08 November 2015

06 November 2015

Friday Night Music with Steeleye Span

This song has been in my head all day so I had to share...

And I've added the lyrics so you can sing along

For to see mad Tom of Bedlam 

Ten thousand miles I'd travel 

Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes 

For to save her shoes from gravel


Still I sing bonnie boys, bonnie mad boys
Bedlam boys are bonnie,
For they all go bare and they live by the air
And they want no drink nor money

I went down to Satan's kitchen
For to get me food one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning


Me staff has murdered giants
And me bag a long knife carries
For to cut mince pies from children's thighs
With which to feed the fairies


This spirit's white as lightning
Would on me travels guide me
The moon would shake and the stars would quake
When ever they espied me


And when that I have murdered
The man in the moon to a powder
His staff I'll break and his dog I'll shake
And there'll howl no demon louder


For to see mad Tom of Bedlam
Ten thousand years I'd travel
Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
For to save her shoes from gravel


Friday Night Poetry with A.E. Housman

‘Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
I’d face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul’s stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
—I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

  --A.E. Housman

30 August 2015

Sunday Morning Music-Balanescu Quartet

This is my favorite kind of wake up music.  I recommend the CDs titled Lumitza and Possessed (from which this track comes).

Good morning.  I hope you are doing what you want and not what someone else expects of you...

29 August 2015

A Very Tasty Sauce

I have had this recipe from Julia Butterfly Hill (no relation) for at least 15 years now.  I think I even had it as a refrigerator magnet from Utne Reader. It's called Top Anything Sauce.   I finally made it tonight and used as a sauce in stir fry.  I don't think I will ever buy peanut sauce in a bottle again!  I am so excited about how easy it is to make.

So, here it is:

1/4 cup peanut or almond butter
1 1/2 to 2 tbs. apple cider vinegar
2 tbs. olive oil
1/4 cup orange juice
1 tsp. of herbed sea salt, regular sea salt, Shoyu or tamari. (I used a tsp of sea salt and 1/2 tsp of Mrs. Dash)
1 tbs Chili Powder
1 tbs. maple syrup (optional but recommended)

Blend all the ingredients in a food processor or with a immersible blender (or blend with a whisk)


-I used a little more peanut butter, about a tablespoon more.  I would rather the sauce be thicker and then thin when I add it to the hot vegetables.

-If you like a little more spice add a few drops of Sriracha.

-Toss it with hot lentils and serve over rice.  Like I said, I made a stir fry and added the sauce the last couple minutes of cook time.  Serve that over rice, Udon or Soba noodles.  Or toss it with steamed broccoli.  It truly is a top anything sauce.

-This can also be used as a salad dressing.

27 August 2015

A Second Poem, Yes, Upon Waking


(for Valerie)

Time is not 
a renewable resource
to be frittered away or
spent indiscriminately.
You will, no matter
How hard you hope,
never get it back.
So live your life
doing what enriches
and fulfills
and nourishes
your Self.
And in turn you may have
the potential
to enrich, fulfill,
and nourish another
so that in the very least
they might see the way
to enrich
and fulfill
and nourish their Self

A Poem Upon Waking I

Let's go find out
Before it's too late
Why my feet weigh
So much
and what it will
cost me in terms of years.

02 May 2015

Another Gratitude List

Every once in awhile I need to write a list of things I am grateful for.  The lists are never all inclusive and not in order of importance.  I am thinking I need to do one of these at least once a month.  It might be a good practice.  Do you like making lists such as this?

Ponder this:  What are you truly grateful for in your every day life?

30 April 2015

Eric Garner R.I.P.

This sad, simple, beautiful poem brought tears to my eyes.  I want to share it with everyone.

Originally posted on Split This Rock.

A Small Needful Fact

Is that Eric Garner worked
for some time for the Parks and Rec.
Horticultural Department, which means,
perhaps, that with his very large hands,
perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow, continue
to do what such plants do, like house
and feed small and necessary creatures,
like being pleasant to touch and smell,
like converting sunlight
into food, like making it easier
for us to breathe.

--Ross Gay

Used with permission.

Ross Gay is a gardener and teacher living in Bloomington, Indiana. His book, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, is available from University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015.

Please feel free to share Split This Rock Poem of the Week widely. We just ask you to include all of the information in this post, including this request. Thanks! If you are interested in reading past poems of the week, feel free to visit the blog archive.

19 April 2015

Sunday Poetry with Allen Ginsberg

The Transcription of Organ Music

The flower in the glass peanut bottle formerly in the
kitchen crooked to take a place in the light,
the closet door opened, because I used it before, it
kindly stayed open waiting for me, its owner.

I began to feel my misery in pallet on floor, listening
to music, my misery, that's why I want to sing.
The room closed down on me, I expected the presence
of the Creator, I saw my gray painted walls and
ceiling, they contained my room, they contained
as the sky contained my garden,
I opened my door

The rambler vine climbed up the cottage post,
the leaves in the night still where the day had placed
them, the animal heads of the flowers where they had
to think at the sun

Can I bring back the words? Will thought of
transcription haze my mental open eye?
The kindly search for growth, the gracious de-
sire to exist of the flowers, my near ecstasy at existing
among them
The privilege to witness my existence-you too
must seek the sun...

My books piled up before me for my use
waiting in space where I placed them, they
haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qual-
ities for me to use--my words piled up, my texts, my
manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in
the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's
gone, they had all grown, in a moment, and were wait-
ing stopped in time for the day sun to come and give
Flowers which as in a dream at sunset I watered
faithfully not knowing how much I loved them.
I am so lonely in my glory--except they too out
there--I looked up--those red bush blossoms beckon-
ing and peering in the window waiting in the blind love,
their leaves too have hope and are upturned top flat
to the sky to receive--all creation open to receive--the
flat earth itself.

The music descends, as does the tall bending
stalk of the heavy blossom, because it has to, to stay
alive, to continue to the last drop of joy.
The world knows the love that's in its breast as
in the flower, the suffering lonely world.
The Father is merciful.

The light socket is crudely attached to the ceil-
ing, after the house was built, to receive a plug which
sticks in it alright, and serves my phonograph now...

The closet door is open for me, where I left it,
since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
The kitchen has no door, the hole there will
admit me should I wish to enter the kitchen.
I remember when I first got laid, H.P. gra-
ciously took my cherry, I sat on the docks of Prov-
incetown, age 23, joyful, elevated in hope with the
Father, the door to the womb was open to admit me
if I wished to enter.

There are unused electricity plugs all over my
house if I ever needed them.
The kitchen window is open, to admit air...
The telephone--sad to relate--sits on the
floor--I haven't had the money to get it connected--

I want people to bow when they see me and say
he is gifted with poetry, he has seen the presence of
the Creator
And the Creator gave me a shot of his presence
to gratify my wish, so as not to cheat me of my yearning
for him.

Allen Ginsberg