News and views to inform or amuse
Should last year's greivances be forgot? And never brought to mind Should last year's grievances stay right there And just be left behind? We love to hold on to what we hate and those who done us wrong But do we need the baggage still to keep our grievances strong? For hate like that is poisonous especially to the hater It will infiltrate your evey pore Probably sooner rather than later.
The inspiration for this carrel is a response to Teagan's Armadillo Files where we are currently on episode 16. Here we come a 'tunneling among the clay so red Here we come a 'tunneling our imaginations fed By the plot and its twists Not a detail to be missed As we read of the shenannigans of Dilly and Fang and get to know new members of the gang. TROLLEY has delivered them to the hills of Tennessee During the time of World War II, parallel reality Nothing is like it seems Are we in a waking dream? Where the plot is derived from ideas that we submit, What will we find when we reach the summit?
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a box and curious carton of noodle lore— While I nodded, nearly famished, suddenly I saw some damage As if some one knocked all the boxes to the floor “’Tis my roommate,” I muttered, “only him and nothing more."
Have you ever gazed upon your reflection in either a mirror or in your thoughts?
Whether you gaze inwardly (thoughts) or outwardly (a mirror) what you see is a distortion. Your reflection is you backwards and reversed.
Am I distorted or is that my reflection? What is my truth without interjection? Do I have time for a midlife correction? Or do I need a new course of direction? To myself I try to be true What works for me may not work for you. Trust in yourself You're all that you've got You'll always be with you Believe it or not.
You act like stereotypes are true Except for the ones that apply to you. Stereotypes are seldom wrong Unless it's a group where you belong. Why are they right for other people the ones you often describe as sheeple? Isn't that a stereotype if you remove the shouted hype?
Scuffed wooden bench catches the back pockets of my blue jeans as I slide into the booth Sticky spot on the table's surface evades the cleaner's lick and a promise approach A crooked fork tine gently stabs my lip unless I carefully place the syrup drenched waffle directly into my mouth Disintegrating paper napkins cling to my fingers rather than sop up any of the spilled coffee from the overflowing saucer set down by the waiter The mostly cooked bacon reflects the overhead lights in a glycerin pool of its own making The greasy steam from the kitchen coats my face like a food laden sauna The crinkly dollars refuse to fold smoothly so the people behind me in line shift impatiently from foot to foot while I fumble to put my billfold into my purse.
Crisp refreshing dawn the straw color of sauvignon blanc each breath an intoxicating sip that stirs the blood and makes a morning walk a joy Morning progresses to the richer warmer sunshine of un-oaked Chardonnay effervescent air tickles when inhaled deeply energy pulses with each invigorating breath Enveloping light and warmth of an oaked chardonnay noon carries the smell of pumpkins and apples as the light breeze rubs against my skin like a cat chilling out with out the early morning chill Rich honeyed warmth in the late afternoon, light the color of petit manseng dessert wine mindfulness to capture the warmth and mellowness of an autumnal afternoon to replay during the cold grey winter days ahead.
October is Virginia Wine Month.
The witches' brooms swirl the leaves off the vines punctuating the end of harvest as though the plucked grapes are not signal enough. I swirl a glass of wine with my hand watching the tartrates trace new patterns on the sides inhaling the fruit of last year's harvest before placing the rim to my lips.
Which food during World War II was used in the production of bombs?
A. Bacon Grease
What can make a good meal better? Crumbled bacon, please go get her Piled-up high to overflowing That will get my taste buds going Bacon goes with any food And can improve most any mood.
He was a man of firm opinions he felt compelled to share, strong in his belief that was why God set him there. He worked in a library though not as a librarian instead his co-workers knew him as the contrarian antiquarian. His many years had convinced him that only his views were right He'd never learned compassion but he never missed a slight.
The rains are coming Not a flood of biblical proportions but enough for the meteorologists to warn "Turn around and don't drown" if you see running water on what should be a street or sidewalk. Meanwhile, the ark has a hole in its roof so where are the roofers? They have said they were coming each morning this week. Noah is getting impatient and the animals keep running off.
Blue depths draw me in Mesmerizing blur of light No blue Monday moans Light upon water Immediate uplifted spirits this morning
June is bustin' out all over All over the bodice of her dress Old ladies stand around and gasp While the guys would like to grasp Her display of amplitude with a caress June is busting out all over Feelings are getting quite intense The town is equally divided No one is undecided But gentlemen keep climbing on her fence Because of June!
She really understand me, and that’s not easy.” –Brian
Wooing
1. seek the favor, support, or custom of
2. try to gain the love of (someone), especially with a view to marriage.
Liz said she loves the “State of Woo”. She never defined exactly what that is but it seems to be when two individuals meet and are attracted to each other. Each day is a wonderful discovery into an unknown package of delights. You want to know what is in the package and unwrap each layer with anticipation and appreciation. Inevitably you fall out of woo and reality seeps in.
His tender looks start to glaze over or develop an acquisitive gleam.
Her soft laughter turns from trilling to shrilling.
What once enchants eventually annoys.
As projection of perfection morphs into perceived realities the idealized one no more exists.
Focus shifts from no faults to magnified imperfections.
Many people flee the decay of their fantasies without waiting to see if its replacement may be a more worthy object of affection.
Enjoy it while it lasts; the sun will set on the state of woo.
Alphabetical or numerical Dewey Decimal or Library of Congress No matter how I sort it Today I'm out of sorts
Reprinted with permission from the Scuttlebutt, Volume 6, Number 10, 20 May 2021, Carl Snow, Editor
To the Men Who Fly
Ralph G. Fallert was a WWII Navy Seabee. We presented his poem titled Scuttlebutt in our 16 July 2020 issue. The following verse was written overseas during World War II, while he was with the Seabees, briefly on American Samoa and then for a longer time on Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides. Following Espiritu came a period of about a year back in the States, then transfer to Armed Forces Radio Service and again assignment overseas—this time on Iwo Jima.
A graduate of Duquesne University and native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Mr. Fallert spent 40 more years in broadcasting, including 18 years as an announcer on radio and 19 years on TV stations in Pittsburgh. We’re presenting another piece—one of the few serious ones he wrote during his active-duty service, To the Men Who Fly. His daughter, Christine Fallert Kessides, has consented to let us reproduce his poem.
Dedicated to the Airmen of World War II
You who tread the Milky Way
And traffic with the stars
Have wrought a bitter beauty
In the cruel face of Mars.
You loose the pennants of the soul
Against the wind and sky,
And live the ancient dream of all
Who ever yearned to fly.
You know the feel of freedom
We covet in the birds –
Like thought released forever
From the fettering of words.
You wheel about the courtyards
Of castles in the air,
From whose great cloudy battlements
The earth seems twice as fair.
You soar into the sunset,
Are one with the stars at night,
And we stare unbelieving
At the miracle of flight.
From trammeling of earth you soar
To the purity of space
Where the soul drinks in a freshness
Like a breeze upon the face.
You bear aloft a thousand hearts
As singers do with songs,
And make it seem that far from earth
Is where the heart belongs.
But not for now the beauty,
Not for now the joy,
For now your skills are focused
To punish and destroy.
But soon we pray is coming
The peace for which we thirst,
And of those who’ve earned its blessings
You stand among the first!
Copyright 1989 by Ralph G. Fallert (b. 1914 d. 2002.) By permission of Christine Fallert Kessides.
As interpreted from the upstairs window as I was riding my stationary bicycle one morning
As he was leaving, he knew he'd miss her so he paused to gently kiss her. With one chaste peck he touched her lips It wasn't enough he grabbed her hips. Their kisses deepened their bodies connected a need for more was resurrected. Not enough! their senses cried so the pair went back inside.
Only the lichen stands out in the foreground as fog quickly swallows the invader. Does it turn him into lichen?
Was your mother like Joan Crawford's Mommy Dearest? Did she vacuum in pearls and high heels like June Cleaver? Was her style more Mama Bear--hairy and swatting you when you needed it? Was she a soccer mom with a minivan and elitist ideals? Were either of you an accident of birth? Do you worship the ground she walked on or were you happier to walk away?
e-Quips 