Monday's Poetry: "The Shortest Day"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Yesterday marked the Winter Solstice, or the shortest day in the northern hemisphere (and the longest day in the southern hemisphere).  This morning, several hours ago in England, a large group of pagans, druids, and tourists snapping pictures gathered at Stonehenge to celebrate the rebirth of the sun - the morning when the amount of daily sunlight begins increasing.  This event has been celebrated by peoples in different parts of the world well back into ancient times when monuments - like Stonehenge - were erected to show the people exactly when their new year was beginning.

It is a time that has been noted and celebrated long before the birth of the Christ.  Modern religious scholars and others believe, in fact, that there is no basis for Christ's birthday being celebrated on December 25th - for a couple of reasons.  First, it is doubtful that any shepherds were tending their flocks in the fields in December, and second, taxes were normally not collected in the winter because of the poor conditions of the roads and the rigors of traveling in the cold.  Most believe that the birth of Jesus probably occurred in the spring or in the fall.

The early Christians and Romans settled on a December birthday about four centuries after the holy event in an effort to bring the pagans, who already had celebrations going in December, more easily into the fold of Christianity.

Susan Cooper is a renowned British author and poet.  One of her minor claims to fame is that her first job was working for Ian Fleming, the novelist who created James Bond.  Ms. Cooper penned the following poem, The Shortest Day, as an ode to the Winter Solstice.  It's a beautiful work, one that captures the history and essence of this unique celebration of nature.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

The Shortest Day

by Susan Cooper

“So the shortest day came, and the year died,

And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world

Came people singing, dancing,

To drive the dark away.

They lighted candles in the winter trees;

…They hung their homes with evergreen;

They burned beseeching fires all night long

To keep the year alive,

And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake

They shouted, reveling.

Through all the frosty ages you can hear them

Echoing behind us – Listen!!

All the long echoes sing the same delight,

This shortest day,

As promise wakens in the sleeping land:

They carol, fest, give thanks,

And dearly love their friends,

And hope for peace.

And so do we, here, now,

This year and every year.

Welcome Yule!!”

My Three Favorite Holiday Movies

Pa Rock
Movie Fan

Yes, yes, they are all over the television channels now - even the cheap channels that I receive - those tales of reindeer, and snowmen, and Santas, and elves, religious epics, and the standard tear-jerkers like Miracle on 34th Street (yeah, Macy's!) and It's a Wonderful Life - and  Clark W. Griswold is still out there stringing lights and creating an eyesore that can be seen from space.  It's Christmas-time and the holiday movies are as thick and deep as the snow in North Pole, Alaska.

While I am jaded enough to not particularly enjoy these seasonal film regurgitations, there are three which I watch whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Each, in its own way, delivers a message of hope and happiness and Christmas cheer.

My third favorite holiday movie is Home Alone, the 1990 classic in which an eight-year-old Macaulay Culkin accidentally gets left at home in Chicago as his parents and other family members rush to catch a plane to France for the holidays.  The accidentally-abandoned boy  makes his own Christmas, terrorizes a pair of burglars, and helps and old man reunite with his estranged family.  My son, Tim, who was around eleven at the time, asked me to take him to see this movie, and we both had a great time laughing and snarfing down popcorn.

My second favorite holiday movie is 2004's quasi-animated Polar Express starring Tom Hanks in what I consider to be one of his best roles.  The story of a special train taking children on a nighttime journey to the North Pole is from a beautiful children's book by Chris Van Allsburg.   I babysat for my grandson, Sebastian, when he was just a few months old and we watched that movie.  Several years later when I was visiting Sebastian and his family in Oregon, the kids had their regular Saturday movie night.  The movie they watched was Polar Express - and their mother, my daughter - Molly - told me that was the movie they wanted to see every week.

(When my children were young the movie they got "stuck" on was Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.)

And my all-time favorite holiday movie is . . . (drum roll, please!) . . . The Ref, an enormously funny 1994 tale of a professional house burglar (Denis Leary) who is forced to take a couple of hostages as he flees the police.  Unfortunately for the burglar, he kidnaps the couple from hell (Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey).  This movie, like Danny Devito's and Bette Midler's Ruthless People, is one more take on O. Henry's classic, The Ransom of Red Chief, the tale of kidnappers who snatch a kid and instead of collecting a ransom from the kid's grandfather, wind up having to pay the old man to take the ornery child back.  The Ref is hysterical - and I never tire of it!

So those are my big three.   Unbelievably I haven't come across any of them playing this holiday season, but I remain ever hopeful.  Until then I guess I am stuck with angels trying to earn their wings, a red-nosed reindeer, and annoying little elves.   Ho, ho, ho!

Roadkill at the Roost

by Pa Rock
Struggling Farmer

I get up each morning a little before daybreak to take Rosie outside to do her business and to let the chickens out of their nighttime confinement.  After those pre-dawn chores are finished, I will sometimes go back to bed for awhile - depending on how I feel and what else needs to be accomplished on that particular day.

This morning I went back to bed.

However, before I could slip back into slumber, I heard a truck pulling into my driveway and then someone tapping at my front door.  Company is such a rarity at my place, that I quickly threw on some clothes and rushed to the door.  A young man was standing there, hat in hand - literally.  He asked if I had some brown chickens, and when I told him that I did, he pointed down the road and said that he had just run over one.  He said that they were in the road as he came upon them, and he was able to avoid all but one.  The fellow apologized for killing my little red hen, and he even offered to pay for her.  I declined, saying that anyone who lets his chickens walk around unsupervised has to expect things to happen.

(My new roosters are from across the road - right where the accident happened - so I figure they led the girls astray while looking to see what was happening at their former home.)

People drive too fast on these old country lanes.  I am hopeful that the guy who hit my chicken will be just a bit more cautious in the future.  The next thing that he, or any of us, encounters in the road might just be a child - or some old fart looking for his chickens!

I guess not every chicken is able to cross the road!

Kim Does Sony

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

A couple of days ago when I first heard that Sony Pictures had decided not to release their new film, The Interview, on Christmas Day - as planned - due to a cyber attack and threats believed to be from North Korea, I thought:  "Wow!  When Sony finally does release this James Franco - Seth Rogen comedy, it will make a fortune!  Everyone is going to rush to see it!  What a lucky break for Sony!"

Just hearing the initial headlines, my assumption was that Sony was taking advantage of the situation by delaying the release and stirring publicity, and would be sitting on a gold mine.  It now looks like that wasn't the case at all.

Hackers, presumably the North Koreans, published private information on-line about thousands of Sony employees - names, social security numbers, email and home addresses, and texts of emails - which undoubtedly scared the bejeezus out of the people at Sony.  The hackers also spread the word to theatre chains that some of their theaters would be blown up if they showed The Interview, a satirical comedy that poked fun at North Korean President Kim Jong-un.  Those big theatre chains then told Sony that they would not show the movie, and Sony had little choicer but to cancel its planned release.  The bullies had won based solely on a threat.

Conjecture is that the lawyers for the theatre chains told their clients that if they showed the movie after having received the threats, they would be liable in the event of a bombing.

Actor George Clooney and his agent circulated a petition of support for Sony Pictures around Hollywood that could not get any traction, or signatures, because no one wanted to put themselves in North Korea's gunsights.

So North Korea hacked a Japanese company and delayed (or, more likely, stopped) the release of an American movie.  That whole scenario would itself make a fine movie - but one that is unlikely to get made any time soon.  That's very scary and very sad.   If a little terrorist state can bring Sony Pictures to its knees, attacks on other world commercial enterprises are sure to follow.

This week it was a movie company.  What will it be tomorrow:  a major banking chain, a national retailer, a university system, a sports team, a public utility?  The internet has become a necessary and vital part of our communication's infrastructure - one that must be secured and protected, not by telecom companies or other corporate overlords whose focus is on profit - but by our government itself.  It's that important!

The Cold War Is Over!

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

The Unite States placed an embargo on Cuba in the early 1960's, shortly after the island's revolutionary leader, Fidel Castro, declared his regime to be socialist in nature and began nationalizing the mainstays of the country's economy.   President Kennedy let the CIA and a couple of power-addled generals convince him to launch an attack on Cuba in 1962 which failed miserably, and ever since that time most of the communications between the two countries (which are only ninety miles apart) has been hostile in nature.

Many wealthy Cubans fled the island during the early years of Castro's leadership, unwilling to share their wealth and privilege with the masses.  Most came to the United States.  Today several generations of these Cuban-Americans live in the U.S., primarily in Florida, where they have accumulated considerable political power.

But time changes things, and five decades can change quite a bit.  Older Cuban-Americans, those past the age of seventy, are still opposed to "normalizing" relations with Cuba, many, no doubt, harboring hopes of one day reclaiming their homeland and their lost property.  But those over the age of seventy (the Fox News cohort) represent the only age demographic which still opposes normalization - young Cuban Americans do not.

So this week, with a wonderful assist from Pope Francis, President Obama and Raul Castro swapped a few prisoners and announced that things are changing.  It isn't clear what "normalization" will mean, but I for one am hopeful that Americans will finally be permitted to make direct visits to the island nation without having to sneak in through Montreal or Toronto or Mexico City.  (Cuba has always been part of my bucket list.)

The two governments have been meeting secretly for some time in order to pull off this accord.  Predictably, some Republican politicians, those dependent on the votes of elderly Cuban-Americans, are opposed to any form of reconciliation - but all of their bluster and rage will not hold back the inevitable.

President Obama is to be commended for his successful efforts at finally bringing this last vestige of the Cold War to a close.  He is slowly, but very courageously, leading us into a better future - one that makes sense and provides hope of lasting peace.

And Pope Francis is simply amazing!  Thank you, Your Holiness, for making religion a relevant and positive force in the course of history.

Happy Birthday to Molly Files, a Very Busy Lady

by Pa Rock
Proud Parent

My middle child (and only daughter), Molly Macy Files, was born thirty-eight years ago today at Freeman Hospital in Joplin, MIssouri.  There were thirty-some babies born at Freeman that day, and when my parents showed up to see her for the first time that evening, the nursing staff had Molly on the front row.  She had been born with little red ringlets of hair.   As my mother looked over the sea of babies in the nursery window, she pointed at Molly and said, "That's our baby!"  She said she knew by the red hair.

I'm sure that life had its challenges for Molly, being sandwiched between two brothers and having her father as principal of a couple of different schools that she attended, but she seems to have survived all of that and is doing well.  She now has a husband, Scott Files, and three beautiful children.  They live in Oregon which means that I don't get to see Molly and Scott and my grandkids as often as I would like.

From what I can tell, Molly and Scott are the textbook examples of involved parents.  Sebastian is seven now and in first grade.  I understand that he has a karate lesson this evening after school and Molly will be with him for that.  Judah is five and in pre-school.  Molly will be volunteering in his classroom all day today.  Little Willow has just turned three and has yet to start school.  I am certain that she will not be far from her mother at any time today.  In addition to all of that activity, my daughter also has a couple of appointments to shuffle into her day.

(That's why young people have children - and not us old foggies.  We could never handle the pace!)

Happy birthday, Molly.  I am very proud of you and all that you do to keep your family functioning so well and staying so happy!

NRA Gets Shot Down for Christmas

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

It's rare that the National Rifle Association loses a political battle, but thanks to an inadvertent assist from Texas whack-job Senator Ted Cruz, the NRA got its ass kicked by Congress over the weekend - and kicked good!

The NRA, a shill for America's gun manufacturers, uses its money and influence to terrorize politicians at every level of government.  The organization is unrelenting in its opposition to all legislation which  seeks to put any limitations at all on America's gun craziness.

Last January President Obama irked the NRA bullies by nominating Dr. Vivek Murthy to be Surgeon General of the United States.  Apparently at some point in his very illustrious career Dr. Murthy had the temerity to state the obvious - that guns are a public health issue in America.  The NRA immediately sent out marching orders of "do not confirm" to Congress.  The nomination has been stalled, primarily by Republicans, for the entire year and would have undoubtedly been withdrawn when the new Congress convenes next month.

But then Senator Cruz stepped in it.

As Congress was in the process of adjourning last Friday, Cruz wanted a vote on whether the President's executive order on immigration was legal or not.  Harry Reid, the Democratic Majority Leader, used Cruz's request to stay in session over the weekend.  Some Republicans had already left, and the remaining Democrats were able to push through several judicial and executive branch appointments - including the nomination of Dr. Murthy who was approved on a vote of 51-43 Monday evening.

Good one, Ted.  I'm sure Dr. Murthy and those new federal judges really appreciate you.  I know I do!

Circling a Big Chunk of the Ozarks

by Pa Rock
Road Warrior

I saw a television show once, possibly an early episode of Bonanza, where an immigrant had won a bet or somehow come to an agreement with a rich land owner where he would be permitted to own all of the land that he could walk around in a day.  The fellow kept rushing forward and going for more and more land until he finally died of exhaustion near sundown.   He breathed his last and then fell down at the top of the final hill.  The greedy guy who kept wanting more was pronounced dead just after he rolled up against the stake that marked where he had begun – and so his heirs acquired the land, and he, presumably, got a nice burial plot.

I thought of that today as I drove the wheels  off of my little Saturn Vue.   My house guest and I left the Roost early and headed south to Mountain Home, Arkansas, and then west through Yellville and on to Harrison.  We turned north at Harrison and soon crossed back into Missouri.  At Branson we did a side tour to see the famous strip where all of the big stars used to have their theatres – and on to Old Matt’s Cabin.  It was then on to Springfield where I dropped my friend at the airport.  After that I did a bit of Christmas shopping and attended a medical appointment in Springfield.  My trip back to West Plains was due east along Highway 60.

All in all I drove over three hundred miles today in one enormous circle.    If I could claim title to everything I encircled, I would be one rich individual -  with a helluva lot to mow!

(In addition to today's tour, my friend Murphy also got to visit Alley Spring State Park and mill in Shannon County, Missouri,  and the spring and fish hatchery at Mammoth Spring, Arkansas.  He saw quite a bit of the Ozarks in two-and-a-half days!)

Exodus: Gods and Kings (and 3-D Things)

by Pa Rock
Movie Fan

My friend, Daniel Murphy, and I went to the local movie house last night where we saw Ridley Scott's new movie, Exodus:  Gods and Kings, a Biblical classic that has made it to film several times in the past.  It is, of course, the story of Moses learning that he was born a Hebrew, being banished from the royal court of Egypt because of his ethnicity, and then leading his people out of Egypt - thanks to an able assist from God who parted the Red Sea so they could leave.

First of all, the movie was well done - something of which Charlton Heston would have probably been proud - especially if the armies of Egyptians and Jews could have been armed with rifles instead of bows and arrows.  But even without guns, the battles were colorful, savage, and epic.  And when the military efforts of the Jews were not going well, God stepped in with plagues of frogs, flies, locusts, cyclones, lightening, and even a good hail storm,

The movie starred Christian Bale, who played a passable Moses.  (If one can accept God parting the Red Sea, I suppose one must also be open to the notion of Christian Bale as Moses.)  John Turturo was interesting as the Pharaoh Seti.  There was a young boy of about twelve or so who did an outstanding job of playing God (or God's messenger) and bossing Moses around.   The kid resembled a Buddhist more than the God of the Jews as he made tea and pronouncements while Moses dutifully carved his famous tablets.

The staging and photography were extraordinarily good, though curiously director Scott chose to make the film in 3-D.  The last time I remember donning 3-D glasses was at a movie theatre in Manhattan, Kansas, in the early 1970's to watch a soft-core porn film about stewardesses.  The 3-D effects in Exodus were much sharper than those I remembered from the stewardess epic.  But why 3-D, Ridley, for a complicated Biblical tale.  I found it to be a bit unsettling.

I wouldn't go see Exodus:  Gods and Kings again, but watching it once was almost worth the eight dollars admission.

And Ridley, 3-D might be better suited for a Ninja Turtles thriller.  (Just saying.)

Several Hundred Friends Drop In for Breakfast

by Pa Rock
Nature Lover

It is early Saturday morning here in the Ozarks.  The weather has turned unseasonably warm and should remain so through tomorrow.   The valley out across the road is still shrouded in mist, but it is quickly lifting.  It should be a beautiful day.  Life would be lovely if the whole winter could remain this nice.

The roosters are out bidding the entire neighborhood "good morning!"

There are a couple of hundred guests at the feeder in the redbud tree just outside of my front window.  They are small black birds - about the size of sparrows.   The birds look like black leaves moving about in the tree when suddenly an imaginary gust of wind will hit and send them all fluttering to the ground where they breakfast on feed that has fallen beneath the feeder.  After a minute or two of feeding, they rise en masse and fly off.  Minutes later they are back flitting about in the old redbud tree pretending to be the last leaves of winter.

It doesn't get any more peaceful than this!

I made a trip to Springfield yesterday to pick my friend from Okinawa up at the airport.  This is Daniel's first trip to the Ozarks, and today we will get out and see some of the local sights.  Having Valerie here before him was good practice because now I know how to get to the local sights without getting lost.

Rosie spent the night with her friends Riley and Gin while I was away, and she still isn't home yet.  The place seems like midnight at a morgue without her.   (The poor little girl got in so much trouble yesterday for chewing up a lottery ticket.  It will undoubtedly turn out to be tonight's big winner!)

The day pulls forward and my little birds have flown off.  I must get out and refill the feeder so that it is ready for the brunch rush!

Changing Company

by Pa Rock
Inn Keeper

My friend, Valerie, who visited at the farm nearly two weeks while she was en route from her old job in Germany to her new job on Okinawa, left last Thursday - and the week since her departure has been strangely quiet for Rosie and me.   Rosie, in particular, has missed all of Valerie's kind attentions.

This evening we are welcoming another traveler from a foreign port into our home, but this one, alas, will only be with us for a long weekend.  My friend, Daniel Murphy, is a psychologist who has worked on Okinawa for the past six years or so - and that is where I know him from.  Daniel is about to change jobs also and will be relocating to mainland Japan - but in the interim he is doing a quick tour of the States in order to catch up with assorted relatives and friends.

I don't know if Daniel has had much experience with dogs or not, but Rosie is certain not to let him ignore her!

Company at Rock's Roost always helps to brighten the cold and gray winter days - for both of us!

Dog Biscuit, Please

by Pa Rock
Dog Chauffeur

My little dog, Rosie, is a blur of constant movement when she's not sleeping.   She plays hard in the house, and anytime the door is open she will dart outside to chase squirrels and chickens.  The chickens will sometimes chase her back, but the squirrels never do.  She also loves to ride in the car-car, and we have recently bought a little used farm truck, and she loves to ride in it also.

Rosie likes to climb up onto my lap and place her nose against the side window while I drive.   She doesn't like to hang her head out of the window like some dogs do, and that is a good thing because she is so small that a passing breeze could suck her out of the car.

My little dog learned early on that drive-through windows are special places.   Our local bank always gives her a dog biscuit when we pull in there, so operating on the Skinnerian principal of intermittent reinforcement, she rushes  forward whenever we go to any drive-through.  She is always hopeful for another dog biscuit.  Sadly what often happens is that the person at the window gives me a bag of food that smells wonderful, and I won't share.  It's probably a good thing for me that Rosie is so small, or I might have a Cujo on my hands!

Today, after two ladies at a drive-through oohed-and-aahed over Rosie, one turned to the other and said, "We really ought to get some dog biscuits to have at the window."

Yes, ladies, you should!

The Skyrocketing Price of Buying an Election

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

I read an opinion piece recently which suggested that our betters, America's billionaires, are growing weary of writing more and bigger checks in order to control our democratic process.   In particular, they feel that the Republican Party should be able to settle on an acceptable (to them) standard bearer more expeditiously and more cheaply than was the case in 2012.   They finally wound up with a candidate who realized the importance of unfettered capitalism, but the process of getting there gave every nitwit with a message or a grudge the opportunity to stir the national opinion pot.

The process was not efficient, and it certainly was not cheap.  And it was brutal to the point that their eventual nominee was too damaged in the primary battles to win the national election.

Now, according to the article I read, the handful of fat cats who own the Republican Party are focused on trying to come up with schemes that will rush the selection process and winnow the field early on.  That would include things like a shorter primary season, fewer debates, and dumping more money at the front end to discourage underfunded candidates from even getting involved.   Clearly they would like to stifle the rabble whom they have used so shamelessly in the past.   The games were fun, but they are over, and now it's time for the rich grown-ups to run the show.

It was noted in the piece that the billionaires running the GOP have three candidates whom they prefer:  Chris Christie, Jeb Bush, and Mitt Romney.   Each of those have executive experience from running a state government, each is white, each is male, and each understands the importance of money and influence in the political process.   They are men of honor who once bought would likely stay bought.

And in the event Chris the Bully, Jeb the Bush, or Mitt the Re-tread proved unable to win the national election, Mrs. Bill Clinton also knows and appreciates how things work.

The boys with the billions might just get this one on the cheap!

Nightmare Politics: Nugent - Palin 2016

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Last week I mentioned a particularly disturbing and offensive bumper sticker that I had seen on a nice vehicle in Springfield, Missouri.  The racist screed seemed to be promoting the right of police to indiscriminately murder young black people.   It said simply, "Pants Up - Don't Loot."  That abhorrent attitude will shift dramatically the day a black cop kills an unarmed white teen - but until that day arrives we will have to live with the majority notion that the police are never wrong.

This morning I read a tweet that was suggesting the idea of a Ted Nugent - Sarah Palin GOP ticket in 2016.  (I'm not sure why Teddy was placed at the head of that nightmare ticket, but the promoter probably deemed Nugent to be the smarter of the two.  I don't know if I share that view or not,  because I get confused ciphering with negative numbers.)

Of course, there are more than a few Democrats who would like to see that pairing carrying the GOP banner in the next national election, and it could happen because the modern version of "The Party of Lincoln" seems to get crazier with each passing day.  We need to be cautious with what we wish for, however.  I can remember when many Democrats wanted to see Reagan run because they regarded him as unelectable.

I saw another bumper sticker on that trip to Springfield last week.  A little old man driving a little old truck had a little old bumper sticker just below his tailgate that read "McCain-Palin."   I am of the belief that Johnny Mac lost the 2008 election the day that he chose Sarah Palin to be his running mate.  McCain, who is known in more than a few casinos for his love of poker, mad a hasty, and what he believed was a "gutsy" bet by plucking Sarah out of obscurity.  He quickly learned that the selection was more "nutsy" that "gutsy."

But the little old man in the little old truck was still a believer.   The stock market had never been higher, and gas had not been lower in years, but the fellow probably was listening to Limbaugh or Hannity as he was driving and was secure in his belief that Obama had taken the country to Hell.

This morning, in West Plains, I saw another bumper sticker, this one on an old beater backing into a space at an auto parts store.    My first observation was that the guy couldn't back-up for crap, and the second was the sticker on his old car.  It read "NRA:  Stand and Fight."  I'll count that as a Nugent sticker because I believe the worn-out rocker is still on the NRA Board of Directors.  I was preparing to  leave the store, but held off long enough to get a gander at the driver emerging from the car.   He was a disheveled young man - probably in his forties - wearing shorts, a sleeveless tee-shirt, and flip-flops.  The temperature was in the thirties.

So, Teddy, in the event that you and the Wasilla hillbilly doe make it to the White House, there's a guy here in West Plains who might be a perfect candidate for Secretary of State - as long as you don't discriminate against mullets!

Monday's Poetry: "A Supermarket in California"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Last night I viewed the movie (for a second time) Kill Your Darlings, a story set at Columbia University in New York City during World War II and involving the forming of an alliance of young writers and poets who came to be known as "the beats."  The story is told, more or less, from the point of view of Allen Ginsberg as he begins classes at Columbia.  Among the friends that he makes at that prestigious school are Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, and a very gifted and rebellious student by the name of Lucien Carr.

The crux of the story involves a sexual predator named David Kammerer who had followed Lucien Carr to several schools and who, according to the movie, wrote many of Carr's class assignments.  Carr killed Kammerer in what he described as a homosexual assault by Kammerer in the winter of 1944.  He stabbed his stalker several times with a pocket knife and then bound his hands and feet, stuffed his coat pockets with rocks, and pulled Kammerer into the Hudson River and watched him drown.  The young man ultimately served two years on a manslaughter charge for what he described as an "honor killing," and he went on to become a respected editor with United Press International.

Allen Ginsberg, portrayed in the movie by Daniel Radcliffe, quickly made a name for himself at Columbia by challenging one of his professors on poetic style.  The professor was hammering away at the structure of good poetry - rhyme scheme, meter, and stanza - when Ginsberg interjected that Walt Whitman wrote exceptional poetry without concentrating on those limitations.  His observation lead him and Carr to begin the formation of a writer's group with a "new vision," one that would ultimately become "the beats."

Ginsberg's poem, A Supermarket in California, avoids structured lines and stanzas while experimenting with rhyme and meter.  In the poem he pays homage to his mentor from the century before, Walt Whitman, and creates an interesting view of his contemporary time with Whitman participating and observing.


A Supermarket in California
by Allen Ginsberg

   What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache 
self-conscious looking at the full moon.
       In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went 
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
       What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families 
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the 
avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what 
were you doing down by the watermelons?

       I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, 
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery 
boys.
       I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the 
pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
       I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans 
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
detective.
       We strode down the open corridors together in our 
solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen 
delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

       Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in 
an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
       (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the 
supermarket and feel absurd.)
       Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The 
trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be 
lonely.

       Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
       Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and 
you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat 
disappear on the black waters of Lethe? 

All the Pretty Corpses

by Pa Rock
Green Humbug

One of my clearest memories of my first tour on Okinawa - in the early 1970's - was going to the Post Exchange to buy a Christmas tree.   A huge shipment arrived in early December, and word quickly spread through the ranks that if you wanted a good tree, you needed to drop what you were doing and rush over to the PX while there was still a decent selection.   The tree lot was packed by with other service men and their wives - many dressed in the ubiquitous island tee-shirts and shorts - elbowing their way through the melee looking for that perfect tree.

This year a friend who lives and works on Okinawa told me there would be no live Christmas trees because a freak fire had destroyed the entire shipment bound for the island.  (I tried to find the story on the internets, but couldn't.  I suspect that it is true because our military grapevine is world class.)

Of course, even if this year's poor trees had made it safely to the Orient, they would not have been "live" Christmas trees.   A tree that has had its trunk severed by a greed head with a chainsaw is nothing more than a pretty corpse waiting to dry out and be discarded.

Pretty corpses, in fact, is what I was thinking on a recent visit to a Lowe's where I encountered hundreds of dead trees lining the garden center walls waiting to be carted off to private homes for one final humiliation where they would be festooned in glass balls, twinkle lights, and cheap plastic doo-dads from China.   A lucky few might even find themselves draped in strands of popcorn!

The dead trees at Lowe's were in the twenty dollar range.  I have heard of recently murdered evergreens going for as much as two hundred dollars apiece.  Those who can afford to purchase one of the dead trees will get to experience the joy of vacuuming pine needles out of their carpets, so the expense is not a complete waste.

If a person has big dollars to spend on a Christmas tree, why not consider buying one that is truly alive - one that has been dug up and had its roots balled in burlap?  Bring that sucker in the house for the holidays, decorate it to the point of near obscenity, and then take it outside at the beginning of the new year and plant it in the yard.  Repeat the next year and decorate both trees, the one in the house and the one from the previous year that is out in the yard.  Do that for enough years and you will have that house in the pines that you've always dreamed about!

Or, for the terminally tacky, you can always go artificial.   Those come in a variety of sizes and colors, and some have the lights already built into the branches.  Nothing says "Happy Birthday, Jesus" like the glimmer and twinkle of a pink Christmas tree!

There are many ways to focus on the holidays without being responsible for the death of a tree.  I'm betting the folks on Okinawa come up with some clever substitutes!

Keep the trees outside - where they belong!

Happy holidays!

Changing Stars in Ferguson

by Pa Rock
Missouri Citizen

As someone who has spent the better part of a lifetime chasing one degree or another, I hold a firm conviction that education is the key to real participation and survival in the modern world.  I've seen its value firsthand.

For the past several months I have grown more and more sickened watching police and vigilantes overreact and use excessive force on young people for what generally turns out to be no criminal activity at all.  That excessive force has, all to often, been lethal.  Unfortunately for us as a nation and as a civilization, the legal system seems to be bent on condoning any actions by the police or even vigilantes, especially where poverty and race are factors, and offenders often walk away without so much as a minimal rebuke.

That is what happened in the cases of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown.

People who grow up in poverty and circumstances that would be unimaginable to many of us only have rare opportunities to change their stars.

Today I want to share some information about one of those rare opportunities that is coming to Ferguson, Missouri, an opportunity that will hopefully give some young people the ability to pull themselves above and beyond their present circumstances.

Jason Pfetcher is a young lawyer with a good heart and a strong social conscience.  He lives and works in Chicago, but is a Missourian by birth - and he is a good family man who happens to be the husband of my niece.  Jason and some of his friends have been angry about the situation in Ferguson, and a couple of days ago he forwarded information to me on a project that they are involved in that will provide opportunities to the youth of Ferguson.

A group of Jason's friends and co-workers have set up a "Go Fund Me" site to collect money for the establishment of a tech training program for young people in Ferguson.  It is called "Hands Up United" and will teach Web Development, Graphic Design, and Quality Assurance Testing.  Classes will begin this winter, and participants will receive a $600 stipend and a personal laptop that will allow them to freelance the skills that they acquire in the program.

There are people like me who do little more than sit around and piss and moan about all that is wrong with the world, and then there are people like Jason Pfetcher and his friends who roll up their sleeves and begin making a difference.  They are focused on creating a better life for everyone - not just themselves.

For more information on this very worthwhile project, please go to:   http://www.gofundme.com/hv6utk  and then spread the word.

Supporting this program would be a great way to share your holiday blessings with those less fortunate.

Let's all help to change those stars!

Symbolic Hate, Show-Me Style

by Pa Rock
Missourian

Sadly, one of the direct  consequences of the election (twice) of a black American President has been a resurgence in overt racism.   My home state of Missouri, which voted for McCain and Romney, and which has drawn a lot of national attention as a result of the police shooting and killing of a black, unarmed teenager in Ferguson, has become a hotbed of racial strife.  People from across the nation and around the world have focused on the "show-me" state to see what exactly it can show them.

Unfortunately, we Missourians seem hell-bent on showing our asses.

A group of concerned individuals are marching from Ferguson to the state capitol in Jefferson City in what is being called a "Journey for Justice."  This week when the marchers reached the little town of Rosebud (population 409) in Gasconade County, they were met by two hundred protestors in a demonstration against the marchers that was replete with symbolic racial insults including Confederate flags, fried chicken, watermelon, and an empty 40-ounce beer bottle.  A bus following the marchers also had a window shot out.

Welcome to Rosebud in twenty-first century America.

Yesterday, while driving across the southwest Missouri city of Springfield, I encountered a vehicle with a bumper sticker that was also heavy on racial symbolism.  The sticker did a take on the Ferguson "hands-up-don't-shoot" salute by cleverly rephrasing it "Pants Up - Don't Loot."  The only way that crap could have been any more racist was to have it printed on a watermelon!

I lived in Missouri in the 1950's when blacks couldn't use many public accommodations - and we have certainly come a long way since then.  But as recent events - and an angry tide of dimwitted racists - aptly demonstrate, there is still a lot that has to happen in this state before we can all hope to share equally in the bounty that life has to offer.

The struggle on the long road to true equality goes forward - one step at a time.   It will not be deterred by those who hopelessly cling to a past where they received privileged treatment simply because of their skin color.   Change is coming - even to places like Missouri.

Noisy Farm Boys: Act Two

by Pa Rock
Chicken Rancher

A couple of months ago I went through a traumatic episode here at Rock's Roost when predators suddenly began coming after my poultry.  Within a short amount of time all four turkeys were gone, most (and eventually all) of the guineas, and about half of my chickens - including all three roosters.  I was left with a little flock of twelve hens, all of which are now secure in a new coop.   I really missed the birds that were gone - the turkey's for their comic behavior and the guineas and roosters for the noise they made.  It's hard to feel like you're on a farm without the occasional crowing of a proud rooster.

This past Sunday while I was in the shower, I was surprised by the sudden - and loud - crowing of a rooster beneath my bathroom window.  After getting dressed and grabbing a quick breakfast, I went exploring.  I discovered most of my little brown hens clustered around a pair of roosters, big multi-colored birds.  One quickly fled across the street - which is where I figured he was from - but the other spent the day with the girls at my place.

Sunday night when I locked the ladies in their coop, the second rooster was gone also.

The following day he was back, and that evening the visiting rooster marched into the coop with the hens where he flew up to the rafters and proceeded to roost.  It was apparent that the new guy was home!

Two days ago the neighbor lad came by to check on his former rooster.  When he discovered that the bird was welcome at my place, the boy quickly asked if I wanted two more - the other rooster and a little banty hen.  I agreed to the adoption, and the kid delivered the pair later in the day.  They now appear to be at home in their new environment.

The two roosters are both Aracanas - a breed whose hens lay greenish-blue eggs.  Aracanas are sometimes called "easter-egg chickens."  The first one who moved in still sleeps in the enclosed chicken coop.  The second has a roost outside that he prefers, but rushes into the coop each morning when I open it up so that he can catch up on all the gossip.  I haven't found where the little banty spends her evenings, but I suspect that she is hiding somewhere in the coop - avoiding the bigger hens who seem to be picking on her.

It's good to have the new residents here, and the Roost is once again beginning to sound like a farm!

Love Those Rams!

by Pa Rock
Budding Sports Fanatic

Anyone who knows me is well aware that I am not much of a sports person.  I seldom watch or listen to a game, and I would rather serve time in a Mississippi jail than try to eat a meal in a sports bar.  But over the past few months I am developing quite an affinity for the St Louis Rams professional football team, to the point that I now consider myself to be one of their official fans.  True, the Rams have lost more games than they have won so far this season, but to my mind they are proving themselves to be champs in the truest sense of the word.

Their first bit of glory came earlier in the year when they did the unthinkable and drafted MU’s gay defensive end, Michael Sam.  Although Sam has since been released by the Rams, the act of drafting him flew in the face of some formidable economic  and social pressure.    It showed that the team had the cajones to do the right thing and not worry about the ragtag band of homophobes, racists, and other miscreants who would like to control team policy through their cacophony of belched threats.

Then another individual player took center stage and showed the world how to use money and fame for good.  Rams center Jason Brown stepped away from a multi-million dollar contract with the team (with $12.5 million still on the table) to start a farm with the objective of feeding the poor.  Brown’s “First Fruits Farm,” a thousand-acre project in North Carolina, donated 46,000 pound of sweet potatoes and 10,000 pounds of cucumbers to food pantries in the past year.    The 29-year-old Brown has been blessed with great wealth, and he is giving it to those in need.  If only America’s richest families would learn from his selfless example!

But the centerpiece of the Rams’ glory came this past Sunday at the St. Louis – Oakland game.  Five Rams players walked onto the field giving the “hand-up-don’t-shoot” salute that has been made famous in the Ferguson turmoil.  Some of the audience cheered, some didn’t.  Some of the nation cheered, some didn’t.    Regardless of how one felt about the act, the show of solidarity with the Ferguson demonstrators took a lot of courage.

One account I read compared the action by the five players at Sunday’s game with the “black power” salute that some Americans gave at the 1968 Summer Olympics.  That, too, was an unparalleled act of bravery by young people who stood to lose much by their actions.

Of those elements who were angered by the action of the five Rams players, most managed to use the code word “thugs” in their condemnation.  Jeff Roorda, the business manager for the St. Louis Police Officer’s Association and a Democratic member of the Missouri State Legislature, was especially vehement in his threats against the team:

“I know that there are those that will say that these players are simply exercising their First Amendment rights.  Well I’ve got news for people who think that way, cops have First Amendment rights too, and we plan to exercise ours.  I’d remind the NFL and their players that it is not the violent thugs burning down buildings that buy their advertiser’s products.  It’s the cops and the good people of St. Louis and other NFL towns that do.  Somebody needs to throw a flag on this play.  If it’s not the NFL  and the Rams, then it’ll be cops and their supporters.”

That Roorda is one angry posturing politician!

But my favorite protest of the protest came from a St. Louis area sports bar.   The Time Out Sports Bar and Grill put this up on their Facebook page:

”Due to the bone headed ‘hands up, don’t shoot’ act by the number of Rams players on the Sunday game, the Time out Bar and Grill will no longer support the St. Louis Rams, so we will no longer have Happy Hours for the Rams games, and all signs and pictures will be off the walls . . . We have to stand up to thugs who destroy our community and burn down local businesses, and boycott the other thugs / organizations who support them.”

Thugs, thugs, thugs!  You don’t have to be a foreign language expert to decode all of that racist crap!

(Did I mention that St. Louis beat Oakland 52-0 on Sunday – after the "hands-up-don't-shoot" salute?   Divine intervention, perhaps?)

Rams, stay great!  You guys rock!

Judah Files Is Five!

by Pa Rock
Proud Grandpa

My youngest grandson, Judah Winter Blue Files, is celebrating his fifth birthday today.   Judah lives in Salem, Oregon, with his mom and dad - and his little sister, Willow, and older brother, Sebastian.  Judah is a fairly mild and calm child who seems to have an aptitude for things mechanical.  He is also learning to use sign language and is apparently becoming quite proficient at it.

Judah, I hope you are having a wonderful birthday!  I think about you often, and I remember how much fun we had watching "Cars" at your house last summer.  You are a great kid, and Pa Rock loves you!

Monday's Poetry: "The Old Grist-Mill"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator


My friend Valerie and I have toured several old Ozark mill sites during the week that she has been here - including the mill at Alley Spring, Hodgson's Mill, and Dawt Mill.  All of these mills are located next to powerful (and beautiful) springs.  Farmers during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries used these small commercial mills to grind their wheat into flour and corn into corn meal.  They often covered the miller's fee by providing his with a share of their finished product.  The old mills were a place where many would catch up on the neighborhood gossip or barter other goods as they patiently waited in line to have their grain ground into flour or corn meal.

Once old mills were plentiful across the Ozark hills.  Today they are sadly few in number.  The one described below by nineteenth-century poet Richard Henry Stoddard was located in Abington, Massachusetts.  In his poem Stoddard gives a glimpse into the workings and life of an old mill, and he also compares the operation of the mill to life itself.

The old mills married man to nature and produced sustenance.


The Old Grist-Mill
by Richard Henry Stoddard

Beside the stream the grist-mill stands,
With bending roof and leaning wall;
So old that when the winds are wild,
The miller trembles lest it fall:
And yet it baffles wind and rain,
Our brave old Mill!  and will again.

Its dam is steep, and hung with weeds:
The gates are up, the waters pour,
And tread the old wheel's slippery round,
The lowest step forevermore.
Methinks they fume, and chafe with ire,
Because they cannot climb it higher.

From morn to night in autumn time,
When harvests fill the neighboring plains,
Up to the mill the farmers drive,
And back anon with loaded wains:
And when the children come from school
They stop, and watch its foamy pool.

The mill inside is small and dark;
But peeping in the open door
You see the miller flitting round,
The dusty bags along the floor,
The whirling shaft, the clattering spout,
And the yellow meal a-pouring out!

All day the meal is floating there,
Rising and falling in the breeze;
And when the sunlight strikes its mist
It glitters like a swarm of bees:
Or like the cloud of smoke and light
Above a blacksmith's forge at night.

I love our pleasant, quaint old Mill,
It still recalls my boyish prime;
'T is changed since the, and so am I,
We both have known the touch of time:
The mill is crumbling in decay,
And I - my hair is early gray.

I stand beside the stream of Life,
And watch the current sweep along:
And when the flood-gates of my heart
Are raised it turns the wheel of Song:
But scant, as yet, the harvest brought
From our golden fields of Thought!