hsifeng: (Hi-5)

So, every year I purchase a golden ticket to join in on an amazing event called GISHWHES (the Greatest Internet Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen). I’ve talked about *what* GISHWHES is before; but I don’t know if I have ever told you *why* GISHWHES.

Basically, adults are too damn serious. I mean, really: work, bills, cholesterol levels, chores, and finding jeans that actually fit. WTF? Who thought this was the great life we’d have once we all Got Our Own Places And Showed Our Parents How It Was Done.

Not me, that is for sure.*

So, once a year I check out and take a mini-vacation for my brain and creativity that is almost entirely booked by someone else (Misha Collins and Ms. Jean Louis, to be exact); first they introduced me to a group of 14 of the coolest people I will ever know, then they sent an impossible list of items to attain (check a bench in Wuhan, China for a note – are you &#$*ing KIDDING ME?!?)**,  set a ridiculous deadline (six days, SIX?!?)***, and set us loose….

And that is when the amazing stuff happens.

What amazing stuff?

First, I connect with a whole slew of friends and family members online and encourage them to PLAY. Not like adults play, all serious and wondering if people are watching, but like kids play where doing The Thing is more important than simply Getting A Result.

And those friends and family? They amazed me with their willingness to participate, to create and to have fun in this completely ridiculous, manic, and joyful process. They jump in with both feet and don’t just swim in the stream of creativity and imagination – they drink it down and share it with everyone else they know too.

It’s like the best game of ‘Telephone’ ever invented, where everyone wins All The Prizes!

Secondly, all my artistic brain wiring comes to life. Like REALLY comes to life. Nothing like a deadline and a pair of squash shoes that will not make themselves to bring out the sculpting genius in someone. *grin*

What happens is Art, my friends. Art on a deadline, in the middle of a hurricane, with no electricity, and creators that are clearly BUG NUTS – but Art none the less.

Don’t believe me? Take a look… )

So basically, I want to thank everyone who helped us with this year’s GISHWHES hunt, and I want to encourage you to go out and play. Be silly. Be jubilant. Be open to the endless stream of potential inspiration that the universe is hurling at you every day (and duck occasionally, because it is important to keep the universe on its toes).

Don’t let the kids have all the fun… ;)


*In all seriousness, my life is pretty damn good. But sometimes all the damn lists of things to do get loooong and booooring. 

**Per the terms of the contract that GISHWHES requires of all participants, This Is Not Whining. This is creative observation that includes the use of pornographic language for shock value. Really. Honest.

***Again, not whining. Just checking the number of days is all... 

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)
"My mother, she killed me,
My father, he ate me,
My sister Marlene,
Gathered all my bones,
Tied them in a silken scarf,
Laid them beneath the juniper tree,
Tweet, tweet, what a beautiful bird am I."

~ from The Juniper Tree by Jacob and Wilhem Grimm

hsifeng: (Pele-Mei)
*see icon*

Still miss you Pele-mei, you were my soft headed little dragon goddess.

This post was meant to go up yesterday, but you know how it is when doctors appointments spoil a schedule. :P


The inscription:

Near this spot 
Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
Strength without Insolence, 
Courage without Ferocity, 
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. 
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
If inscribed over human ashes, 
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 
And died at Newstead, Nov 18th, 1808. 

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown by Glory, but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below.
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one – and here he lies.

~ Boatswain Memorial at Newstead Abby, Lord Byron
hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Sonnet 130 ~ William Shakespeare


~ Lauren Cooper (Catherine Tate)

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)
 Today, at 83 year of age, Philip Levine was name a poet laureate for the United States. To honor Mr. Levine (who used to teach at my Alma Mater)  and to honor one of my favorite alcohols, I'm posting this beauty of a poem. 


The first time I drank gin
I thought it must be hair tonic.
My brother swiped the bottle
from a guy whose father owned
a drug store that sold booze
in those ancient, honorable days
when we acknowledged the stuff
was a drug. Three of us passed
the bottle around, each tasting
with disbelief. People paid
for this? People had to have
it, the way we had to have
the women we never got near.
(Actually they were girls, but
never mind, the important fact
was their impenetrability. )
Leo, the third foolish partner,
suggested my brother should have
swiped Canadian whiskey or brandy,
but Eddie defended his choice
on the grounds of the expressions
"gin house" and "gin lane," both
of which indicated the preeminence
of gin in the world of drinking,
a world we were entering without
understanding how difficult
exit might be. Maybe the bliss
that came with drinking came
only after a certain period
of apprenticeship. Eddie likened
it to the holy man's self-flagellation
to experience the fullness of faith.
(He was very well read for a kid
of fourteen in the public schools. )
So we dug in and passed the bottle
around a second time and then a third,
in the silence each of us expecting
some transformation. "You get used
to it," Leo said. "You don't
like it but you get used to it."
I know now that brain cells
were dying for no earthly purpose,
that three boys were becoming
increasingly despiritualized
even as they took into themselves
these spirits, but I thought then
I was at last sharing the world
with the movie stars, that before
long I would be shaving because
I needed to, that hair would
sprout across the flat prairie
of my chest and plunge even
to my groin, that first girls
and then women would be drawn
to my qualities. Amazingly, later
some of this took place, but
first the bottle had to be
emptied, and then the three boys
had to empty themselves of all
they had so painfully taken in
and by means even more painful
as they bowed by turns over
the eye of the toilet bowl
to discharge their shame. Ahead
lay cigarettes, the futility
of guaranteed programs of
exercise, the elaborate lies
of conquest no one believed,
forms of sexual torture and
rejection undreamed of. Ahead
lay our fifteenth birthdays,
acne, deodorants, crabs, salves,
butch haircuts, draft registration,
the military and political victories
of Dwight Eisenhower, who brought us
Richard Nixon with wife and dog.
Any wonder we tried gin.

Gin ~ Philip Levine
hsifeng: (Book Fortress)
The one piece of advice I tend to give more than any other is this: you can’t change others, you can only change yourself; you can’t save others, you can only save yourself. On the surface, this seems shockingly selfish – even to me, which is why its advice I have to keep giving as I need to keep hearing it too. However, I have found in a lifetime of trying to take on other people’s burdens that doing so neither lightens their load nor makes my path any clearer. At best, I can be a signpost – giving a little guidance with no expectation that the other person must take it in order to find their way.

Here’s a signpost. Do with it as you will.


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

The Journey ~ Mary Oliver
hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

I spent my childhood growing up with this man's characters. The Hobbit was the first book I ever read after 'See Dick Run', I was precocious even as a child. *grin* I honestly can’t imagine who I would be today without this early exposure to the world of imagination; the concepts that there is more to the world than what you are told exists or what is right in front of you.


Thank you Mr. Tolkein; this is a gift I will always treasure.


All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

All That is Gold Does Not Glitter - John Ronald Reuel (JRR) Tolkien 

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)
Thank you for reminding me of this one [livejournal.com profile] peostroskie !


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

Invictus ~ William Ernest Henley

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

I have been reading Crush by Richard Siken for the past few weeks. It is a book of poetry, and not very long; but I find I keep going back to it, over and over.  Reading Siken's work is what got me back onto my recent Wednesday Poetry kick.

This is my favorite piece today.



The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater
because he is trying to kill you,
and you deserve it, you do, and you know this,
and you are ready to die in this swimming pool
because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means
your life is over anyway.
You’re in the eighth grade. You know these things.
You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do
long division,
and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless
he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you
didn’t do,
because you are weak and hollow and it doesn’t matter anymore.


A dark-haired man in a rented bungalow is licking the whiskey
from the back of your wrist.
He feels nothing,
keeps a knife in his pocket,
peels an apple right in front of you
while you tramp around a mustard-colored room
in your underwear
drinking Dutch beer from a green bottle.
After everything that was going to happen has happened
you ask only for the cab fare home
and realize you could have asked for more
because he couldn’t care less, either way.


The man on top of you is teaching you how to hate, sees you
as a piece of real estate,
just another fallow field lying underneath him
like a sacrifice.
He’s turning your back into a table so he doesn’t have to
eat off the floor, so he can get comfortable,
pressing against you until he fits, until he’s made a place for himself
inside you.
The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting.
So you get a kidney punch, a little blood in your urine.
It isn’t over yet, it’s just begun.


Says to himself
The boy is no good. The boy is just no good.
but he takes you in his arms and pushes your flesh around
to see if you could ever be ugly to him.
You, the now familiar whipping boy, but you’re beautiful,
he can feel the dogs licking his heart.
Who gets the whip and who gets the hoops of flame?
He hits you and he hits you and he hits you.
Desire driving his hands right into your body.
Hush, my sweet. These tornados are for you.
You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things.
You wanted to be in love
and he happened to get in the way.


The green-eyed boy in the powder-blue t-shirt standing
next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit,
repeatedly, by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it.
This is not your problem.
You have your own body to deal with.
The lamp by the bed is broken.
You are feeling things he’s no longer in touch with.
And everyone is speaking softly,
so as not to wake one another.
The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together.
Steam rises from every cup at every table at once.
Things happen all the time, things happen every minute
that have nothing to do with us.


So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes
before knowledge,
and you want it dirty.
And no one can ever figure out what you want,
and you won’t tell them,
and you realize the one person in the world who loves you
isn’t the one you thought it would be,
and you don’t trust him to love you in a way
you would enjoy.
And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy.
And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening.
You thought if you handed over your body
he’d do something interesting.


The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to
sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him
you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,
but he doesn’t listen.
You do this, you do. You take the things you love
and tear them apart
or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours.
So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t
pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved,
he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never
forgive you, and maybe now he’ll never leave you alone

A Primer for the Small Weird Loves ~ Richard Siken
hsifeng: (Xi-Feng)

If you can keep your head when all about you

   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

   But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

   Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

   And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;


If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;

   If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

   And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

   And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;


If you can make one heap of all your winnings

   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

   And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

   To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

   Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

   Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

   If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--

   Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


If -  ~ Rudyard Kipling



When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
    He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
    But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
    He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
    But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
    They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
    'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
    For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
    For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
    But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
    The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

    Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
    Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
    Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
    To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

    Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
    To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
    Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
    Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

    But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
    Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
    And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
    The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

    She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
    May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
    These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
    She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

    She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
    As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
    And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
    Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

    She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
    Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
    He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
    Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

    Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
    Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
    Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
    And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

    So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
    With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
    Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
    To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

    And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
    Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
    And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
    That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

The Female of the Species -  ~ Rudyard Kipling

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

As a kid I was encouraged to read. By encouraged I mean, my folks were both in their 40's when they had me, were both teachers and both loved vacations on deserted beaches in the middle-of-nowhere Mexico. That meant months on end away from any real source of electricity other than our generator (which was used for the fridge and water pump and little else).

So. TV? Not really an option.

Not that I noticed, cared or minded.

I was reading by the age of five, my first book (after "Dick and Jane") was "The Hobbit", followed by the entire Lord of the Rings series. I didn't understand most of what I was reading, but I re-read the whole lot of them every year until I was in my early teens, throwing in Narnia, Pern, Krynn and Osten Ard for flavor.

I can honestly say that I am the reenactor I am today because of the reading I did as a child.

The hubby and I aren’t going to have kids, and there is nothing worse than preaching at folks who do have kids about, “How they should be raising them.”. That said, turn off your televisions and buy your kids books instead.

They will thank you for it later.



The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Television ~ Roald Dahl

hsifeng: (Cat Haikus)


I was a kid with a big imagination, raised by parents who encouraged me to find my own entertainments. I read a lot. I adventured over rambling hill-and-dale. I played D&D from the age of 6. Around that same time, I discovered my performance bug. Mom got me signed up in a local poetry festival for kids and I got to pick my own poem.

I picked this one.

I can still recite it from memory, 31 years later.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

 Jabberwocky ~ Lewis Carroll


hsifeng: (Am I Blue?)

This past Saturday afternoon, family, friends and former students gathered to wish my Father bon voyage. We drank, ate and scattered his ashes from this highest point of the ranch that we call home. While we sat in my parent’s living room my Mother handed me a letter that she had found that morning, a final message that my Father had tucked away in a corner of their bathroom in the week before he passed.

My parents are stubborn people and fought often. As a result of the regular head-butting they did, there have been times I forgot how much they love each other. I think they forgot sometimes themselves.

And then this note, this love letter, this letter of thanks. All the things my Father couldn’t say in his last months of living and perhaps for years before that as well.

Rediscovering that your parents love each other; deeply, wholeheartedly and through trials unimaginable, is an amazing gift.

In the process of finding this week’s Wednesday poem, I stumbled across this. Reading it, I hear my Father’s voice in so many ways. It felt strange and wonderful and right. So I am sharing it with you.


waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
shake it once, then


Hank won't

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of

I want to
let her know
that all the nights
beside her

even the useless
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
I ever feared to
can now be

I love

Confession ~ Charles Bukowski


hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

I sometimes forget how much I love poetry. I can't write it to save my life, but I love reading it.

I'd like to stop forgetting.

So, I am going to be posting a favorite poetry tid-bit every Wednesday. Some will be poems I remember and love from my childhood, others will be new discoveries. Feel free to send back your favorites in the comments section!

And now, from one of my favorite authors, Shel Silverstein. Reading this reminds me me that I once swore I would never stop believing in faries and elves, in the existence of magic and the conversations of trees.

Broken promises are the hardest ones to forget....

Forgotten Language by Shel Silverstein
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

Why didn't any of you tell me about this man's work?

I blame all of you.


You Are Jeff

There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it, depending on which twin you are in love with at the time. Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advantage to remain impartial. Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands. The one in front will want to take you apart, and slowly. His deft and stubby fingers searching every shank and lock for weaknesses. You could love this boy with all your heart. The other brother only wants to stitch you back together. The sun shines down. It's a beautiful day. Consider the hairpin turn. Do not choose sides yet.

The rest is here... Go read it.
hsifeng: (Book Fortress)
Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend-
Bed awaits me at the end.

Though I go in pride and strength,
I'll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I'm bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-
I'm a fool to rise at all!

~ Dorothy Parker

(This was sent to me by a dear friend, it is a personal favorite of hers and I rather like it as well...)
hsifeng: (Book Fortress)

A conversation with my boss a few moments ago reminded me of this little jewel. My memory could only dig up the barest nugget, so I went mining the internet for the rest. I remember being this kid, having no idea how to formulate a believable sick-day excuse and instead coming up with Seussian levels of description of just how sick I was.

And honestly, sometimes I just wanted to stay home and watch cartoons on TV.


I Cannot Go To School Today!

by Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry.
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox.

And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue,
It might be the instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke.
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in.

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My toes are cold, my toes are numb,

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There's a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is ...
What? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is .............. Saturday?

G'bye, I'm going out to play!"


hsifeng: (Default)

June 2015

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