and spoils.

Across the lake the campers have learned   
to water ski. They have, or they haven’t.   
Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone   
suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!”

Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,   
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.   
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod   
brighten the margins of the woods.

Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;   
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.

*

The cicada’s dry monotony breaks   
over me. The days are bright   
and free, bright and free.

Then why did I cry today   
for an hour, with my whole   
body, the way babies cry?

*

A white, indifferent morning sky,   
and a crow, hectoring from its nest   
high in the hemlock, a nest as big   
as a laundry basket …
                                    In my childhood   
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,   
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.

The damp dirt road gave off   
this same complex organic scent.

I had the new books—words, numbers,   
and operations with numbers I did not   
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled   
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.

Spruce, inadequate, and alien   
I stood at the side of the road.   
It was the only life I had.

THREE SONGS AT THE END OF SUMMER

By Jane Kenyon


A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,
and like midwives and undertakers
possess a weird authority.

Crickets leap from the stubble,
parting before me like the Red Sea.
The garden sprawls and spoils.

Across the lake the campers have learned
to water ski. They have, or they haven’t.
Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone
suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!”

Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod
brighten the margins of the woods.

Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.

*

The cicada’s dry monotony breaks
over me. The days are bright
and free, bright and free.

Then why did I cry today
for an hour, with my whole
body, the way babies cry?

*

A white, indifferent morning sky,
and a crow, hectoring from its nest
high in the hemlock, a nest as big
as a laundry basket …
In my childhood
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.

The damp dirt road gave off
this same complex organic scent.

I had the new books—words, numbers,
and operations with numbers I did not
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.

Spruce, inadequate, and alien
I stood at the side of the road.
It was the only life I had.

“Have you ever really held the hand of someone you love? Not just in passing, a loose link between you - but truly clasped, with the pulses of your wrists beating together and your fingers mapping the knuckles and nails like a cartographer learning a country by heart?” 
― Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls

“Have you ever really held the hand of someone you love? Not just in passing, a loose link between you - but truly clasped, with the pulses of your wrists beating together and your fingers mapping the knuckles and nails like a cartographer learning a country by heart?”
― Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls

SONG FOR BABY-O, UNBORN

By Diane di Prima


Sweetheart
when you break thru
you’ll find
a poet here
not quite what one would choose.

I won’t promise
you’ll never go hungry
or that you won’t be sad
on this gutted
breaking
globe

but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever

SONG FOR BABY-O, UNBORN

By Diane di Prima


Sweetheart
when you break thru
you’ll find
a poet here
not quite what one would choose.

I won’t promise
you’ll never go hungry
or that you won’t be sad
on this gutted
breaking
globe

but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever

The Gray Block building, in Grayville, IL, named after founder James Gray.  

The per capita income: $14,318. 
About 9.1% of families, 13.3% of the population, including 21.0% of those under age 18 and 13.5% of those age 65 or over, live below the poverty line. 

What are some examples of the federal Poverty lines? 
An income of less than $19,530 for a family of three.
An income of less than $11,490 for a single person.
An income of less than $23,550 for a family of four.

And don’t say they don’t pay taxes. They pay fuel tax, sales tax, automobile tax (license plates and registration), utility tax … 

(iPhone 5)

The Gray Block building, in Grayville, IL, named after founder James Gray.

The per capita income: $14,318.
About 9.1% of families, 13.3% of the population, including 21.0% of those under age 18 and 13.5% of those age 65 or over, live below the poverty line.

What are some examples of the federal Poverty lines?
An income of less than $19,530 for a family of three.
An income of less than $11,490 for a single person.
An income of less than $23,550 for a family of four.

And don’t say they don’t pay taxes. They pay fuel tax, sales tax, automobile tax (license plates and registration), utility tax …

(iPhone 5)

Excerpt - Love Pirates

I follow with my mouth the small wing of muscle
under your shoulder, lean over your back, breathing
into your hair and thinking of nothing. I want
to lie down with you under the sails of a wooden sloop
and drift away from all of it …

(Excerpt “Love Pirates” by Joseph Millar)

1956 Buick Super
-Everything is  a conscious decision - the number of strips in the grill, the relation of size and scale, the font, the color … We are surrounded by art and design. 

(Abandoned; iphone 5)

1956 Buick Super
-Everything is a conscious decision - the number of strips in the grill, the relation of size and scale, the font, the color … We are surrounded by art and design.

(Abandoned; iphone 5)

I saw this downy feather on the trail, and was reminded of this bit from ‘King Lear’ … 

"This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt."
-William Shakespeare


(On the trail; iphone 5)

I saw this downy feather on the trail, and was reminded of this bit from ‘King Lear’ …

"This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt."
-William Shakespeare


(On the trail; iphone 5)

theshadowphotog:

QUEEN ANNE’S LACE

Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

-William Carlos Williams

(Roadside; iphone 5)

theshadowphotog:

QUEEN ANNE’S LACE

Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

-William Carlos Williams

(Roadside; iphone 5)

Ball caps advertising seed corn, playful banter, good bar food, and a Leinie’s Summer Shandy. Nice way to end a summer day. 

(Iphone 5)

Ball caps advertising seed corn, playful banter, good bar food, and a Leinie’s Summer Shandy. Nice way to end a summer day.

(Iphone 5)

There is something wonderful about the particular gray-green shade of darkness that descends during a late-afternoon thunderstorm. When the street lights come on, the trees bend and bow like frenzied Shakers, and the rain is blown hard against the windows in irregular sheets … I want to be in your arms.

"I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats."
—Eckhart Tolle, ‘The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment’

(Hazel in the House on High Street; iphone 5)

"I have lived with several Zen masters — all of them cats."
—Eckhart Tolle, ‘The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment’

(Hazel in the House on High Street; iphone 5)

Travel companion
Parallel tracks bisecting
The prairie landscape 

(Along 45; iphone 5)

Travel companion
Parallel tracks bisecting
The prairie landscape

(Along 45; iphone 5)

A beautiful evening for a run … Or drowning a few worms

(Terminal Moraine; iphone 5)

“Living in a small town…is like living in a large family of rather uncongenial relations. Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s perfectly awful, but it’s always good for you. People in large towns are like only-children.” 
― Joyce Dennys, ‘Henrietta Sees It Through: More News from the Home Front 1942-1945’

(South Side Cafe; iPhone 5)

“Living in a small town…is like living in a large family of rather uncongenial relations. Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes it’s perfectly awful, but it’s always good for you. People in large towns are like only-children.”
― Joyce Dennys, ‘Henrietta Sees It Through: More News from the Home Front 1942-1945’

(South Side Cafe; iPhone 5)