Hillsdale College - Imprimis Issue

Hillsdale College - Imprimis Issue

Docent Tour 2mrw! Help! Find Plant Notes!

[Picture a seed collection image HERE,
then forgive my exotic expletives aimed at blogger when it prevents access to images]

Time to close
Another day
Before I start
And end some study

Intended way much earlier
To open notes
And to refer
To stamens, species, and to
Spurge.

But all delayed.
Instead I pruned,
washed some dishes,
cleaned a room;

Swept some,
Laundered,
Didn't iron; weeded
Times Three

Never Tired.

Until Thank You
Notes, and mail run,
Then
To workout at NewFit Gym.

So, the whole day
Spent and Flew.
(Don't forget to
mention GOO:

Carmel, Pecan
Chocolate Rune,
Leftover favor
From BD holdover.

OK, so, mention too
That wholesome bowl of
fresh picked Rue,
goatmilk yogurt and PILED ON
Fruit.

[photo of kitchen garden and exquisite salad du jardin ...NOT-- because Blogger won't let me access desktop images]

...Oh, My Holy LORD and Savior.
How to say This?! Eat and Savor.

Window Scraper: Finale

Not sure, but I think somebody read my blog. (reference AmZyg, May 10, 2011)

Wonder of Wonders: 21 yr old OS, aka "Ossum Superhero"

Razor blade 

And everything.

Cut right through

The wax he flinged.

During May,

Its "honor" rings

A bellwether  message

On this scene:

'Mother mine,

You ain't so mean.'

--LB Urban Hackney

Weeds 'A Plenty

It's a pitiful thing to be labeled a prude, but my long term peeve is public undress.  I love to offer hearty feedback to newspaper's about their ads, Victoria's Secret about their window displays, and merchant's about their catalogs.

It's a fact of life, this urge to letter-write; less than a duty, more than a calling; or maybe just a fancy that, like pulling weeds in a garden, inconvenient acts might change the world one sacrifice at a time. OCD? Insanity? Instability? To believe you can change the world one weed at a time? One un-read letter at a time?

Pulling weeds used to be drudgery, but now, in spite of knowing twelve more will just pop up when I'm finished, I nevertheless find it satisfying. And, while I used to get all formal with high end stationery to write my diatribes, post it notes will suffice these days. Twelve more weeds just sprouted? Whatever.  My letter gets trashed for looking unprofessional? Whatever. It's the hope that prevails: Do what you can, and leave the results to God.

So, I add prayer to my zeal, and that gives me hope that, like with Wilberforce's life-long dream of ousting slavery from England, God might have mercy on this century; this country; this people. Imagine. He might well inaugurate a return to 1940's dignity, swim suits that don't require one to shave her privates, and underwear worn as outerwear no longer.

They used to call such inaugurations "revivals." I like Wilberforce's terminolgoy: a restoration of manners and civility.  Whatever you call it, it all starts with a supernatural return to a Christ-centric notion of modesty for His sake; identity in His image. And a well weeded garden.

I can dream.

It only takes a minute

PS: 

This morning's first assignment confirmed 'the call.'  DH pushes the newly subscribed-to morning paper over to my side of the breakfast bar and says, "here's your next letter..." It was a block of massage parlor ads. While more tasteful than the horrific Beachcomber strip club layouts, I still winced. Legal massage parlors adverising, not sex, but "exotic ecstasy with 8 young asian girls..." That's one amazing back rub? 

 I am not a journalist, so, guess I'll begin to pray for one. Ew.

WHAT, Where, How ...When?

It all began
W'Hey Back When,
A first-born chyle's
Fast obsession:

Civil War R'en-Act
A-Ment,
Causes us
Mild Puzzlement.

And Only Son,
Aloof but shrill,
Refuses her demand
He drill

With all the boys
In regiments,
Camping, chawin',
In settlements.

She, whose costumed self
Implores.
He whose surf image
Abhores,

And only ever
A'y ignores
Her.

Fin'ly he
Laments to prep
A heavy round
Accoutrement:

Melt the wax and
Pour on wood,
Seal a basin
Tight and good,

That water hold
And lye soap washes
Loads of laundry
'Fore she tosses

Pant and vest and
hoopish dress
over clothesline,
Dried, then pressed.

So, why the mess??

Melting wax loads (not unpleasant),
Wasn't taught in Scout Troop prepness;
Neither was the concept,
"DANGER:

Iffit Can Spill,
It Will,
Stranger!"

SO,

Since it did,
And not just outside,
But on a favorite carpet/
Drape-wide.

HENCE,

Was sure this child of mine
Would honor those
whose property's
Slimed.

Not this time,
Nor any other,
But for oft repeated
BUGGERs.

And so, I wait. And too, I
Ponder,
Whose child is this
Who knows no honor?

((HEY! Wax Boy!
You promised to
replace the rug, but
if you want,

you can clean the window and drape, too.))

GET MEG to HELP YOU.

National Day of WHERE

My dear Herb Garden
Friend and fellow
Promised lunch
And talk most mellow.

Wait.

Been there long enough
To know
That what they SAY
Sometimes ain't so.

Sure enough.
A fat No Show.

Stashed my clutch of things to give her,
Hunted for a better Liver.
"Need a ride from me, to where?"
"Sierra Madre way, for PRAYER!"

Uh, no, Frank said. We only get
Forty-five minutes, and work's
not thru yet...

Well? me thinks, there's Tina Pence
Who spoke kind Jesus words just once...

Alas, she too was OUT to play
Along with half the staff post-slay
From Wild West Days and
It's wild ways.

The moral of my hasty tale
Is: fail to plan, you
Plan to fail.
And on this National Day of Prayer,

I failed to take it ANYwhere.

Aside my Bus Stop
(That cross above
HOLLYWOOD BOWL
was voted OUT.
Now, so's our SOUL)
:(

Bam! Still am! Happy Birthday, Ma'am

FOUND

Didn't self destruct this May,
Stillborn nonsense went away;
And instead of no good gift,
A foxglove tree has come to live.

Waiting long, since WayLastFall,
And no one planted it at all;
Just the garden nymphs, I mused,
Bearing seed that spilled, confused.

A'muse they did, when first I saw
Those tell-tale leaves next to the lawn;
And MowerBoy, who's wont to slay
Everything that's in his way,

Did NOT reduce it down to size,
So, it survived, this winter's prize!
At MAY DAY time, it opened eyes
And made Creator God look WISE.

He knew, This Maker of Good Gifts!
This gift to me would surely bless.
Planned it, tended, caused and raised,
Ordained it's 9month Zygote-stage,

And with each season, each Trimester,
Spoke of hope He knew would muster
Once I realized how it sprouted
Right when AmZyg chronicles doubted

That He needs me hangin' round,
Tho crippled from my slow rebound.
Like my foxglove, I am sound!
And in Him,

Found.