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Monday, December 15, 2014

Returning to Our World Tuesday

I've been a long time gone, as I mentioned in a comment to our birding friend Phil in England, but I hope I'm back to contribute some days of my life to Our World Tuesday.
Today I'm ignoring the snow outside and sharing some photos from a summertime dog picnic. That's right. In the summer, Dick and Lindy and I attended a dogs' picnic party hosted by SOS Senior Dog Rescue. We adopted Lindy from SOS some five years ago, and we're not sure about her age, but we definitely know she is a senior dog these days.
I was concerned about her meeting other dogs now that she has lost her eyesight, but she had a wonderful time.

She enjoyed meeting other Golden Retrievers, shown here with their owners giving them instructions...

Lindy, of course, was the curliest, but the second dog from the left has some curls, also.

As it was a hot summer day, she was delighted to find one of the wading pools the SOS volunteers had placed around Kin Coulee Park for the dogs.

Mmm, this is good...

But not as good as sneaking behind the barbecue table to get a special treat...


A wonderful time was had by all.

Posted for

An old toad poem for Open Link Monday

I wrote this poem some time ago. I don't remember when, but as today is Monday, and Marian has asked us for a poem, any poem, old or new, for Open Link Monday, I'm hoping this might inspire me to write new poems after a long dry spell.

Posted for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.


I used to be a Toad
and I was happy
I used to be a Toad
and I was green
with great big yellow warts
on all my toadly parts
the funniest-looking toad
you’ve ever seen.

but then I hibernated
and I waited and I waited
to become a Toad again,
you see.

but waiting did no good
(hibernating, even less)
and I forgot how toadly
I had been.

I forgot my toadly parts
and only could see warts
where once there’d been
a lovely shade of green.

I used to be a poet
of nonsensical verse
but life somehow got worse
’til I lost my sense of verse,
becoming short and shrill and terse
instead of green.

by Kay L. Davies

Saturday, December 13, 2014

Lindy returns to visit Bozo in India

"Hi, Bozo," says Lindy. "Guess what! My mom and dad took me for a long, long car ride in our new car. There were so many highways that I had to wear my very own seatbelt. It's red, and kinda pretty.
"It was a fun trip, and when we got home, the paving crew was still working in our neighbourhood, with big, big, noisy machines. They were here for weeks and weeks and weeks.
"I will tell my mom to post some pictures from our road trip as soon as she can. My favourite place was in New Mexico, up in the mountains, where deer came to visit...the same kind of deer as we have at home. That made me happy. I can't see much any more, but I could smell them, and I knew they were our kind of deer. Oh, my mom says they're called "mule deer" because of their big ears."

Posted for Pet Pride
hosted by Lindy's friend Bozo and his family at their Pets Forever blog in India. Lindy misses her other blog friends, too, like Ambrose in Africa, and Yam Aunty in Scotland, so she is very happy to be back.

Lindy hears the road crew outside, and gets onto her window seat,
hoping to see something.

Big machines and big trucks were out on the street.
This big machine gobbled up the pavement and then threw it into a truck. Very exciting.

Late with my homogenia

I'm sharing the art and Wikipedia definition provided by MZ at Words Count with Mama Zen for her recent homophone challenge.
Fewer than 75 words, says Mama Zen...well, I can manage that. Formerly verbose, and happy with it, I have not so much improved as I have actually managed to shrink. Not what I wanted, really, but it means that if I return to verbosity, I will have therefore grown, if only in my own eyes.


homophone is a word that is pronounced the same as another word but differs in meaning, and may differ in spelling. The words may be spelled the same, such as rose (flower) and rose (past tense of "rise"), or differently, such as carat, caret, and carrot, or to, two, and too.                                                                                                                                                  –Wikipedia


we need to hire the right wright
to write the words for the rite
of marriage
and then—
the two greys who graze
in the field nearby
will wear white bridles 
as they pull the bridal coach

A mere 37 words, submitted late, by Kay Davies, December, 2014

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

I just had a birthday, so...

I just had a birthday, so
I got to wondering
if there’s a market
for Old Crone porn

(not to be mistaken
 for old cornpone,
 a market for which
 I’m pretty sure there’s not).
No, I was thinking
of wrinkling
in arms and legs and faces,
and many other places
elders got
(but youngsters have not).
Along with 
bellies that bag
and breasts that sag,
and all the hairs
on my chinny-chin-chin.
Do old guys
want to see them?
In living colour yet?
Or do they have
enough of that
themselves?
Fallen arches
in our feet,
and toenails which
we now can’t reach,
with aches and pains
in places that
we never even
knew we had,
before...
before Time, once our friend,
turned and bit us in the end,
and we can’t fight back,
because we need to nap.

Kay L. Davies, December, 2014                 

Saturday, November 15, 2014

The longest song I ever heard

The longest song I ever heard
but I remember every word,
and also I recall the day
the music died.

Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where I was once a toad myself, Kerry recently asked for poems about iconic people.

Many icons from my youth are said to be mentioned in the song Kerry posted in her challenge: American Pie by Don McLean. However, I've read that McLean hasn't agreed or disagreed with anyone's interpretation of what he calls "just poetry" so perhaps we'll never really know. On the other hand, I've also read online articles claiming they are McLean's explanation of the song.

"The day the music died" is said to refer to the day Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper (JP Richardson) died in a plane crash in 1959. I remember the three so well...







The first 45 rpm record I ever bought for myself was "Oh, Boy!" by Buddy Holly and the Crickets in 1958. Oh, boy, how I loved Buddy Holly!

Everyone thought The Big Bopper was a lot of fun and, believe it or not, his song "Chantilly Lace" was considered somewhat risqué, if not downright scandalous, by parents of the young crowd.

Ritchie Valens wasn't even 18 when he died, but his top song "La Bamba" reached a whole new audience when the movie of the same name was released in 1987.

Music is lovely
music is fine—
music is fatal
to fav'rites of mine:
Bobby Darin also died young
and Mama Cass as well.
Sam Cooke was shot
Otis Redding was not—
he died in a plane crash, too.
Accidents and overdoses,
claimed too many lives.
Brian Jones
of the Rolling Stones,
thought to be suicide.
Jim Morrison
and Janis Joplin,
Jimi Hendrix, too,
at twenty-seven
went to heaven,
all three far too soon.
The list goes on,
and on and on,
of singers dying young,
but in all, or many, cases
the music lives today.
The music
did not die,
after all.
Kay Davies, November, 2014                                                                                           

Thursday, September 25, 2014

All I want for Christmas...

There is a book I want for Christmas this year.
That's all, just one book.
In the latest issue of Canada's Maclean's Magazine, copy editor Larissa Liepins has reviewed "The Sense of Style: The Thinking Person's Guide to Writing in the 21st Century" by Canadian-born Steven Pinker.
Oh, yes, please. I need a guide to writing in the 21st century. My biggest problem is thinking too much, which makes this book an obvious choice for a thinking person like me.
Pinker also, says Liepins, "applies his considerable expertise in cognitive science and linguistics to crafting a modern-day style guide for, as he puts it, 'people who know how to write and want to write better'."
Oh yes, that would be me. I've been writing since I was six years old, and have had some experience in the craft, as well as some experience as a proofreader and copy editor, and I know quite a few other writers. I know that, deep down, we all want to write better. Many of us also need to know what the 21st century wants of us as writers.
"If you count yourself in that group," Liepins goes on, "you likely own a style bible of old, be it Strunk and White's The Elements of Style or Fowler's Modern English Usage" and you will find them "frequently in Pinker's crosshairs."
Okay, shoot, Mr. Pinker. I'll get over it, even if you malign those treasured tomes and tell us repeatedly that language purists are "sticklers, pedants, peevers, snobs, snoots, nitpickers, traditionalists, language police, usage nannies, grammar Nazis, and the Gotcha Gang"!
Sigh, but I will get over it.
I will get over it because scientist Pinker has convinced editor Liepins "that, not only will we not go to hell for splitting an infinitive, sometimes it's the only way to boldly go."
I like that.
I need someone with "expertise in cognitive science" as well as linguistics, who "mines everything from obituaries to Dear Abby columns for good writing."
Sigh again.
Writers of my advanced age will remember Dear Abby's skill with words, and may have, as I did, demanded of our parents and siblings, "Read this! What a great line!"
Now, just don't tell Steven Pinker that when I grow up I want to be Dave Barry.
***
I am linking this, quite belatedly, to Open Link Monday at my favourite writers' blog, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Thanks for being there, dear Toads.


Thursday, September 18, 2014

Get listed: The Art of War

Art? in war?
what’s war for?
the silent sound of children dying
tenderness of mothers crying
futility of fathers trying
to explain duty, alliance, tactics
to ears which now can’t hear.

In the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, this Wednesday’s word list was from a 1910 edition of The Art of War by Sun Tzu. An ancient book, it has been published and republished until the actual identity of the original author is lost in the mists of time.
And here we are, 100 years after “The War to End all Wars” and our world has never seen a prolonged period of peace.

I have chosen a few words from the list of 13 to include in a short poem on a subject that haunts us all.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Succinctly Yours in 140 characters

"How low can you go?" asks Grandma, at Grandma's Goulash.
Grandma has been asking that question for 182 weeks now, and I used to respond to it regularly. I've been remiss for some months now, but I'm back, at least for today.

Grandma posts a picture for participants, and asks us to write a short story about it in 140 words or 140 characters. I always like to use 140 characters. It's challenging, and it's fun. This week, my contribution consists of a short conversation in 140 characters.
There's usually a word of the week, too, and I like to fit it in if I can. This week's word is "deal".


"What is that animal doing up there?
Someone get it down! I don't want any animals in here."
"Oh, it's no big deal. He's just a little kid."