I miss you somethin' awful and love you even more...

Dearest George, 

Happy Birthday 

On what have been your 

69th year on Earth,

Now eternity in Heaven,

With love always, 

Donna

 

Acts of Kindness Ideas

Random Acts of Kindness Ideas

In celebration of a man who packed a lot of love and light in a relatively short life of 63 years, please enjoy the following clip. Some say that George even sounded a bit like Ray Benson with that deep singing voice. Asleep at the Wheel and Willie Nelson were at the top of his list of favorites. Enjoy.

"House of Blue Lights,"

Donnie Ray and Freddie Slack, 

performed by 

Ray Benson's Asleep at the Wheel

And Willie Nelson

"The Applicant," Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something’s missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it’s a poultice.
You have an eye, it’s an image.
My boy, it’s your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.-

Sylvia Plath

"Are you gonna liberate us girls 

from male, White corporate oppression?"

Sonic Youth,

"Kool Thing"

Between friends (To Judi...)

I will miss

Your unapologetic authenticity;

Your unwavering devotion;

Your uproarious laughter...

You.

I will miss you

...always,

d.

"...I answer the heroic question ‘Death, where is thy sting?' 

with ‘it is here in my heart and mind and memories,'"

Maya Angelou, "When I Think Of Death."

Judi, Bruce, and Ruffles

"We're after the same rainbow's end..."

"What is the Measure," Donika Kelly

For M

I catalog what I cannot capture:
the sun, its ragged stumble into rockface,
the precise elevation of this plateau or the next,
the sea, of course, against which everything is measured.

My tools are insufficient, inexact.

For instance: there is no way to measure
the peak against the distance from the tip
of one ring finger to the other, no matter
my arms’ position: outstretched, limp, akimbo.

For instance: there is no way to weigh
the earth pushed out of earth
against the gravity of my body, its bones,
its sacs, its meat and animating light.

I submit:
I do not constitute the mountain.
This, in spite of the pallet of old quilts
and newly fallen maple leaves I’ve made
at its immeasurable base.

I submit:
I do not constitute the field,
although I have harrowed its length, its width
with my narrow feet, my slow step.

Never mind I hear what scurries
or scatters, what burrows or bounds.

Never mind I raise my hand to hover
the bent grass, the echinacea’s bald crown—
all of which withers or writhes,
all of which is new or nearly the same
before my foot’s next fall.

I submit:
As with the mountain,
                                    the field.

As with the field,
                                    you,
ineluctable as a season, sun ragging the rockface.

Your arm, nearly as long as mine, your palm,
wider, your mouth a beginning, your eyes, of course,
against which everything else is measured.

You harrow and the summit writhes;
your broad foot falls, and the field, akimbo, gives up
its gravity, lets loose its bodies its bones,
thrums an animating light.-

Donika Kelly

Source: Poetry (June 2023)

The Poetry Foundation

Target Practice

I have a weapon,

Aimed directly at 

Your head.

A small red dot of

Susceptibility

Between the eyes,

An empty smile 

Slowly and steadily 

Emerges.

I have a weapon.

You have the bullets,

Lethal shots

Waiting to be played. 

You and I both know 

The game, yet

Only one of us is

The marksman.

I have a weapon:

Your hand is on

The trigger.

I laugh uncontrollably, 

Knowing it's just a

Matter of time:

Neither of us will

Survive.

But for now, 

We dance...

If you or someone you know is in crisis, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (800-273-8255) or text NAMI to 741-741.

The Feud

 

It would be so easy

To continue as we've always been.

Someone has to say,

"Enough already."

It might as well

be me.

Frenemies

"Because I am not 

one of your fans," 

Mommy Dearest, Christina Crawford

Sometimes I would like to ask

The Question

Rather than being

On the receiving end of

Bull Shit

Time and Time again.

But I already know

Our differences can't be resolved.

I've always known

The Reason

You may have never wanted to be

My friend,

But now I don't want to be

Yours....