Sunday in CinCity

Well, we missed the annual and fabulously phenomenal Northside Fourth of July Parade in order to make it down to CollegeGrrrl's Grandma's house for Gma's birthday/picnic celebration. It's a fairly short drive along the interstate to arrive at a manmade "country" environs with wild turkey and deer alongside the roadway. Grandma is 76 this year, looks much younger, and revels in this patchwork family that has been created through children, divorces, and second marriages. It works for us.

I found these parade highlights on youtube. No videos found of the Lawn Chair Brigade or the Men's Drill Team...if I find them, I will post them.



We made it home in time to see some fireworks on the horizon briefly light the sky. It was a rainy, foggy evening though and difficult to get much height before fizzling out.

Walked over to the cemetery down the street where our neighbors had some action going. Lotsa noise and smoke, but come on, fireworks in a graveyard is always fun with the spookiness added in for free.


There won't be any striking at Big Fat Teaching Hospital. The nurses' contract was ratified by the union membership by 75%. I think a fair amount of folks are disappointed in the current hospital leadership and the direction they're presenting for patient care, but feel unable to vote with their feet.

I'm still looking into travel nursing and am using this time to get some ducks in a row. I'd really like to get HoneyHaired through high school. So for right now, I'm staying put, getting some more competencies under my belt, and keeping my eyes and ears open. Hubby and I are excited, though about getting out and seeing different areas of the country. Coming soon to a town near you...and all that.

Hope everyone had a happy holiday &/or weekend and that not everyone's fireworks were rained out. If so, there's always Labor Day.

And, I can't resist...

Elvis has left the building:>)

Meditation on the Word Need

by Linda Rodriguez

The problem with words of emotion
is how easily meaning drains
from their fiddle-sweet sounds
and they become empty instruments.
I can say love
and mean desire to give—
open-handed, open-hearted—
or I am drawn to the light
shining from your soul—
or my life is empty without you—
or I want to run my hands
and mouth down the length of you—
or all of these at once.

Need, now, is a plain word.
I need a nail to hang this picture.
I need money to pay my bills.
I need air and light,
water and food,
shelter from storm and sun and cold.
To be healthy,
to be sane,
to survive,
I need you.

The Unanimous Declaration

of the Thirteen United States of America



...We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.



That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.

But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security...

Please note: photo by Joe Raedle/Getty

A U.S. Marine from the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, RCT 2nd Battalion 8th Marines Echo Co. deployed for Operation Khanjari on July 2, 2009 in Main Poshteh, Afghanistan, a mission to support the local Afghan population prepare for the upcoming presidential elections.

Secret Agent Man

by Joyce Sutphen



You looked so good at the top of the stairs
that I wonder if you might consider

standing at the bus stop near Franklin
and 22nd at about 6:30 AM,

wearing a dark overcoat and a red
scarf, nodding (just slightly) when

I pass, and I wouldn't mind looking
Out my office window at about

10 AM and seeing you (so small I
couldn't be sure) waving from

the far corner of the parking lot,
and then, at lunch, you could be

the mysterious man sitting in the bar,
the one who never turns around until

I am almost out the door with friends
who would have no idea who you are,

and it would be wonderful to see you
disguised as a UPS man, coming in

at 3 PM with a large package
full of various useless things

and a note, telling me exactly
where I could find you later on tonight.

PS. Burn Notice marathon. Delicious.

Freedom Glory Project

The Genius of Small-town America

by Norman Williams

Here our fathers stopped their westward push,
Not, God knows, for love of scenery or soil,
But because an ox gave out, an axle broke,
Or a child took with cholera or chills.
Now, their sons cross the fields like roofwalkers,
Chucking dirtclods at the crows, while in the shade
The women mutter of lost limbs and hopes.
Like a periodic curse, a drought this month
Has once more settled on the western plains,
Thickening the creeks, working into wayside barns,
And famishing the stock. On kitchen radios
One hears again the pulpit-pounding talk
And familiar promises of punishment,
That we have ourselves to blame for this,
Who lusted, craved and coveted—
But if sin lingers in these washed-up towns,
It could be only pride or stubbornness:
Each spring another crop of debt is sown,
And, though agencies attach the land,
Outbuildings, crops and unborn young, still
The beak-nosed men walk head-up and proud,
Convinced, against all evidence, that what
They've planted, built or reared is theirs,
And that, come the plague or Democrats,
They will die as they have lived, that is
In their good time, just when and how they choose.


please note: photo by Dorothea Lange

Sounds Great In Any Language

please note: sung with exiled Iranian singer, Andy Madadian

as always, peace be with you...

Why I Support the Green Revolution

"The difference between Ahmadinejad and Mousavi in terms of their actual policies may not be as great as has been advertised. Either way, we're going to be dealing with an Iranian regime that has historically been hostile to the United States, that has caused some trouble in the neighborhood and is pursuing nuclear weapons."--President Barack Obama

To further quote from Jonathan Gurwitz's editorial(Sunday, June 28, 2009. San Antonio Express-News),
"But what is taking place in Iran is about something fundamentally far greater than whether Mousavi is better than Ahmadinejad. It is about the Iranian people expressing a desire for freedom and truly democratic institutions. It is about the enduring conflict between those who use violence to retain power and the people who stand peacefully against that power.

We have seen them in many lands in recent decades — in Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, China, Ukraine and Lebanon. We've seen them in the United States, in Selma and Birmingham."


There's been made mention of similiarities in the recent perceived fraudulent elections in Iran and the "hanging chads" presidential elections in Florida in 2000. At least 10 families planning funerals and dozens of Iranian political prisoners could quite rightly take issue with this.


We in America were able to see our dispute follow the rule of law and take it to the Supreme Court, we were able to publicly protest, to write editorials and to bad-mouth our president behind his back and on late night talk shows for eight years.

I support the Green Revolution because I don't like bullies, I believe that Dissent Is Not A Crime, I believe in freedom of speech and thought, and that people have the right of self-determination. I also believe that any government whose crowd control tactics resemble the Flying Monkeys needs to be publicly admonished.



We need to always, and everywhere, fight the Flying Monkeys. We deserve better in this life.

The Effort

by Billy Collins

Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"

as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.

Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed

with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.

Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,

not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost.

So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—

to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.

find the cost of freedom buried in the ground...

I have torn speech like a tattered robe and let words go;
you who are still dressed in your clothes, sleep on.
--Jalaluddin Rumi, Iranian poet, translated by Jack Marshall


Support human rights in Iran.


please note: photo from Boston.com

support human rights in Iran

I'm starting a bit early. The green background is part of the support/awareness effort to add one more voice and ten more fingers, though I hunt and peck with two, to the support of human rights and freedom in Iran.

Sights and Sounds of Morning

by William Stobb


Run early get home coffee's automatically made
eat fruit shower dress kiss
wife leaving early hustle
children through the kitchen and out
to the sidewalk—love you be good
get smart be nice love you love you bye.
Now before I start writing this poem
water new grass seed planted
where dog piss brought up dirt.
After hose hiss something
walkie-talkie? in the alley
stop listen notice eventually count
at least six small birds
hunting the interior of our ancient lilac.
Mostly some kind of finch or sparrow
but one woodpecker in there I see
ripping bugs out of old wood.
Birds live this way but trees die
so I ring the chime to scare him off
like I can stop the processes.
Lovely pattern doesn't even
look at me—red crown striking striking
in decay I call landscaping.
Again the walkie-talkie
what the hell is going on I poke my nose
across the fenceline.
Between squad cars behind
my garage
two officers in riot gear
flank a neighbor smoking
a cigarette with his two
cuffed hands.

Saturday in CinCity

I try not to talk much about work because, after all, isn't that why we blog?? To travel down another road less familiar than our own?

However, the facts are that I work at a Big Fat Teaching Hospital which is full of unions. I worked there before the nurses had a union, was there as a student when the union was voted in and have been there while union strength has been gradually declining. There's a reason unions exist at this hospital and it's basically because there's not much respect by Administration for the nurses, or really any of us providing the hands-on labor.

Most of us live with that and ignore it because we have other agendas for working there--new nurses come in for the experiences they garner and then move on to travel assignments or, more recently, back to school. Older nurses, the Baby-Boomers, products of our peace-flower power-power to the people generation came and stayed because we felt called to work with the indigent and provide good care to all.
Times have changed though and healthcare is broken. It's difficult to provide good care to anyone. A collapsed system is equal opportunity. How American of us.



It's the end of June and our contract ends June 30th. Negotiations have been in place since March with little movement. The contract ratification begins tomorrow and may or may not pass. A NO vote means a strike. A YES vote means after 30 years of service I will now essentially be paying the hospital for the privilege of working there.

Either way, for this camel I do believe it's the last straw.

And Undoubtedly Saint Peter Is Right Now Styling His Footwork

Fare Thee Well, Angel

Farrah Fawcett.

A woman I don't believe reached her potential as an actor, but what the hell do I know?? She was gifted enough to be able to show strength and vulnerability coinciding in her characters.

Below is a tiny snippet of a role she had in The Apostle with Robert Duvall. I think maybe her best role. And Charlie's Angels--what a lark that was given the hullaballoo of the seventies.

In any event, rest well, Angel. Death could not dim your beauty.

Studio

by Liz Robbins

The couple in the rooms above me smoke. The smell
drifts down into their floor and through the cracks in my ceiling.
When I pass by them in the hall, they nod, Hello, hello, smile,
their arms bloomed with packages. He goes in daily
to an office. She travels to Paris with the airlines.
Once she came home with a sack overflowing with brie,
Gauloises, red wine. She smiled, shy, sideways. Down came
smoke, good silence, for days.

I lie in the dark. Dried roses, sage, scentless in a vase.
I inhale. The smell, the smell.

The man below me smokes also. The smell ascends
through his ceiling into the cracks in my floor. When I pass by,
he cries, How are you? shows his teeth, leaves bowls of chicken
stew outside my door. He never seems to leave, has money
all his own, mysteriously. Once he painted his rooms a beautiful
whorehouse red. Blonde men with long lashes come to his place
to say the weekend. They play Moroccan music, sitars. Cook
with cumin and garlic. Stars shine beyond the windows, two
or three in bright clusters, and the occasional one, alone.

Morning Song

by Sylvia Plath


Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

please note: photo by elsief1

Horse Country on Father's Day

A Blessing

by James Wright


Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Reverence

by Julie Cadwallader-Staub

The air vibrated
with the sound of cicadas
on those hot Missouri nights after sundown
when the grown-ups gathered on the wide back lawn,
sank into their slung-back canvas chairs
tall glasses of iced tea beading in the heat

and we sisters chased fireflies
reaching for them in the dark
admiring their compact black bodies
their orange stripes and seeking antennas
as they crawled to our fingertips
and clicked open into the night air.

In all the days and years that have followed,
I don't know that I've ever experienced
that same utter certainty of the goodness of life
that was as palpable
as the sound of the cicadas on those nights:

my sisters running around with me in the dark,
the murmur of the grown-ups' voices,
the way reverence mixes with amazement
to see such a small body
emit so much light.


On another note, leaving for a visit with our CollegeGrrrrl and will be gone for a few days. Hope everyone enjoys their weekends and Happy Fathers' Day to all the BabyDaddies out there:>)

When We're Gone, Long Gone

Seems like there are a few who have suffered some losses during the past week or two. This is one of the songs performed by Kasey Chambers and Shane Nicholson at the Prairie Home Companion show last Friday night. It has stuck with me and thought it may help soothe some others.



please note: song written by Kieran Kane. This has also been performed (and not shabbily, mind you) by Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Linda Ronstadt

Fifties Music

by Leslie Monsour

While women sip their daiquiries by the pool,
and men blow smoke into the jacarandas,
the radio plays "Fly Me to the Moon."

A child nearby, on finding a dead bee,
conducts its funeral in petunia beds,
as ants are trying to amputate a wing.

But even thought the bee is dead, it stings
her fiercely on the palm, and dies again.
She studies her small hand in disbelief.

Some fathers offer ice cubes from their highballs,
the station plays "Volare," and the bee
swings up to heaven on its single wing.

ATBBFDW**

Jackie: I don't like chatty. I don't do chatty.
I like quiet. Quiet and mean.
Those are my people.

I've seen bits and pieces of this show, not sure I'm in love with it, although might not mind working at her hospital. Nurse Jackie has a heck of a lot more free time than I do. Maybe she's just more organized and gets her charting done faster. Considering all the oxycodone she takes, maybe she draws hieroglyphics and calls it a day. But her lines...?? Make. Me. Laugh.

The Cure
by Ginger Andrews

Lying around all day
with some strange new deep blue
weekend funk, I'm not really asleep
when my sister calls
to say she's just hung up
from talking with Aunt Bertha
who is 89 and ill but managing
to take care of Uncle Frank
who is completely bed ridden.
Aunt Bert says
it's snowing there in Arkansas,
on Catfish Lane, and she hasn't been
able to walk out to their mailbox.
She's been suffering
from a bad case of the mulleygrubs.
The cure for the mulleygrubs,
she tells my sister,
is to get up and bake a cake.
If that doesn't do it, put on a red dress.


**appears to be breathing from door way