I just dropped the price of
the permaculture playing cards
for a wee bit.

 

 

uses include:
- infecting brains with permaculture
- convincing folks that you are not crazy
- gift giving obligations
- stocking stuffer
- gambling distraction
- an hour or two of reading
- find the needle
- find the 26 hidden names

clickity-click-click

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Poem of the day  RSS feed

 
Posts: 562
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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Spring Morning After Berry

  by Dan Grubbs

As morning fog billows on the pasture hillside
at the intersection of dawn and full light,
the great boiling ball creates glistening diamond dew
crowning brome, curly dock, red clover, and alfalfa.
Accompanying is the caw of red-wing blackbird
underneath the melody of western meadowlark.
Chicks that have left their brooder,
scratch their way to what is good and healthful.
I am arrested in the moment
standing in still air, toes soaked,
arms akimbo with fists at my hips.
Sounds are pure and clear as I squint at the rising orb
when even the wing feather of passing dove is heard.
I suppress the reel of the city
winding me in to itself.
Pausing here, in this bucolic moment,
I breathe easy and even,
my shoulders and neck decompress
and I feel creation’s power as God’s gift of love,
this our intended home
where worship feels natural and right.
 
Posts: 6154
Location: Arkansas Ozarks zone 7 alluvial,black,deep loam/clay with few rocks, wonderful creek bottom!
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bike chicken fungi trees urban woodworking
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all four are wonderful Dan!  I knew that you were a writer....so should have expected poetry.  Reminds me of Wendell Berry....such lovely descriptions of the natural world and sentiment towards it....
 
gardener
Posts: 6915
Location: Victoria British Columbia-Canada
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You squeezed a lot of seasons and weather in to those four. Sometimes it's fun with poems or other writing to imagine it done in the voice of someone well-known for voice work. Perhaps Christopher Plummer or David Attenborough.
 
Dan Grubbs
Posts: 562
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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James Earl Jones, Morgan Freeman, and Don LaFontain would also be fun to hear something that is more dramatic.
 
Dan Grubbs
Posts: 562
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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Folly of the Plymouth hen

By Dan Grubbs

In her best imitation of a cock
the Plymouth hen took roost
upon a ledge of masonry rock.
Squawks and cackles alerted
to her claim of the special spot.

Nestling now, fluffing her down,
Plymouth hen sits to lay her egg.
Precariously perched now
evidence of her past attempts
lay splattered below on the ground.
 
Dan Grubbs
Posts: 562
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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This one has sparked debate before with those who are dedicated to what they believe is the scientific method.

The sin of reduction

By Dan Grubbs

The divorce of things from things
is a science that leads to false understanding.
When the whole is parsed and broken
in the hubris that we can know it by its parts
we profane what we consider and examine.

Once reassembled, the new false thing
is not considered in the mind
of the observer who can now not unthink
the whole reduced to so many pieces.
In this profanity our sin is discovered as we move
and plan under assumptions in error.
 
Dan Grubbs
Posts: 562
Location: northwest Missouri, USA
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My latest poem. It was an experiment to force myself to work within some kind of structure. I vary rarely work with a rhyming scheme or a meter, so I wanted a different kind of structure. Love to know what you all think.

The Opera of the Bonfire

By Dan Grubbs
For Danielle Barger

Overture

Shattered branches splinter,
giving way forming tinder.
Logs stand leaning dependently together
soon teased from below
and lighted as ignition jumps from twig.
Dry wood yields to fire
converted to ephemeral heat
that is felt but not touched.
The ball of orange, though low,
is born and now in its form.

Act One

Snaps and pops punctuate
the song of the fire.
The lyrics of crackles
call to me as listener.
The score is perfect to accompany
the flashes of color and flame.
Tongues flick yellow, red, and orange
against the black canvas of night.
Sparks fly as wind-born dancers
flitting and swirling at the maestro’s hand.

Act Two

Once restless, now motionless and silent
we watch flames reach and scorch wood.
Heat changing matter from matter
as gasses erupt or whistle.
Some sentinels fall and pile below,
throbbing a pulse of the fire’s heart.
Red spears are thrown into the night air
and the roar is heard at a distance.
The fire consumes all it is fed
and ravenous in climax, it wants more.

Act Three

Eyes weigh heavy so the pit is starved
of the fuel the flame craves for life.
Darts of color now scramble lower, quieter
as the dragon seeks the last morsels.
Ash grows deeper and adorns coals
that try to shine orange through new grey cloak.
As it dies and its dome of heat recedes,
the show unknots to reveal the truth.
The curtain of day lowers without call
leaving only a memory of a performance.
 
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