A Melange

The British protested, but with some restraint. The French were more forceful, they put out the Olympic torch a couple of times so the authorities resorted to taking it. They've already hung a Free Tibet sign on the Golden Gate Bridge and thousands will be out protesting. The Chinese leadership proclaim that the torch is a sign of peace and fellowship. They aren't fooling anyone when in their own country peace and fellowship is at the end of a gun and in crowded jail cells where the potential protesters are, they think and hope, out of the way. HURRAY for the French! And everyone else protesting. Hurray for Hillary who said Bush should not attend the opening ceremonies.

On one of the many blogs and news-feeds I've read someone mentioned that it seemed a ceratin critical mass no one saw building suddenly toppled the Berlin wall and the mighty Kremlin power structure [we know the Kremlin's still got an iron fist in their velveteen glove]... so maybe the critical mass is accumulating when the Chinese honchos will see they can save what bit of face isn't egg smeared by changing tactics. It's a drream. I'll make no bets nor hold my breath. But hope, oh, I hope!
A grandmother can't
be faulted for showing off a little bit. This is Cori, the grandduaghter married three weeks ago to Jason [definitely the tallest member of the family! if you except the Indiana contingent on my side].

This being a melange sort of post, and National Poetry month still moving along day by day, here is a piece of a much longer poem by Charles Wright called Desjecta Membra, which means picces of memories and which he calls in a note bits of things he has learned in a lifetime. I don't find this dour, perhapsl world."

Is this the life we long for
to be at ease in the natural world,
Blue rise of Blue Ridge
Indente and absolute through the January oak limbs,
Turkey buzzard at work on road-kill opossum, up
And flapping each time
A car passes and coming back
huge and unfolded, a black bed sheet,
Crows fierce but out of focus high up in the ash tree,
Afternoon light from stage left
Low and listless, little birds
Darting soundlessly back and forth, husn, hush?
Well, yes, I think so.