I’m a plumber’s grandson.
And the son of an accountant.
I believe managers need to have hands-on experience of what they’re expecting from others.
Tag: Funky
When it comes to a cowboy hat
Even as a kid, my Far West was Montana rather than Texas.
I have no idea where that originated. I had been no further west than Tom Sawyer’s Hannibal, Missouri.
For those of my generation, perhaps for a high-school class reunion
Did any of us intend to live this long?
Much less like this?
Trying to make sense of the world
Thinking without words? How about being born deaf? How would you conceptualize anything?
The inner dialogue to get through a day., things like “Let’s take a shower.”
And then? “Let’s eat,” even if it’s only one plate.
~*~
What does the dog know
that I don’t?
Not up for dealing with others?
She’s tired of talking socially
and so am I
We have calling hours
and a funeral ahead
Individual life as a mosaic
The thought hit me while scrolling through old posts on this blog.
Does anyone you know actually maintain a tightly focused life?
You know, someone who proclaims, ”These are my goals and I’m sticking to them”?
Or is it more a matter of steering between the many things that just pop up, like they do on the merry-go-round here at the Red Barn?
Or more like a pinball machine, for those of us of a certain age?
In the end you just have to patch together whatever you can from the pieces, even while trying to fit them to the other folks around you?
In those seemingly endless days of fog
Moody, sometimes chilly or clammy …
The foghorn from Canada, with its mournful G-note pitch …
Memories of Seattle …
Unseen dripping …
Garden slugs underfoot …
A wash of gray in such contrast to the glorious sunrises I’ve witnessed and photographed … yes, everything’s muted.
Nocturn
Yes, I loved her
imperfectly
the night, then, unclouded
from above or below
Maybe this summer I won’t be taking photos
Like read a very big book instead?
Looking for the pearls
When I first began reading contemporary poetry (for pleasure, independent of classroom assignment), I often sensed the poem existed as a single line or two, with the rest of the work as window dressing.
Now I read the Psalms much the same way, for the poem within the poem, or at least the nugget I’m to wrestle with on this occasion. Psalm 81, for instance, has both the “voice in thunder” and “honey from rock.” What exactly are those in my own experience?
Jnana's Red Barn 