A nice break in the weather today. Wish I'd been outside a bit more.
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We're shipping Randy's quilt tomorrow to the PA quilt show. It runs Sept 6-9 in Harrisburg.
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I should be in bed but LOTR: The Return of the King is on, and it's hard to walk away from it once heads get rolling.
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From John Engman's Temporary Help, two more poems of dark days that foreshadow our own:
Are you the President of pink flamingos and sad plastic flowers?
I remember you as a young man waving through a blizzard of television snow.
I remember you as an old man weeping real tears that fooled nobody.
I will do my best to remember you as a wise, china owl in a city garden.
Would you rather I remember you as a wise, china owl in a city garden
or as someone’s father selling pencils in the rain under a streetlamp?
Do you believe America will fall to pink flamingos and sad plastic flowers?
I believe I could have been elected President but nobody voted for me!
The young woman sitting beside me on the bus could have been an angel
of Michelangelo but half her face had been destroyed by a grenade.
Something in his voice tonight
is like joy as he describes
red noise and ribbons of white fire,
the beauty of the bombing of Iraq.
We are watching a late broadcast,
a new war on CBS, and my friend,
a woman with whom I have not slept,
admires the way the anchorman uses
his voice to confuse sex and death.
Showbiz, I tell her, is great stuff.
But she says no, the human touch.
He warms our insides like red wine,
as if he rushed to the studio to say
folks are dying, the sky is falling,
just for us. We believe he is kind.
We believe he has never been kissed.
Priscilla Atkins: Drinking the Pink
2 days ago