Come jump into my arms, you furry-feathered verse!
I’ll know you when I see you, either wordy or terse.
Let your metaphor roll in like an occupying force
sit up high on your literary horse!
A shining black stallion, he snorts and passes by
leaving a desolated mule who gives a piteous sigh.
My metaphor has four legs and is not a happy guy.
He does not jump into my arms or even give a try.
But nuzzles me as though to say,
“Thanks for waiting for me today.”
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SURELY I CAN GRIPE ABOUT SOMETHING
On the boob tube I see the show on Spain, and they are eating what appears to be a baby pig’s face….
And then I recalled those words from Ernest Becker’s The Denial of Death: Creation is a nightmare spectacular taking place on a planet that has been soaked for hundreds of millions of years in the blood of all its creatures. The soberest conclusion that we could make about what has actually been taking place on the planet for about three billion years is that it is being turned into a vast pit of fertilizer. But the sun distracts our attention, always baking the blood dry, making things grow over it, and with its warmth giving the hope that comes with the organism’s comfort and expansiveness.
Today I read “How the Rights of Nature Movement Is Reshaping Law and Culture,” available at https;//observatory.wiki/w/index.php? “We need to develop this advocacy strategy and create new and better ways to protect our planet and all the living things that call it home. This won’t happen overnight. Legal change, cultural change, and shifts in worldviews all take time, but we must keep up the fight. By working together we can ensure that all living things on this planet can continue to thrive and survive.”
I know what rabbit and beef tongue taste like, but only because I didn’t know better, was young, and lived on a farm. But I never ate an octopus and won’t. They are reported to be “insanely intelligent” and can show affection for humans.
One year I gave spider catchers as Christmas presents.
When my daughters are out driving, they both stop to help a turtle cross the road.






I am a bear.
In the language of children, story telling means telling a falsehood—at least it did in my childhood. Now a number of learned individuals suggest that our lives—our selves—are no more real than the stories we think and believe and tell. Ohh that word “real.” Most folks today avoid that concept, I know.