The one-l lama,
He’s a priest.
The two-l llama,
He’s a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn’t any
poem: the Llama, Ogden Nash
images from 8 awesome antique llamas. this one with Harriet Chalmers Adams
“He could see the grave site from his studio and his apartment.”
final resting place: here
image: Paolo Soleri at Arcosanti, Cordes Junction, Ariz., August 2000
paolo soleri: June 21,1919 – April 9, 2013
I am sand. My eyes grainy, tears brown,
and what of the different tones of bees or flies,
how a sting can kill us?
I’m speaking the language of smokers,
lung-full and wary, breathing a refinery chore,
my eyes black pits, Historically
I was fruit, voluptuous and campy, some might say
exotic, cheekbones native, my hips swaying.
“I will be gone from here and sing my songs
In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are
And carve in letters on the little trees
The story of my love, and as the trees
Will grow the letters too will grow, to cry
In a louder voice the story of my love…”
“…Omnia vincit Amor, et nos cedamus Amori.”
1. “The Eclogues of Virgil”
Once I had a child
She was smiling like sunshine
She could see it all
Like she’d been here before
here before vashti bunyan
1. meet jellyspoons, mocha, and james
3. llama kisses
Take, from my palms, for joy, for ease,
A little honey, a little sun,
That we may obey Persephone’s bees.
You can’t untie a boat unmoored.
Fur-shod shadows can’t be heard,
Nor terror, in this life, mastered.
Love, what’s left for us, and of us, is this
Living remnant, loving revenant, brief kiss
Like a bee flying completed dying hiveless
To find in the forest’s heart a home,
Night’s never-ending hum,
Thriving on meadowsweet, mint, and time.
Take, for all that is good, for all that is gone,
That it may lie rough and real against your collarbone,
This string of bees, that once turned honey into sun.
the necklace, osip mandelstam
The rooster frantically gathered the gang of hens, wrangling them up toward the backyard pasture.
Sitting on the wooden fence, a hawk watched and waited for the opportune moment to strike. It never arrived. The black rooster had successfully ushered the hens to safety.
Afterward, the hawk, perhaps more curious and contemplative than hungry, spread out its wings and flew away – up into the old pine tree across the street.
An old folklore:
If a hawk is flying above, throw a horseshoe into the fire and leave it there until hot; and the bird’s claws will become so clinched that it will be unable to capture your chickens.
“Why do farmers farm, given their economic adversities on top of the many frustrations and difficulties normal to farming? And always the answer is: “Love. They must do it for love.” Farmers farm for the love of farming. They love to watch and nurture the growth of plants. They love to live in the presence of animals. They love to work outdoors. They love the weather, maybe even when it is making them miserable. They love to live where they work and to work where they live. If the scale of their farming is small enough, they like to work in the company of their children and with the help of their children. They love the measure of independence that farm life can still provide. I have an idea that a lot of farmers have gone to a lot of trouble merely to be self-employed to live at least a part of their lives without a boss.”
― Wendell Berry, Bringing it to the Table: Writings on Farming and Food