February 25 – SIRI …

Siri, Play Music
Playing all songs; Shuffled: plays …
Mozart to Motown!

A range and amount of music unimaginably available at the sound of my voice. Kings, Emperors, Princes of Industry never had such music at their beck and call.

Here in my hand, (I shouldn’t say that as it’s illegal to hold your device and drive in Georgia), in my car, I think of how many cassette tapes it would take to equal what I have on this stupid thing.

February 24 – SUNSHINE

Sunshine this morning!
Flooding through windows. My Soul …
claps its hands and sings!

Based on one of my favorite lines of poetry and just the words to describe the feeling of the sunshine pouring in this morning. With all due respect to my friends and family up north, weather in Georgia cannot compare with the snow. But, it seems it has been so long since we have seen the sun down here.

Somewhere, Jim Harrision I think, writes that Spring Time moves north, 5 minutes every day …

It was Harrison who has a great quote on the Yeats poem … if I could only find it.

Sailing to Byzantium

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSI

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

W. B. Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium” from The Poems of W. B. Yeats: A New Edition, edited by Richard J. Finneran. Copyright 1933 by Macmillan Publishing Company, renewed © 1961 by Georgie Yeats. Reprinted with the permission of A. P. Watt, Ltd. on behalf of Michael Yeats.

February 23 – Creston Branch …

Today, my iPad.
As a kid, my World Wide Web?
Creston Library!

When I say the the Creston Branch Library, I mean the one in the old OLD KENT BANK building.

The REAL Creston Branch Library

Were more books ever crammed into a small place? It’s aisle’s went back and around and sideways and at angles. I LOVED this place. I think I carried my first Temporary card (which allowed me, as a six year old, to check out 2 books) in my wallet for 40 years.

Everything and anything you needed to know was in their somewhere and the librarians knew how to find it.

I got to work for the Grand Rapids Public Library in the early ’90s and being paid to answer bizarre questions about local history and anything else was the most satisfying job I have ever had.

Haiku for You – February 22 – Gloomy Day

On a gloomy day,
a good feeling from the radio –
The Lark Ascending

On a day when I should be saluting George Washington this is an honest reflection of the moment.

On a very gray and foggy morning in Atlanta when I have lost all motivation, I was writing a note to a friend and thanking them for at least giving me a good feeling on a gloomy day and after I wrote that I noticed my online radio station, Classic FM, from London, was playing Edward Elgar’s Lark Ascending and I had to stop and listen until it was done

Haiku for You – Feb 21 – My Song? Black Coffee …

My Song? Black Coffee …
Sarah Vaughn, the Divine One,
all I do, is pour …

Sarah Vaughn, the Divine One. So said Ella Fitzgerald and I am not prepared to argue. Here is a link to a digital recording of an old 78 record from 1949. For me, the hiss of the needle on the record just adds to the appeal.

Lyrics

I’m feeling mighty lonesome
Haven’t slept a wink
I walk the floor and watch the door
And in between I drink
Black coffee

Love’s a hand-me-down brew
I’ll never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

I’m talking to the shadows
One o’clock to four
And Lord, how slow the moments go
When all I do is pour
Black coffee

Since the blues caught my eye
I’m hanging out on Monday
My Sunday dream’s too dry

Now, a man is born to go a-loving
A woman’s born to weep and fret
And stay at home and tend her oven
And drown her past regrets
In coffee and cigarettes

I’m moody all the morning
Mourning all the night
And in between, it’s nicotine
And not much hard to fight
Coffee

Feeling low as the ground
It’s driving me crazy
This waiting for my baby
To maybe come around
Mmh, mmh, mmh

Songwriters: Francis Joseph Burke / Paul Francis Webster