tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15155469233895496142024-03-04T20:52:44.780-08:00Shark TalesOrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-44575728217902456152008-03-27T19:15:00.000-07:002008-03-27T20:28:41.161-07:00I don't think a six month hiatus is out of line.<br /><br />And to top it off, it's really only an excuse to post a picture in response to his Bobness's query as to garage sales. And Mel's and Wendy's pokes to get back at it. And...well all sorts of stuff.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2064/2367193863_f450ed9920_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 421px; height: 262px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2064/2367193863_f450ed9920_o.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />So I will get back into it soon.<br /><br />The above picture,btb, is of the Weaselboy lo these many years ago. The sign in front of him says "Not for Sale."<br /><br /><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2132/2368027968_9b576e106f.jpg?v=0" /><br /><br />Just a brief mention today about the Girlface. I was having a discussion about the grueling deposition I had to endure on Tuesday when my cell rings.<br /><br />Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police.<br /><br />Me: Hello, who is this?<br /><br />Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police.<br /><br />Me: What?<br /><br />Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police. No one is hurt.<br /><br />Me: Okay, what is this about?<br /><br />Cell: Is this Stephen Parker?<br /><br />Me: Yes (close enough for a guy who no doubt has a gun.)<br /><br />Cell: Your daughter and another young woman are hitchiking.<br /><br />Me: Yes. Is that illegal?<br /><br />Cell: Well, no. We have them here on Forest Avenue.<br /><br />Me: Okay. Were they on the highway?<br /><br />Cell: No.<br /><br />Me: Well thank you for looking after them, then.<br /><br /><br /><br />It's always so nice to get phone calls from the police about your children.<br /><br /><br /><br />An hour later I got another call.<br /><br />Cell: Is this Mr. Parker?<br /><br />Me: Yes.<br /><br />Cell: This is the Brunswick police.<br /><br /><br />Sigh. They were only a quarter of the way to Winterport.<br /><br /><br /><br />Here's a picture of Amina just because.<br /><br /><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2293/2368028172_0e21548ce3.jpg?v=0" />OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-21872176565055459132007-08-18T08:50:00.003-07:002007-08-18T09:10:42.024-07:00Aaron's Poem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKJOfi8q3x9PFySfDCEWEBUlyRs_POhURYg7VMaai4DRyB0nTW4KeFDvGPyNtUxgosqdUXRrIyqSjWokM8W2sLOsR0sCwMe3n26QRGn7CaxiZFQDavJY2hmMcpaoUe7nFw2VCu0-fwyQ/s1600-h/P6300004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKJOfi8q3x9PFySfDCEWEBUlyRs_POhURYg7VMaai4DRyB0nTW4KeFDvGPyNtUxgosqdUXRrIyqSjWokM8W2sLOsR0sCwMe3n26QRGn7CaxiZFQDavJY2hmMcpaoUe7nFw2VCu0-fwyQ/s320/P6300004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100068814552361282" border="0" /></a><br />It is a beautiful, cool, blustery day here in Maine. While we support the cast of the Out of Towners, I will post an old poem I had been looking for previously, thereby continuing my record of late-blobing.<br /><br />The photo is Amina and Gertie on the couch.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Aaron's Poem</span><br /><br />Throughout the Summer the questions came.<br /><br />"Granddaddy is sick<br />and I am sad" said my son.<br />He then cried.<br /><br />Who will feed the hummingbirds<br />at Granddaddy's house?" he asked.<br />Before I could answer his tears had started.<br /><br />"What will happen to the Osprey<br />on Granddaddy's island?" he questioned<br />with great concern and sobs.<br /><br />"Will the beaver come back<br />to Granddaddy's brook" he demanded.<br />What will happen to the fish then?<br />Will the tadpoles still be there?"<br /><br />"When will Granddaddy leave the hospital<br />and go back home," he asked<br />in a quiet voice, no longer<br />quite daring to cry.<br /><br />I was not able to answer,<br />afraid to say he may never go home.<br />Afraid the concerns of an almost<br />five year old boy would not allow him<br />to understand and forgive his beloved<br />Grandfather.<br /><br />The next morning while still dark<br />as the long ride home began,<br />my son listened to the news<br />he did not want to know.<br /><br />I was concerned how my son would react.<br />I could not take away his sadness<br />and hurt.<br />I could not take away his tears.<br />I could not take away my own.<br /><br />At the end of the day<br />my son came to me and asked<br />where he could place a letter<br />so the wind would take it<br />to his Grandfather.<br />He missed him<br />and wanted to tell him<br />he loved him.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">SP 1992</span>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-90302062983869637942007-08-04T06:24:00.001-07:002007-08-04T09:36:29.321-07:00Belated 4thNow that it is August it is only fitting that I tell of my fourth of July. Every year, a friend and fellow bicycle collector has a fourth of July parade with wild and well crazy bikes. Exactly at noon, or whenever the doors open Brendan unveils his latest creation. See picture above (or below depending on my blogger abilities.) <img style="width: 500px; height: 279px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1172/1007420947_a512f1d97a.jpg" /> It's not a great picture but there is a dancing monkey on the front and a twirling rubber chicken that passes through the jars of an alligator in the back. Brendan always does a great job.<br /><br />A great time was had by all and following the parade was a BBQ and games. The highlight was the regional finals of the IBSR (International Belt Sander Races). I am sorry to say I forgot to record the names of the entrants but they wonderful (The Beltinator?) For your enjoyment, I present a picture of the Races <img style="width: 500px; height: 362px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1250/1007926098_d07f0ff623.jpg" /><br /><br />Afterwards at LLBean's Summer Music series I met up with Pierre, Shelia and some others to see the Robert Cray Band (insert photo here, hopefully)<img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1229/1007728739_50b9f35c05.jpg" /> The Bean's Music series is a free series held out on the lawn at their flagship store. It use to be a very low key thing where you could come and sit and enjoy great music. As you can see, people have figured out there is some great music to be had and it has grown. Tonight, for example, I'm going to see Arlo Guthrie.<br /><br />The music and company were great but we were constantly threated with rain. A little fell during the music but mostly held off. Afterwards I saddles up the motorcycle for a quick escape right after the fireworks. The rain still held off. The sparks hit the sky in all the requisite patterns and as the smoke cleared from the finale I roared off into the night and was IMMEDIATELY hit with a WALL of rain. A forty minutes later I arrived back home, throughly drenched, for what is normally a twenty five minute drive. I should have soaped up.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-38377020236309167852007-07-24T17:39:00.001-07:002007-07-24T18:16:06.556-07:00Changes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6St3wglOI9g7a0ENyst9VAOKF5SWg31-ggmIyHRtofE5wx2N4kcpZOpnBHYMuh-SeExGcEHFo5tmj8hPaMcIBYKgeDSC7p37AbWcjl7km_t4mKARrcqHIOR9sjyfR3gg0HzSPaIxOEbg/s1600-h/P7140047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6St3wglOI9g7a0ENyst9VAOKF5SWg31-ggmIyHRtofE5wx2N4kcpZOpnBHYMuh-SeExGcEHFo5tmj8hPaMcIBYKgeDSC7p37AbWcjl7km_t4mKARrcqHIOR9sjyfR3gg0HzSPaIxOEbg/s320/P7140047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090936619029112306" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIEHWue5pYIUjrlIic3DSCmIay9aU3u7CxW5ClZ4JZ-mZ1UanSTcr9k_IVx84TZ5zUhdMz11XpeZqMyDYe1aI_Bw1eg4mmGebQUY-EFU8Ao4avYf1qNaYGy7nZRp1LhLdOqulQXz5Qqs/s1600-h/P7140066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIEHWue5pYIUjrlIic3DSCmIay9aU3u7CxW5ClZ4JZ-mZ1UanSTcr9k_IVx84TZ5zUhdMz11XpeZqMyDYe1aI_Bw1eg4mmGebQUY-EFU8Ao4avYf1qNaYGy7nZRp1LhLdOqulQXz5Qqs/s320/P7140066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090932959716976098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDirb1OOibJT-n_dcvo0jrumlD0m7b-ev43JaCB1Ok2mYYdisqMbEiKsuNPuSDG1Uuq3dsXfgH7tfyq8CBwBlltiMADopDlaGV_gw21kbxZZdpHokWET20Re0olaYN8jzbQN4tlobT4Rc/s1600-h/P5200020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDirb1OOibJT-n_dcvo0jrumlD0m7b-ev43JaCB1Ok2mYYdisqMbEiKsuNPuSDG1Uuq3dsXfgH7tfyq8CBwBlltiMADopDlaGV_gw21kbxZZdpHokWET20Re0olaYN8jzbQN4tlobT4Rc/s320/P5200020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090932178032928210" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPINJj_ks9oipNXpyEH0fIVz5dcoCP2R0jl1edRD06H0hrJ5Nt3GEwqosiguvdfUTduy7zwj9JRFS8gWaOga6GNdWjB0qRdP0Uocmmxy_rHIY8bo4J8XHqT-3o0SX3csdr6QAmG9kSjg/s1600-h/P7140064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPINJj_ks9oipNXpyEH0fIVz5dcoCP2R0jl1edRD06H0hrJ5Nt3GEwqosiguvdfUTduy7zwj9JRFS8gWaOga6GNdWjB0qRdP0Uocmmxy_rHIY8bo4J8XHqT-3o0SX3csdr6QAmG9kSjg/s320/P7140064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5090929695541831106" border="0" /></a>Something was been eating Girlface's garden. Or somethings. Or maybe just a very hungry and tenuous solo beastie but it has been causing a great deal of heartache to the girl, who has spent many many hours preparing, germinating, planting and all the etc.s that go along with a garden. I was called upon for a solution. I chose a final solution. The old picket fence, with its accompanying screens along the bottom had to go. In its place a new, steel, 2"x2" squares, not ascetically pleasing but ultimately practical.<br /><span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Add_Image" title="Add Image" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="addImage();" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);;ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif" alt="Add Image" border="0" /></span>If I can figure out this stupid picture thing, then this is a picture several weeks ago of the garden as it was being prepared. Otherwise the picture is above somewhere.<br /><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Add_Image" title="Add Image" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="addImage();" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);;ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif" alt="Add Image" border="0" /></span>Same thing of picture of me showing how dirty I got from the oil on the steel fencing. It was nasty stuff. Picture is either her or above. (Stupid Blogger, looks like it's above...)<br /><br />So, after putting the new fence up and burying the fence edges, it looks as if the plants are finally safe. Girlface had such an outpouring of generous contributions of new broccoli, brussel sprouts, cauliflower and other plants to replace the ones that were eaten she's had to take out two oregano beds to make room for it all.<br /><br />The new fence should be better protection but the old picket fence was pleasing in its way. Just a little change.<span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Add_Image" title="Add Image" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="addImage();" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);;ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif" alt="Add Image" border="0" /></span>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-31832613838480037322007-07-11T17:14:00.000-07:002007-07-11T17:25:45.156-07:00Heard You had Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwNz7iSJIYI_saM54m4QPjbDS8FxCIuiiw18jvk3HZfGFhLGgT1e_je3MiAOm_XM_IPmmSEUdiVSRQOkqqRwl_0cDoWmDEnlqCVeM00lO9Q58Vcyzpxuwv78NjN4we6BW6q-ZOjuEd08/s1600-h/P3250103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwNz7iSJIYI_saM54m4QPjbDS8FxCIuiiw18jvk3HZfGFhLGgT1e_je3MiAOm_XM_IPmmSEUdiVSRQOkqqRwl_0cDoWmDEnlqCVeM00lO9Q58Vcyzpxuwv78NjN4we6BW6q-ZOjuEd08/s320/P3250103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5086098545912971842" border="0" /></a><br />The photo: the backyard, April 2007<br />The poem: 80's vintage. Girlface saw it and said she liked it. It fits today.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Heard You Had Snow</span><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Heard you had snow. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Oh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Should I sing you a song?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Serenade.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hi, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">how ya’ doing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Long pause.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Such a long pause</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and with life so</p> <p class="MsoNormal">simply</p> <p class="MsoNormal">complicated</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and <st1:state><st1:place>New York</st1:place></st1:state>’s so…</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">far away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We’re in different worlds</p> <p class="MsoNormal">it seems.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I heard you had snow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><span style="font-size:78%;"> SP</span>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-36072521417303337092007-07-09T19:04:00.000-07:002007-07-09T19:28:44.862-07:00Hot Flashes on the Fourth of July<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hfPUi6vI1w3ca6kw7-Ph89XBewoZdzej_hYzAawA0ILKL1tvtxi-IicCgMgfGXrDvIDYqy3D-zQkDjFwLMDkGJvp8IJD05M_EXiy6v8WzbY8e3l-kSUMECvfKS0QNpjirrE6AgPYz8Y/s1600-h/P5200022.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hfPUi6vI1w3ca6kw7-Ph89XBewoZdzej_hYzAawA0ILKL1tvtxi-IicCgMgfGXrDvIDYqy3D-zQkDjFwLMDkGJvp8IJD05M_EXiy6v8WzbY8e3l-kSUMECvfKS0QNpjirrE6AgPYz8Y/s320/P5200022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5085384408815764018" border="0" /></a>Tonight was another show at the barn. Someone should have told me. It went smoothly, no blue lights coming to bring complaints. The picture is of the back of the barn. I like to hang bikes from the trees.<br /><br />And a poem from the past.<br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Hot Flashes on the <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Fourth of July<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Whirly gigs of sparks and colors swirl</p> <p class="MsoNormal">on the surface of the zodiac in Gasworks</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Park, staining the dark bronze; remnants</p> <p class="MsoNormal">of children’s delights.<span style=""> </span>The hillside</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">overlooking the bay is surveyed and stalked</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to the inch, a patchwork of flesh, picnic</p> <p class="MsoNormal">blankets, spent beer cans and burnt paper</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from an arsenal of popping toys.<span style=""> </span>The crowds</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">strain upward, crane, count the minutes, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">elbow into position, re-evaluate the area.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It starts.<span style=""> </span>Fire in the sky.<span style=""> </span>The dark</p> <p class="MsoNormal">screen of night brightly colored</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">with searing light, shades of victorious</p> <p class="MsoNormal">war.<span style=""> </span><st1:city><st1:place>Liberty</st1:place></st1:city> passes through the crowds</p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the figure of a fire-haired woman.<span style=""> </span>She</p> <p class="MsoNormal">leaves on a motorbike, unnoticed.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">SP</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:8;"><span style="font-size:78%;">First published in Maxtix 1980</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-16385855104736689442007-07-02T13:13:00.000-07:002007-07-09T19:29:40.282-07:00Negotiations<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeY5a65kM1QqvdaZH_5_hcHd5Q81YluSaMVxtpsPAYcasDZ0LzJL7EaJmUyJ82BtL8XNUbO7l8PIyS5fE418bysBllZeMVbT23mSzwbnO-ng8Pmr0COM9YL0sNnGH7HN-6L5pTu-3VGYA/s1600-h/P6290082.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5082695372741411362" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeY5a65kM1QqvdaZH_5_hcHd5Q81YluSaMVxtpsPAYcasDZ0LzJL7EaJmUyJ82BtL8XNUbO7l8PIyS5fE418bysBllZeMVbT23mSzwbnO-ng8Pmr0COM9YL0sNnGH7HN-6L5pTu-3VGYA/s320/P6290082.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Just another photo of Maine, the way Summer Should Be.</div><div> </div><div>On the writing side a little parental piece for one of my beloved children.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><strong> Negotiations</strong><br /><br />Inasmuch as you are not a monk,<br />your vow of silence<br />seems to be less effective<br />in terms of resolving our problems<br />than it might.<br /><br />While I weigh your 15 years<br />of rich experience<br />against my 48 years<br />of meager existence,<br />I still believe<br />that talking<br />could be of some help.<br /><br />SP 2005</div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-21803356845818765712007-06-26T19:24:00.000-07:002007-06-26T19:39:35.288-07:00Off the Map<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbABVAYrPARKaQTo3aZTRTX1UfoVEn9VtDo79nGwYEbv4gHAOfvPPvXp35OBFmcul1Jaz7eaX2uG146B8DaWDO5kml0Ee9vrhCTDs4_2cpwc3N3k5clOHM2sNjdqAOvXRkRx4tdRxr0w/s1600-h/P6140075.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbABVAYrPARKaQTo3aZTRTX1UfoVEn9VtDo79nGwYEbv4gHAOfvPPvXp35OBFmcul1Jaz7eaX2uG146B8DaWDO5kml0Ee9vrhCTDs4_2cpwc3N3k5clOHM2sNjdqAOvXRkRx4tdRxr0w/s320/P6140075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080565524229128722" border="0" /></a><br />This is the view from the front porch of the family house in New Hampster. With the birth of Amina it now has served seven generations of my family. It is called Hilltop.<br /><br />The poem was written for Weaselboy when he was traveling last year.<br /><br /><br /><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"> Off the Map</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tell me about Pato</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and <st1:city><st1:place>Barcelona</st1:place></st1:city></p> <p class="MsoNormal">and why it is a million times better </p> <p class="MsoNormal">than <st1:city><st1:place>Paris</st1:place></st1:city>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tell me about the squat,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">How the light is refracted</p> <p class="MsoNormal">by the crack in the window.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">How the ideals of Anarchy</p> <p class="MsoNormal">are mixed with flour for pancakes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">for dinner</p> <p class="MsoNormal">because that is what thee wants.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tell me how the roots of life </p> <p class="MsoNormal">spread beneath the surface</p> <p class="MsoNormal">springing up in the dark corners</p> <p class="MsoNormal">of the dirtiest parts of the cities</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and blossom with revolution</p> <p class="MsoNormal">fueled with vegan sweat.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tell me this and more</p> <p class="MsoNormal">on dumpstered paper postcards</p> <p class="MsoNormal">sent back across the ocean</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to the place thee is always missed.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">SP<br /></p>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-30373356342573660752007-06-25T15:17:00.001-07:002007-06-25T16:28:38.848-07:00Sniffing out Death<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwl1c9RjKlvIA4KO537JVYT6O1wywZbBQ5z6eYziwdKeZ_Mzuj2D8rvuNZbnaHhM7rUQFAGvpMmNUEcIIZfcPOzFje19E1OkRSEKUVeHEHyn2PafgxxuFz3bQSHc2x6aaI-odt-ia4NKE/s1600-h/P6240108.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwl1c9RjKlvIA4KO537JVYT6O1wywZbBQ5z6eYziwdKeZ_Mzuj2D8rvuNZbnaHhM7rUQFAGvpMmNUEcIIZfcPOzFje19E1OkRSEKUVeHEHyn2PafgxxuFz3bQSHc2x6aaI-odt-ia4NKE/s320/P6240108.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080144524523930162" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_GrwxbgzmbWxR6D_cNcmTwfmAZY6rCM3RrQw5dCvjHUfDSwc0zlSe4F667rdTnxSZs5y5R8BMWurm2754mBy8ay1Ug3_WAJUlGMQFj4rWDK9Gb5mG4z2Kf2rbDZBPlkVKHOUw2zACjs/s1600-h/P6240084.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 338px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_GrwxbgzmbWxR6D_cNcmTwfmAZY6rCM3RrQw5dCvjHUfDSwc0zlSe4F667rdTnxSZs5y5R8BMWurm2754mBy8ay1Ug3_WAJUlGMQFj4rWDK9Gb5mG4z2Kf2rbDZBPlkVKHOUw2zACjs/s320/P6240084.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080140641873494562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKhzvovCykV38ZqH3-hnA_DPEOilcLIoQyW-g5MImonxTQp6xkXhWf-DjyRek3soDqm7KXCxuoUpCzyt14fx_xFGvf_zniIdYsGaDWaaG-GcoGxZ3OIBXMFamUAh8ajaJGf8TUB9zPoE/s1600-h/P6240109.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKhzvovCykV38ZqH3-hnA_DPEOilcLIoQyW-g5MImonxTQp6xkXhWf-DjyRek3soDqm7KXCxuoUpCzyt14fx_xFGvf_zniIdYsGaDWaaG-GcoGxZ3OIBXMFamUAh8ajaJGf8TUB9zPoE/s320/P6240109.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080139271778927122" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xay9uV_nLBpmnzyIH2ye3UFpUiqv0HyclnzoSwZ0dvT4eHHHd4biBfOp3bHGGPgefJZVAae0CELaCD_CmhfBXCVLL4jhKd0KCNNTHZEuxetAKVxgF9gZSbaE8qtsFrfjXJPnrutTXRI/s1600-h/P6240099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Xay9uV_nLBpmnzyIH2ye3UFpUiqv0HyclnzoSwZ0dvT4eHHHd4biBfOp3bHGGPgefJZVAae0CELaCD_CmhfBXCVLL4jhKd0KCNNTHZEuxetAKVxgF9gZSbaE8qtsFrfjXJPnrutTXRI/s320/P6240099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080138288231416322" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCyF-B8pX1iKS6nvyPBUU5ggze1M0nXqp5XdStm3ZHp6KJS3JgYdutSjSk8X9gJxyNzGElTtNNjcInhw41MqnL8AE7ua_CGtIDFNzuMfFs2c3r4Ji3m0N7XN0wzZFZHD2yaOSok77oys/s1600-h/P6230080.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsCyF-B8pX1iKS6nvyPBUU5ggze1M0nXqp5XdStm3ZHp6KJS3JgYdutSjSk8X9gJxyNzGElTtNNjcInhw41MqnL8AE7ua_CGtIDFNzuMfFs2c3r4Ji3m0N7XN0wzZFZHD2yaOSok77oys/s320/P6230080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080134976811631090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHG_8YfUk8e5FfQPu2vP8MPJweK5sh9KV_Tk0dVG9FDfuptEB2xKfk-9kg1Ns-XxOrvDk2bTbaW-_mZ1Jrzyvh6mG_yOpB0lAevOacNQJruxUQUtwUOCvk1AN4pIgvlLj7Vew18HcBwUc/s1600-h/P6230078.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHG_8YfUk8e5FfQPu2vP8MPJweK5sh9KV_Tk0dVG9FDfuptEB2xKfk-9kg1Ns-XxOrvDk2bTbaW-_mZ1Jrzyvh6mG_yOpB0lAevOacNQJruxUQUtwUOCvk1AN4pIgvlLj7Vew18HcBwUc/s320/P6230078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5080131261664920018" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Death. Something is dead in the garage. I can smell it. It bitch slaps my nostrels the second I walk in. Something has had the audacity to die inside. Maybe it's revenge for some transgression I visited on some small vermin. Whatever it is it's rank. And, the garage is a mess. Usually it's a total sty at the end of the fall and necessity dictates a cleaning so the car can be kept out of the snow. It is amazing how fast it gets filled up after winter. This is the earliset I've ever cleaned it up, but hand is forced.<br /><br />To clean I normally start putting everything out in the driveway, to put away in other places:barn, house, get rid of. It wasn't long before I found the culprit, an escapee from the morgue. As you may recall, the morgue is now filled with mostly vegan delectables salvaged from the Whole Grocer Dumpster. There was a package of Lemon Garlic Tofu that escaped but didn't make it far. In the recent heat the tofu has grown organism that may well not be vegan and is most definitely highly odoriferous. I carefully ejected the offending item.<br /><br />It turns out the second show of the season was scheduled for the Bike Barn on Sunday as well. Weaselboy showed up with several others to attempt to put some order to the mess in the barn. There is most of a house, large beams, lumber, sinks, doors and windows along with all the normal resident bicycles and paraphernalia. Good luck. I continued with the garage and they had at it.<br /><br />On the bill were 6 bands: Delay and Ghost Town Trio, both from Ohio., Rosetta from Philly, Minor Times Gift of Toungs and A Primitive and Strange Land, three Maine bands. Delay started with some great sounds at about 4:30. The Police (not the band with Sting) were here by 5:00. Yes FIVE PM on a Sunday. It seems the tender ears of the evil "See"a neighbor a quarter mile away has been offended. The neighbors that are all nearby don't care at all, infact the new neighbor across the street brought the kids over. So we promised to tone it down as much as possible and close the doors.<br /><br />There is no real way to do punk right at a lower volume so I made a preemptive call the authorities and the down side was that the bands cut their sets a little shorter. There were about 50 or 60 kids and with the new floor on the second level there was overflow that migrated up there.<br /><span class="on" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Add_Image" title="Add Image" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="addImage();" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);;ButtonMouseDown(this);"><br /><br />It was good music and they played until about 9 when the cops showed up again, just as the last band, an acoustic group was going on. Always put the acoustic guys last, they're quiet. After the show there was a fire dancer and juggling of fire clubs out back. I took a picture of that but all it looks like is dot on black so I'll close with a shot of my responsibilities for the day...taking care of Amina. Did I mention her parents are teaching her to refer to me by name: Grand Poop.<br /></span>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-63641806235002638112007-06-22T08:50:00.000-07:002007-06-22T09:11:23.571-07:00Stolen Kisses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2CAdNxlVq7cQ3YFhuYpuyx9LMGP731BMgZsL87jVuUiL64VPVobss8cjHSPIUankhrEPVZSH53xZESuwcTCIyM0LmPSsVoPxzQE-4RiZBieN9i6gTqczXA1w02yKCLS0qUbvX7xevV0/s1600-h/P4170046.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078917094331126178" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB2CAdNxlVq7cQ3YFhuYpuyx9LMGP731BMgZsL87jVuUiL64VPVobss8cjHSPIUankhrEPVZSH53xZESuwcTCIyM0LmPSsVoPxzQE-4RiZBieN9i6gTqczXA1w02yKCLS0qUbvX7xevV0/s320/P4170046.JPG" border="0" /></a> Following my new penchant for posting pictures unrelated to my post, I offer an example of a day's, maybe two, worth of eggs from my chickens. I don't have any right now, but I expect I'll have some again.<br /><br />The green and blue eggs are from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Araucana</span> hens. I had one her that would lay a perfect olive drab egg, exactly the color of Army green. If I had my wits about me I would have cloned the hell out of that chicken and sold all the eggs to Uncle Sam. I would have made a fortune. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Better'n</span> toilet seats.<br /><br /><br />Now for today's poem, for Carol, a life long friend. This was published, years ago, first in Matrix and then in the National College Poetry Review.<br /><br /><br /><br /> <strong>Stolen Kisses</strong><br /><br />A ghost stalks my kitchen,<br />paces, three steps by one.<br />She is in my living room,<br />three steps by four.<br />She follows me, talks<br />in the background when<br />people leave messages on my<br />phone machine,<br />scribbles notes on scrap paper,<br />puts them in my pockets.<br /><br />For two years she has left<br />her mark; she has stolen my kisses.<br />There are none left in the cookie jar,<br />with the extra backgammon dice,<br />in the backs of drawers in old letters.<br />No more on Friday pizzas.<br /><br />The warm, near spring night<br />touches my dream. I remember:<br />kisses for breakfast, served<br />with flowers and a skinned knee. <br />In the morning I pack.<br />I take a hidden kiss, my last,<br />leave it with a flower for my ghost.<br /><br />SPOrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-26916655959478939862007-06-20T11:13:00.000-07:002007-06-20T11:27:16.293-07:00Jackie's Ladder<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ob4_TKIj-e3kHcF7TbrvXsHkCq6XQjFE-8UoLkpeO3vbSznIomzay9tj4zdPuANmkOr6SPIShhg8vgNLJSFDBs842YyeDYLvXtggWoLMjaOUADcKvd1Nh_-2a1HGwDCj2xjihHuR93s/s1600-h/P6220070.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5078213497083662738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ob4_TKIj-e3kHcF7TbrvXsHkCq6XQjFE-8UoLkpeO3vbSznIomzay9tj4zdPuANmkOr6SPIShhg8vgNLJSFDBs842YyeDYLvXtggWoLMjaOUADcKvd1Nh_-2a1HGwDCj2xjihHuR93s/s320/P6220070.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Something older for today. Weather report for Wendy: Overcast and cool. No need for air conditioning. A slight breeze, perfect for walking downtown, along the waterfront, during lunch.</div><div> </div><div></div><div>The photo is just a randon snpshot of the lupins that invade Maine, just there to be pretty, although it's not a great shot. I'll figure all this stuff out oneday.</div><br /><div> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>Jackie’s Ladder</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Years in Turkey and Greece<br />come to me in poems on postcards:<br />Searches of hallucinations and backstreets,<br />snatches of silks and canvas, hashish and champagne.<br />The texture rich but the colors all running<br />together<br /><br />You are running,<br />looking over your shoulder in anticipation,<br />praying for the sleep rat to take away<br />the exhaustion and pain;<br />all in a letter of fragments written in London,<br />mailed a month later from Istanbul.<br /><br />You are traveling like an unattached<br />electron looking for a home base. The stop<br />in L. A. was hardly a cameo before you fled.<br />I know there were stars there, the love you sought,<br />shining, electric. So close you could walk<br />around them, but to touch was the pain<br />always at your heels.<br /><br />You are my link to magic;<br />your lips breath my vicarious breath.<br />I wait the years between your three A.M.<br />phone calls from somewhere high<br />on you ladder and share with you a small,<br />solid, piece of the Earth.<br />SP</div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-46860912391697502682007-06-18T07:20:00.000-07:002007-06-18T07:25:20.826-07:00Language of FlowersYesterday, because of the day and other's posts, I was looking for a poem I wrote for Weaselboy when my father died some years ago. The passing of his beloved grandfather was a big event in his life. Of course, I couldn't find it.<br /><br />What I did find, however, was a peice I was looking for and had spoken of earlier in this blob. So for Wendy, Lynn, Mel, as promised, I offer:<br /><br /><br /><br /> <strong>Language of Flowers<br /></strong> for Fran<br /><br /><br />Bundle of Reeds with their panicles.<br />Music.<br /><br />Justica. The perfection of female beauty.<br />Walnut, Butterfly Orchids, Lupine.<br />Intelligence, gaiety, imagination.<br /><br />Hawthorn. Hope.<br />Dwarf Sunflower, single Red Rose, Lucern.<br />Adoration, Love, Life.<br />Cedar Leaf. I live for you.<br /><br />Candytuft. Lobelia, Yellow Balsam!<br />Indifference, malevolence, impatience.<br />Hortensia. You are cold.<br /><br />Marigold. Yellow Chrysantheum. Mourning Bride.<br />Grief, slighted love. I have lost all.<br /><br />Basil. Hatred.<br />Clotsfoot. Justice shall be done.<br /><br />Gum Cistus. I shall die tomorrow.<br /><br />Helenium. Tears.<br />Bittersweet Nightshade. Truth.<br />White Poppie, White Poplar. Sleep. Time.<br />Flos Adonis. Painful recollections.<br />Hawthorn.<br />Lesser Celandine. Joy to come.<br />Bundle of Reeds with their panicles.<br /><br /><br /> S.P.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-50453491977487681032007-06-01T11:19:00.000-07:002007-06-01T11:44:58.527-07:00Antidisestablishmentintarianism<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssBLyLHRAYldnlwPvLq1yYOSJizsQ0cqfTRdIKwTz67-mtp0tebxShVxqIcqmrq2wx0vGABKpG7cRfZ0HV2Lrh4tLROQAQMcjsinFPshlHWCQSkMPM1lLMuSHclu8t2aE5JVUUN9CY4o/s1600-h/P6290119.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5071165651207277666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssBLyLHRAYldnlwPvLq1yYOSJizsQ0cqfTRdIKwTz67-mtp0tebxShVxqIcqmrq2wx0vGABKpG7cRfZ0HV2Lrh4tLROQAQMcjsinFPshlHWCQSkMPM1lLMuSHclu8t2aE5JVUUN9CY4o/s320/P6290119.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Girlface has several longstanding babysitting jobs and one is with Jessie and Chloe about 8 and 5 now. Apparently some time ago they asked the all important question, “Kelsey, what is the longest word you know?” After the appropriate time for thought she replied, unflapped, antidisestablishmentintarianism (which does not come up in my spell check, btw) For some months or years C & J took this as gospel and were appropriately in awe of Girlface.</div><div><br />Today, I heard the bad news. J & C approached Girlface with the information that she was wrong, that not only was antidisestablishmentintarianism not the longest word but it was not even a real word. “We know because we asked our cousin. He’s thirteen.”</div><div><br />Oh how the mighty have fallen.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>NB:</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>The picture is unrelated to the story other than it shows the region where the players all live and I am still trying to figure out how to use blogger. Those are some of the islands of Casco Bay as seen from my back porch....if my back porch were in my friend's helicopter. Sure is pretty though, huh?</div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-15233028804240230452007-05-28T10:06:00.000-07:002007-05-28T10:10:52.190-07:00Of Ice and Illegal Birds<p class="MsoNormal">I was just talking to someone about bags of ice cubes when I <span style=""> </span>had a thought, if they all melted could you return them to the store for a refund?<span style=""> </span>Anyway, every Labor day, at the end of the summer, we have what we call office appreciation day and have a big picnic for the office staff and a few clients.<span style=""> </span>It is traditionally lobster or steak and veggie burgers for my kids who are vegetarians and vegans. It use to be held at my house in the back yard and there were the requisite number bags of ice for cooling things and putting in drinks and what not. At the end of the day one year there were three bags of ice left so I <span style=""> </span>put them in the morgue.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The morgue, you must understand is the freezer out in the garage.<span style=""> </span>It is called the morgue because it was purchased originally for the keeping of all manner of legal and illegal dead critters to be used for who knows what purpose.<span style=""> </span>Weaselboy has always been well into animals and birds especially.<span style=""> </span>In fact he has been banding birds down at the Rachel Carson preserve for more than ten years now. He knows a lot, that boy. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, one day a good family friend who moved his family off to New York to run a drug rehab center was driving on his daily commute when a great horned owl, clearly knowing Bruce was a doctor who worked with depressed and addicted people, and having some sort of bird depression himself decided to ask Bruce some questions.<span style=""> </span>Apparently the bird depression affected him more than he realized and instead of coming up to the window to enquire of Bruce's professional opinion he misjudged and flew into the grill of the car dying instantly.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I'm wrong, maybe the bird was beyond talking and was taking action and meant to kill himself but the fact that it was Bruce and what he does, I just tend to think the best of the Great Horned Owls and think he was reaching out for help. Or maybe it was just an accident.<span style=""> </span>I have several other theories but I won't go into them here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Anyway the whole point is Bruce, of course, out of concern for all Great Horned Owls and other assorted creatures stopped immediately to assess the situation.<span style=""> </span>The assessment was: dead bird.<span style=""> </span>The ever quick witted and resourceful Bruce then realized that a dead Great Horned Own could further the interests of people in great horned owly things by being stuffed and shown around in an educational setting.<span style=""> </span>Bruce immediate thought of Weaselboy who at still a young and tender age showed great interest in these things.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To make what was really quite a short story but has run way to long, said Bruce (who, because of this next bit, I am now going to throw doubt about his real name, into the mix because there is a certain aura of law breaking about to happen) cleverly wrapped the late Great Horned Own in appropriate materials and eventually got the Saran and paper entombed carcass to Weaselboy in Falmouth.<span style=""> </span>Well Weaselboy's mother was not going to have the entombed remains of the Great Horned in with the frozen veggies, pizzas and ice cream so I went and purchased and christened the morgue.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Great Horned was followed by an abundance of other critters that were meant for any number of purposes. There was a baby fox whose pelt would no doubt be one day lovingly handled by someone who never saw the pelt making process, several other avian creatures acquired in a number of interesting but deadly circumstances, the odd pet, a chicken for dissection (Weaselboy and Girlface and some 4Hers made an incredible website on the development of chicken eggs once. It was stunning. I'll see it I can get the link) and various other critters and the overflow of my Ice Cream stash.<span style=""> </span>Now I had to throw the doubt about Bruce's name because mere possession of a single feather of any song bird or migratory bird or bird of prey is yes, A FEDERAL CRIME, so imagine what the punishment for possesing an entire body would have been.<span style=""> </span>We are, no doubt, talking The Big House. Come to think of it some of those little avian friends would also, no doubt, be additional violations.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">However being in education (down at the conservancy) and a studiously minded lad, the idea was to apply for a licensee to have and stuff the big guy so it would all be copasetic. That was the plan anyway.<span style=""> </span>There was also the plan to reduce one of the squirrels to his bone structure and reassemble the skeleton for show. There were several skulls to harvest for my skull collection and lots other work to be done. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">None of it was to be in the end, however, because of the raid. No, no, no, there was no raid. But there was a show in the infamous googleable Bike Barn.<span style=""> </span>Some hard core rockin’ was goin on when they blew a fuse.<span style=""> </span>To rectify the situation they took some power off another circuit with power cords from the garage, yes the said same garage housing the morgue.<span style=""> </span>They blew another fuse and removed the power cord to yet another outlet and continued their hard core rockin until the were either done or the coppers came and shut them down whichever it was that night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">About a week or so later I was in the garage looking for who knows what when I smelled this fowl odor.<span style=""> </span>I say fowl instead of foul because it was, in fact, a foul fowl odor.<span style=""> </span>The fuse that had been blown connected to the morgue and all the creatures, great and small were now, each one in their own way, rotting.<span style=""> </span>The solution of course, was to reactivate the morgue's circuit, refreeze the menagerie and dispose of the carcasses after they had been refrozen so as no to deal with rotting flesh and gagging smells and all.<span style=""> </span>Well it was a good idea in theory, except everything froze solid to the shelves and sides of the morgue and another unfreezing event was required for eviction.<span style=""> </span>This time, at least, it was controlled.<span style=""> </span>Suffice it to say, however, I now have an illegal Great Horned Own skull in my collection.<span style=""> </span>Or does Bruce have it?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">However I digress.<span style=""> </span>Sadly, yes it does happen.<span style=""> </span>This discussion was about ice cubes.<span style=""> </span>Well the morgue is (supposedly) a frost free mechanism.<span style=""> </span>That means that it actually warms up to a certain point to where the frost evaporates and <span style=""> </span>is therefore removed and the frozen bits still stay frozen.<span style=""> </span>I had checked and was told it was sufficient of morgue purposes.<span style=""> </span>At the end of D& P Appreciation day the three left over bags of ice were relegated to the second shelf of the morgue until such time as their services were needed. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Having an ice maker in the kitchen refrigerator/freezer side-by-side faux stainless steel unit left by the former owners I didn't have cause for an entire bag of ice cubes until some many months later, the event I no longer recall, but I said to myself, "Aha!" or words to that effect and went to the morgue for the left over ice cubes.<span style=""> </span>Yes, the three bags were there, unopened and but, alas, empty.<span style=""> </span>The so called no frost mechanism is no friend to ice cubes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Is there nothing permanent in life?<o:p></o:p></p>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-53766701329631281652007-05-21T15:41:00.002-07:002007-05-21T16:09:37.875-07:00Fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pKhyphenhyphenhs584RjhdsES_RUVp2n61XrPVKhYTwWIykFPg2BzT7SiAS-uGrbmi-iLQUaCl4FiqXMQjRuT_IeWWGt1dPVp2d3BNWHOAy9TYbUaJi4YJqo8NXg_jXiJHj_vYA7U4Z2TxkuH8N4/s1600-h/P5200017.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pKhyphenhyphenhs584RjhdsES_RUVp2n61XrPVKhYTwWIykFPg2BzT7SiAS-uGrbmi-iLQUaCl4FiqXMQjRuT_IeWWGt1dPVp2d3BNWHOAy9TYbUaJi4YJqo8NXg_jXiJHj_vYA7U4Z2TxkuH8N4/s320/P5200017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5067147958409972818" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Yesterday was burn day.<span style=""> </span>The burn pit is about 75 yards from the house; about 25 feet across and 6 feet deep.<span style=""> </span>During the summer we have huge bonfires with flames shooting up 35.<span style=""> </span>It lights up the night pretty good.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Yesterday's was a work burn.<span style=""> </span>Long lasting, low level fire meant to get rid of leftovers and castaways.<span style=""> </span>Weasel boy’s hated junipers; he pulled them out and put in fruit trees and blueberries.<span style=""> </span>Old barn boards, some more than 22 inches wide but so rotten they break in you toss them on the pile. Scraps from rebuilding the second floor of the barn.<span style=""> </span>The remains of the spruce tree mowed down by a drunk driver last October.<span style=""> </span>The needles sound like a rain storm when they burn.<span style=""> </span>Trimmings from the apple tree.<span style=""> </span>Odd shaped plywood scraps that have lived in the corners of the barn for decades and still haven’t found a use.<span style=""> </span>The contents of my front shirt pocket.<span style=""> </span>Oops; I think a chap stick and some phone messages and a few receipts.<span style=""> </span>100 year old hay leavings from the loft.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>It was a good day to burn, wet ground, a small misty drizzle occasionally and no wind.<span style=""> </span>It was also a good day because I got to use the chainsaw and the tractor and burn stuff. And hang out with Weaselboy, Eva, and Baby Amina along with Ryan and Girlface. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>A fire is very egalitarian. Everything is burned equally. Weeds and fine walnut veneer from a nineteenth century bureau.<span style=""> </span>The fire consumes each without regard of their former status.</p>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-72577097728207240502007-05-18T09:31:00.000-07:002007-05-18T09:33:48.960-07:00Responses<strong> Responses</strong><br /><br /><br />My response is<br />I am vigilant;<br />My response is<br />I am naught but a bit of insignificance;<br />My response is<br />I am not that man behind the curtain;<br />My response is<br />I cannot explain a man who murders the extended family<br />of the girl her rapes and then cuts off her hands<br />so she cannot even reach for her soul;<br />My response is<br />I am uncomfortable with being safe;<br />My response is<br />I see beauty in the silence I touch with darkness;<br />My response is<br />I am sustained with a single breath of warmth from the past;<br />My response is<br />I am afraid of the churning frigid waters that sneak up behind my paddle;<br />My response is<br />We are all going to Rockland;<br />My response is<br />I don’t give a rat’s ass about your opinion;<br />My response is<br />I am exhausted from running;<br />My response is<br />I am the wall that protects;<br />My response is<br />I am the wall that will be torn down;<br />My response,<br />is,<br />I think.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-22803260429635382692007-05-16T09:28:00.000-07:002007-05-16T10:21:23.580-07:00Gertie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_F3EsBgbyxKZcKtxiMVstFlEUJKb08bfTL9_NfWCBD8tj0xDhGgQQ_7cPZttQv3QWVD04fYK-PKntC7joOQkkPNnMzk8LcUJjXVpUevfQtEhvIG_uuMamuX91B7eS4j8EuB9kkKPnWnU/s1600-h/PB150084.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065209450690726962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_F3EsBgbyxKZcKtxiMVstFlEUJKb08bfTL9_NfWCBD8tj0xDhGgQQ_7cPZttQv3QWVD04fYK-PKntC7joOQkkPNnMzk8LcUJjXVpUevfQtEhvIG_uuMamuX91B7eS4j8EuB9kkKPnWnU/s320/PB150084.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>While over on the left coast Girlface was taking care of the dogs. Girlface's main mode of transportation is her beloved puke-green Cannondale. Two dogs do not ride well in the panniers so she was finding creative ways to leave Sumi and Gertie at home but not inside. Sumi is OK, but Gertie is a people pup and will either find a way out or chew up everything in retribution for being away from you. That is interesting considering Gertie is, in theroy, Sumi's therapy dog. Sumi was a rescure from a high kill shelter in NC and has been extreamly shy (read that scared shitless) of people since she has come to stay two years ago. She does ever so much better with Gertie.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Anyway, normally the dogs come to the office with me and they both curl up under my desk leaving no room for my feet. (Shaking head) So one day I get a check in call from Girlface.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: Hi, how's thee doing? (I was raised part Quaker and talk funny.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF: OK (she was raised with me and I talk funny)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: How are the dogs doing? Did thee put them in the barn?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF:Well I left Sumi in your bedroom and I left Gertie in the upstairs bathroom.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: <strong>WHAT</strong>!?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF:Gertie got out of the barn yesterday so I put Gertie in the upstairs bathroom.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me:(Thinking of all sorts of havoic having been wrought.) What was thee thinking! Did she tear the place apart? (heart rate rapidly rising)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF:No everything is fine, Pop. Guess where I found Gertie?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me; (thinking, oh god, oh god, neighbors, Timbuctu, wedged under the floor under the tub where the little cat use to go, could she really fit in there, a boxer/lab, oh god, where was she..).....uh....where? (small voice)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF:(Triumphantly) On the roof! She pulled down the towels and turned on the lights and the fan and turned the water on in the tub and then went on the roof.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: How did she get on the roof? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF: She went through the screen.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: Is she alright?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF: Yeah. (pause) Pop?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Me: Yeah?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>GF: How do I get her off the roof?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Like I say, life is not as you expect it and gravity is not your friend.</div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-68545804955889116222007-05-14T08:28:00.000-07:002007-05-14T08:44:21.345-07:00Airplane HaikuOr more appropriately jet Haiku; some bits written at the end of the red-eye to Washington this morning. It is not the traditional Japanese variety but the Americanized 5-7-5 simple format where anything goes. Hey it was on the red-eye and I'm bushed, beat, tired. It is what it is, yes?<br /><br />Using the red-eye<br />Extends our togetherness<br />Never long enough.<br /><br />Without your number<br />I could not call from Dulles<br />Just to wake you up.<br /><br />Little animals meet<br />Dire consequences<br />In your loving home.<br /><br />Two things to aim for:<br />Politically aware<br />To be off the grid.<br /><br />Words as if colors<br />Plied with intricate structure;<br />Incredible work.<br /><br />The god damn carry-on<br />Will go under my god damn seat<br />when I'm god damn set.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-51746398812628721092007-05-07T13:04:00.000-07:002007-05-07T13:08:18.785-07:00Left of the StaplesThanks for stopping in. I'm left coasting it right now with Mrs. Shark and should be back on the 14th. Talk about all the laundry ya' want to. And what about sock balls? Anyone else have big balls of single socks looking for mates?OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-19244016871355629742007-05-03T19:22:00.000-07:002007-05-03T19:31:24.164-07:00SocksI got wicked annoyed today because my right sock had a huge hole in the heel. I hate that. It was really bugging ms so I dug through my drawers, in this case an antique seed cabinet in my office that still has some turn of the century seeds in it, and found a needle and thread and sewed the sucker up. I sewed it; I did not darn it. That, of course reminded me of this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Society</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">I have a darning egg<br />from the nineteenth century.<br />To the uninitiated it appears to be<br />no more than a tiny wooden dumbbell<br />with unequal ends. A cretin, a freak.<br />It is antiquated as well as antique.<br />Useless. Today's socks<br />are not worth mending.<br /><br />SP 1983<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div></div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-34264341831350696722007-05-01T20:01:00.000-07:002007-05-01T20:03:43.699-07:00First Show of The Season at the Bike Barn<p class="MsoNormal">I am checking the last musician of the night, Robert Blake.<span style=""> </span>The show has gone from jumping stomping punk, <span style=""> </span>loud drums and dancing that shook the floor through electric experimental to the quiet acoustic strains of a solo guitar. <span style=""> </span>As I leave the barn a bat flies out with me.<span style=""> </span>It’s about <st1:time minute="40" hour="22">10:40 PM</st1:time> my time. The air is crisp. The moon is full or nearly so, so it is bright enough to see out side.<span style=""> </span>There is a single long white cloud, like a giant branching contrail stretching across the sky from west to east balanced, it seems on the peak of the roof.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Inside now, Amina is sleeping on the overstuffed Arts and Crafts chair next to me and Gertie is curled up at my feet. I can hear just a hint of the music, where earlier it was clear even through the walls.<span style=""> </span>The hum of the refrigerator competes to break the quiet but loses to the strum of the six string. Amina, wrapped in her homemade wrap, is sleeping with her arms up in the air just like her Papa did a generation ago.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This is a good night.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-64665159344398662882007-05-01T08:34:00.000-07:002007-05-01T08:36:32.981-07:00The Value of a Child's LIfeThe <a href="http://pressherald.mainetoday.com/news/statehouse/070501guthrie.html">lead article</a> in today’s Portland Press Herald is about a grandfather who lost his grandson, whom he was raising, in a terrible auto accident. The grandfather understandably is grieving over his loss, however he is also, reportedly, unhappy with the legal system. First, he is angry that no criminal charges were brought against the driver of the other car, even though the incident was ruled an accident. He stated that the District Attorney should have brought an indictment even of no conviction would have resulted. This, I believe, is clearly wrong.<br /><br />His second point of contention is that there is a cap on recoveries in a wrongful death action in the state of Maine. The grandfather believes he should be able to recover more than the $400,000 cap for the loss of his grandson. This I have always failed to understand. What is the justification for a suit for money damages for the loss of a child? There can never be a suitable amount to compensate for the loss. I would not trade all the money in the world for any of my children or any child. All the money in the world cannot bring a child back. Why do people believe they are entitled to money, from an individual, from a government, from society, from anywhere, whey a tragedy takes a child?<br /> I would love to see the ideas of others on this.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-44153967606699670112007-04-30T10:16:00.000-07:002007-04-30T10:17:09.826-07:00LunchMy office is in what’s known as the Old Port section of Portland, just a block away from the Federal and County courthouses. It’s also right across the street from Anthony’s Italian Kitchen, the best little eatery for many miles. They do cabaret on the weekends that is sold out weeks in advance.<br /><br />I use to make my lunch but I have fallen into what I think of as my little luxury: I buy my lunch everyday from Tony. I have an account with him and he gives me a discount for being a regular. He’ll do that for anyone who asks. I call ahead and they make it just the way I like it, always some slight modification cause I’m a picky SOB. I never let him give me a bag or a box (in the case of his famous pizza) and I collect all the rubber bands from the sandwiches and return them for reuse.<br /><br />Today I ordered a sausage sandwich because now that Girlface has moved back into the house, albeit reluctantly, as it is too far from her friends and work, I get a great meal cooked every night for me. (I clean up.) Since she is vegan, I get my minor meat fix at lunchtime.<br /> So when I ordered my lunch today I asked for the sandwich and some sunshine, as it is a drizzly dark cold day. When I got back to my desk I noticed there was a big sun with a smiley face inside it drawn on the wrapper of the sandwich. I guess I don’t have much to complain about; I get sunshine on request.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-42988959213261172642007-04-27T07:28:00.000-07:002007-04-27T07:32:31.864-07:00Where were you<div align="left"><strong>Where were you<br /></strong><br />On the 5th of September 1973?<br />It was my third day of high school.<br />With the melding of three middle schools<br />more faces to ignore me<br />a crowd to get lost in<br />and maybe find someone<br />who also loves words and photography.<br /><br />Where were you?<br />I rode a bus home<br />past long driveways,<br />of a thousand houses, with curtains drawn,<br />empty cars parked out front,<br />squirrels running on the wires above.<br /><br />I came home<br />to brothers and sisters, dogs and cats<br />admonitions to clean up<br />and dinner at six.<br /><br />Where were you<br />on the fifth of September, 1973<br />when Alexandra K was born in Wichita,<br />the editor of the Chronicle-Telegram in Elyria, Ohio<br />returned from vacation<br />and the Georgia Supreme Court decided Clark v. State?<br /><br />Where were you<br />when fourteen days before her sixteenth birthday<br />she was taken by force<br />deprived of her freedom her dignity her soul<br />her self;<br />deadened with fear, knowing her life would soon end<br />and that would be the good part.<br /><br />Where were you<br />when covered in her own vomit from fear<br />she was forced to strip,<br />clean herself up,<br />so he could rape her.<br /><br />Where were you<br />as she lay trapped under his massive bulk<br />knowing only fear as the day died<br />as she negotiated for her release of her body<br />and was raped again.<br /><br />Where were you<br />when finally her body was released<br />still breathing<br />and thrown to the street<br />by the garbage cans<br />at the end of a long driveway<br />where ultimately she was told<br />to just get over it.<br /><br />Where were you September 3, 1973?<br />Where were you last night?<br /><br />SP </div>OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1515546923389549614.post-19361617533418674712007-04-25T17:52:00.000-07:002007-04-25T18:03:46.883-07:00WombThis is the first poem I ever sold: Midwest Poetry Review, April 1984<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Womb</span><br /></div><br />Hong Kong is constantly being torn down<br />and rebuilt. The sound reaches me<br />as I lie in darkness.<br />She is an uncertain city, a twitch<br />between China and the sea.<br />I walk her streets watching her side-<br />long glances. Ripples bounce off<br />every building, rustle people along.<br />Holes appear in the streets,<br />people avoid them; unanswered questions.<br />The streets tie down the city's anxiety.<br />The ground pulses with the strain. Buildings<br />push across no man's land, wade into the bay.<br />Hong Kong beats on the edge of excitement<br />and unpenned history. I fall asleep<br />to the sound of cabs traveling in a half dozen<br />directions. The city is closing her eyes.<br />We dream together.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It is not my favorite nor my best but I put it out here to encourage everyone (including me) to write and everyone to publish. There are many, many people who write better than I; some should be publishing.OrdinarySharkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09423346168533996854noreply@blogger.com6