I whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough,' Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it. For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown, brown peppy, One cannot begin it too soon.
"Ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars, see that ye not be troubles, All these things must come to pass, but the ends is yet." Matthew 24:6
I escape the horrors of war with a towel and a room Offering myself to Palestinian and Jewish boys as a "piece" to the Middle East when I should be concerned with the untimely deaths of dark-skinned babies and the brutal murders of light-skinned fathers
I've been more concerned with how to make the cover of local fag rags than how to open the minds of angry little boys trotting loaded guns Helpless in finding words that will stop the blood from spilling like secrets into the soil where great prophets are buried
I return to the same spaces where I once dealt drugs a celebrated author gliding past velvet ropes while my club kid friends are mostly dead from an overdose or HIV-related symptoms Marilyn wears the crown of thorns While 4 out of 5 weapons used to kill Columbine students had been sold by the same police force that came to their rescue Not all terrorists have features too foreign to be recognised in the mirror Our mistakes are our responsibility
The skyline outside my window is the only thing that has changed Men still rape women and blame them for their weaknesses Children are still molested by the perversion of Catholic guilt My ex-boyfriend still takes comfort in the other white powder the one used solely to destroy himself and those around him not the one used to ignite and create carnage or mailbox fear
It is sad when skin is cut and then pressed together, it seals but what about acid-burned skulls engraved with the word 'faggot' a foot bone with flesh and other crushed body parts
It was a gay priest that read last rites to firefighters as towers collapsed It was a gay pilot that crashed plane into Pennsylvanian fields It was a gay couple that was responsible for the tribute of light in memory of the fallen Taliban leaders would bury them to their necks and tumble walls to crush their heads Catholic leaders simply condemn them as perverts having offered nothing but sin Queer blood is just rosaries scattered on tile
It definitely looks as though Spring is about to jump out and say a big HELLO! to the world in general and hopefully our garden in particular.
It doesn’t alleviate the sorrow I feel now that I have accepted the death of poor old Hopalong, my three-legged foxy friend.
Last night, however, there were two new visitors to the garden.
At about 1.30 this morning this little fellow turned up.
The problem was that I had dismantled the hedgehog feeding station in preparation for making a better one for this year. today I have put a temporary roof on it and put food and water inside.
Have to ensure it’s secure so that no cats get in.
Four hours later this slightly larger hedgehog had a stroll around the area.
Meanwhile back at the pond the other day I was clearing out a load of leaves (courtesy of the two massive trees on the grass verge right by my garden) and checking the detritus for any creatures,
I counted six newts, two of them juveniles, three large clumps of toad or frogspawn, numerous dragonfly larva and possibly much more.
I’m preparing the pond side of the front garden and getting seeds to provide for a wildflower section. Here’s hoping for a great summer.
I hang the window inside out like a shirt drying in the breeze and the arms that are missing come to me Yes, it's a song, one I don't quite comprehend although I do understand the laundry White ash and rainwater, a method my aunt taught me, but I'll never know how she learned it in Brooklyn. Her mind has gone to seed, blown by a stroke, and that dandelion puff called memory has flown far from her eyes, some things remain Procedures Methods if you burn a fire all day, feeding it snapped branches and newspaper -- the faces pressed against the print fading into flames - you end up with a barrel of white ash. If you take that same barrel and fill it with rain, let it sit for a day, you will have water that can bring brightness to anything. If you take that water and in it soak your husband's shirts, he'll pause at dawn when he puts one on, its softness like a haunting afterthought. And if he works all day in the selva, he'll divine his way home in shirt sleeves aglow with torchlight.
The time eventually comes for us all to shuffle off this mortal coil and go to whatever waits for us beyond the curtain.
This applies to animals as well and I am sorry to say that I believe my brave pal Hopalong, a foxy visitor to my garden since late October, has hopped off on three legs for the final time.
I feel sure that he has crossed the burning rainbow bridge to the Vulpine Valhalla where he can sleep during the day and come out at night to hunt people dressed in red coats and jodhpurs.
The video above is one that might explain how Hopalong survived for so long, I first noticed he had a limp late October/early November and from then on it seemed to get worse and worse until the lower section of his rear leg was useless as it just dangled as he walked.
These two videos show that he appears to have a friend who kept an eye on him. This fox still visits the garden but I have not seen Hopalong since these videos were taken, in late January,.
Hopalong’s friend, and another fox I call Scaredycat, still visit my garden and for all I know they might be joined by others. Maybe they will partner up, if they haven’t already done so, and will bring their cubs to show them a regular feeding spot,
I hope so and I hope their parents will tell them of brave Hopalong who survived for three months in the winter with the use of only three legs.
I’ll have to finish off the new feeding station for the hedgehogs in the next couple of days as they’ll need some feeding up after their winter sleep.
A ball of clay launched in violence from a blind slingshot, this globe of pain hurtles far into chaos, bearing my love; What good, elaborate lute songs? What good, magniloquent twilight of violet hues? The voice on the face of the waters you don't hear, don't believe, don't speak about.
Behold my ancestor's patch of earth; here they ploughed ten thousand years, here their gentle oxen drowned in clay at the foot of the skies. May they rest in peace, the gentle ones, may the eternally restless find their peace. Their field is azure, stars their grain; but a crown of straw, a wreath of nonredemption, adorns my brow.
A restless plummeting into the unplumbed precipice of the sky . . . What good, the dizzy drunkenness of the forest in bloom? What good, the fiery madness of an impossible thought? Oh, won't these eyes ever open upon their salvations? Never will I cease to love the impossible. A crown of straw adorns my head.
With boundless love, the abyss swallows me, the abyss embraces this sphere, which is His tear.
The weeping on the face of the waters you don't hear, don't believe, don't talk about
These are ashes of treasures: Of hurt and loss. These are ashes in face of which Granite is dross. Dove, naked and brilliant, It has no mate. Solomon's ashes Over vanity that's great. Time's menacing chalkmark, Not to be overthrown Means God knocks at the door - Once the house has burned down! Not checked yet by refuse, Days' and dreams' conqueror Like a thunderbolt - Spirit Of early grey hair. It's not you who've betrayed me On the home front years. This grey is the triumph Of immortal powers.
Over hill, over dale Through bush, through brier, Over park, over vale. Through flood, through fire! I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere And I serve the Fairy Queen To dew her orbs upon the green, The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see, These be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours, I must go, seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Robin's Nest 