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HOLIDAY
WEEKEND |
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Rod & KubbyKat Too: Photo by Bob Gentry 4/26/2000
A Thought for Today
Remember this is Labor Day Weekend and your labors shouldn't consist of anything tougher than flipping a patty on the barbecue.
If you're traveling, travel safely. If you haven't checked the pressure in your tires or the treads on the outside, do so at the next gas station.
If you're having friends over, serve coffee last and skip the after-dinner drinks. And, if you're in doubt about a friend's sobriety, drive them home yourself or suggest a sleep over.
Remember that friends don't let friends drive when drunk. Have fun, but not at your own expense and especially not at any cost to others. Love, Rod
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Edward van Beinum
o Steve Boros o Eileen Brennan o Kitty Carlisle o Pauline Collins o Loren Eisley o Tompall Glaser o Wayne Green o Anne Jackson o Al Jardine o Freddie King o Alan Ladd o Tom Landry o Alison Lurie o Memphis o Irene Papas o Valerie Perrine o Ferdinand Porsche o Dixie Lee Ray o Charlie Sheen o Louis Henri Sullivan o Hank Thompson o Bob Ussery |
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Compassion is the ability to see other people's needs in the same perspective as our own.
Without an audience of one or more, what constitutes the validation of a thought or work?
Without regrets there are no aspirations. |
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WORDS ABOVE THE SIGNATURE |
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Because the bulls run
one week out of fifty-two
down Pamplona side streets
and I cannot outpace them
anymore.
And democracy's brass trumpets
blare from Spanish hill
to Spanish hill
(all sound, even echo, fading
before the tune is put in practice),
and Mijas has a four-lane highway
to and from;
and just a ferry ride away,
a certain city in North Africa
sits poised to snap tourists
into a poppy snare.
I walk on tiptoes through
the red / pink / amber fields
that fan out from it,
if I walk fields at all.
Because the arson match is struck
even on God's vaulted ceiling
(never mind whole neighborhoods
now torched to cinder and all gone),
and fire forgets its subjects' names,
is blind to street addresses -
confetti ashes spread across my yard,
one hundred miles of blazing brush.
Low animals that creep the ground
on fours,
are cooked to bones.
The lesser works of Big Magician
children, weak from circumstance,
powered men who battle flame
with fist and nozzle well connected
made poor and puny by a heat that seeks
and seizes all within its blanket reach.
A mother huddled in a bathtub,
lovers propagating on a Baldwin afternoon
no match for match.
I bury strikers deep.
Because the arsenals in every land
are piled and pyramiding out of sight -
thus out of conscientious mind;
men want stepping-stones to heaven
to be an alleyway of atoms
and there is no reversal anymore,
no rehearsal, just performance -
planned, unplanned, mistake,
unhappy accident -
a world that went
before a second coming.
Because no drums are drumming out
BEWARE
and no strong voice from government
or pulpit cries out loud enough, I care,
I no longer look across my shoulder,
worry over dented fenders
or try to figure out exactly why
some birds no longer sing the old songs.
Because this year
there must not be a Santa Claus,
I sign each letter I send out
with love.
It is the shortest word I know for hope.
Because I have more reasons
for with love
than paper I can put them on,
bill collector and computer generated page
will still get answers from me
with those words above my name.
It would not occur to me
to write sincerely yours
or best regards.
Please don't think it's something personal
(of course, it is).
I mean, with love is no big thing
except to sender and receiver.
You and me the true believers.
-from
"Valentines", 1986 |
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