• Spam

    April 21, 2025
    Word Games

    WordPress handles spam messages well. However, there used to be spam written by bots that I miss. They were so entertaining that I would regularly read them. Now that AI alleviates grammar conundrums, these funny miscues have all but disappeared. Here’s a few of the old ones I received and my responses to them. 

    “My salad has done better this summer but just in the last couple of months when the weather improved.” –I’m so happy to hear your salad is doing better. I was worried!

    “You know a complete lot its almost hard to argue along.”  -You’re right. Don’t argue along. That would be taking my side, and I know a complete lot.  

    “I’ve got much clear idea concerning from this post”  –I’m glad you’ve got much clear idea concerning, because I’m much confused idea concerning your message. 

     “Why people still make use of to read newspapers when in this technological globe the whole thing is available on web?” –Things are indeed strange in this technological globe. I tend to read newspapers, because they hire “real” journalists.  

    “This enables that you simply much better picture of how your business is creating. We are all human beings.”  –I’m glad to hear we’re all human beings. I was beginning to wonder.

    “These pieces really set a standard in the indrytus.”  –I am so happy I’m setting standards somewhere.  

    “Weeeee, what a quick and easy soiunlot.”  –Wasn’t that cool? Soiunlots can be so tricky. Weeeee! 

    “This was so helpful and easy! Do you have any articles in rehab?”  –Well, unfortunately, a couple of them have checked in. I heard they were doing well in editing. 

    “Hey hey hey, take a gardener to what’ you’ve done.”  –That’s a great idea. I’ve never thought about inviting one. 

    “That’s a posting full of ingiths!”  –I know. I’m full of good ingiths. 

     “Just do me a favor and keep writing such trnhcnaet analyses, OK?”  –By all means. I’m a master of trnhcnaetian theory.  

    “If you’re looking to buy these articles, make it way easier.”  –Mmmh? I’ve never thought about buying my own posts. That indeed is easier. There, I just gave myself 10 bucks. Woo Hoo!!! 

    “Thanks for spending time on the computer (wiritng) so others don’t have to.”  –You’re welcome! I think? 

    “Continue to be down the great operate! You realize, many individuals ‘re looking near to do this facts, it is easy to aid these products.”  –Roger that. I will continue to be down the great operate to aid the products. 

    “I like to party, not look arcleits up online. You made it happen.”  –I’m glad I made that happen. I wouldn’t want you to resort to looking up arcleits online and keep on partying! 

    “It is possible (and frequently done) to build over 200k crop armies (aka, World Wonder armies) from a six cropper.”  –What? I mean…what? 

    “Why does this have to be the ONLY reliable source? Oh well, gi!”  –What can I say? Poetry is most reliable source ever. That’s all you need to know. Ain’t no gi about it. 

    “I’m making posts about scientific explanations behind everyday ––appearances.”  –I knew there was something weird behind everyday appearances. Thanks for providing scientific explanations for this unsolved mystery. 

    “Stretching is discomfort.”   –I’ve told my cat the very same thing! However, he doesn’t listen and keeps on stretching! He looks comfortable doing it though. 

    AI’s first attempts were crude and frequently you would receive a busy signal. 
    Boldly exit where no reader has gone before (Just watch your step). 
    12 comments on Spam

  • Movements

    April 14, 2025
    Poetry

    A cougar is perched up high in a yellow pine, hidden. Below him, a trail cuts through grasses, and I see his paw print in bare dirt, formed when the mud was thick. Now, it’s dried into cracks, wrinkles in earth, his movement of the past solidified. He doesn’t worry about me, the noisy one, whose feet crunch upon leaves, dried long before the last of summer appears. 

    The turf is so dry and brittle. It’s a fragile crust. One hard step and I think the entire world would crumble. Flowers of the new spring have already begun to wilt, dropping petals. Their flakes stick to my socks, scratch my ankles. 

    Even now, the grass begins copying the color of the sun. No matter how good of a watcher you are, you can miss their intricacies, their dance with the wind, a courtship of eons, and their ever-slow movement, a reach for light. 

    Breaking into the sky, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, even Ranier surround themselves in blue. Their heads adorned with hats made of clouds, attempting to pierce gravity, the last mystery.  

    Sometimes I worry about movement…the sun, the earth, our movement…my movement. It’s too easy to believe in one singular movement, especially my own.  

    The cougar will come down from the yellow pine at dusk, when it’s difficult to see him. He is the color of the sun. He will use the sound of the dry flowers and deep grass… and when the coming night quiets the wind, he will search for the slightest movements. 

    Somewhere near the Klickitat River.
    Eastern part of the Columbia River Gorge.
    18 comments on Movements

  • Cold River (A Murder Ballad)

    April 7, 2025
    Poetry
    How cold this river runs  
     
    How cruel this river runs  
     
    All light is caught in a freeze  
     
    Here, the water has no peace  
     
    All is numbed by an endless rain  
     
    I swear the moon has a crease  
     
    Her voice is just below the ravine 
     
    I try to silence the refrain  
     
    Her song echoes above the trees  
     
     
    I see her in the river’s current  
     
    I think I can catch her  
     
    Bring her back up  
     
    If only to the coldest of sunshine  
     
    My fingers slide upon her skin  
     
    But she slips through my grasp  
     
    So, I look downstream 
     
    To catch a glimpse of her  
     
     
    I drink from the hidden lake  
     
    Clear, cold, and clean  
     
    I dance upon winter’s snow  
     
    On the edge of everything  
     
    The leaves have fallen low  
     
    No telling what they’ve seen  
     
    Soon the river will meet the sea  
     
    Where all lies will finally cease
    When the Willamette River meets the Columbia River, the latter breaks up and forms a delta of islands until it converges downstream. (A clue? Is this poem really a murder ballad?)
    The Clackamas River near an interesting little town named Three Lynx.

    19 comments on Cold River (A Murder Ballad)

  • Consider

    March 31, 2025
    Poetry
    April is still cruel 
    And this city? Still unreal.  
    The snow will melt 
    Daffodils will bloom 
    Arrows will still fly 
    Even Cupid shoots them 
    With awkward aim 
     
    Are we mistaken to listen to the wind? 
    That whisperer that works 
    Its way between warm clothing 
    ...Tickles, biting softly 
    On the ends of our touch 
    Imprinting its song on our necks.
                                                              “I would have never thought 
                                                              You would become my lover 
                                                              Having passed you 
                                                              In the hallway a thousand times 
                                                              Among the smell of floor wax 
                                                              Cafeteria food, and 
                                                              The slamming of locker doors. 
                                                               ...Excuse me 
                                                                   I’m younger than that” 
    Now, in the city of Yonder 
    Stands our orphan 
    With his gun 
    Walking along the edges  
    Of an eternity of assumptions 
    The quickest way to freeze 
    Us into madness...oh, do not 
    Ask what is it? 
    Even Dorothy killed two witches 
    And I swear 
    The sky has been etherized. 
     
    For I have known it, known it all 
    Have known evenings, mornings 
    Afternoons 
    Have known 
    The familiarity of strangers 
    My nose buried in their bosom 
    Of warm, warm skin, bared to 
    Gravity, orbit, & galaxies  
    Moving...moving... 
    Moving
                                                            “What a Sunday drive it was 
                                                            Unplanned, without directions. 
                                                           The heat of summer blew 
                                                                Into our rolled down windows” 
    O you who turn the wheel  
    and look to windward, 
    Consider.

    In this poem, I abstracted lines of famous poems and lyrics to shape my own poem out of them. Along with the poem I added on of my abstract images. Thanks!
    13 comments on Consider

  • Mono No Aware

    March 17, 2025
    Poetry
    Cherry blossoms upon brittle limbs 

    brave the last chill, the wake of winter. 

    Gathered lovers, having shed buds 

    from hibernation, adorn pastel dresses  

    of heavy chiffon, the color of faded hearts. 

    Waiting for warmer touches 

    the soft ebb of spring’s smitten sun.

    Knowing 

    the ground awaits their fleeting bloom.

    A digital doodle of mine.
    20 comments on Mono No Aware

  • _Landscapes_

    March 10, 2025
    Music
    Click on this image to hear the music composition _Landscapes_. (Blue hour on Mt. Tabor)

    The rate of speed in which we travel is unprecedented in human history. To think that for around one hundred years we have been able to speed through urban and rural spaces. These 100 years are a brief moment in comparison to our combined history.  

    When I started to compose _Landscapes_, I initially thought of modernism and postmodernism in basic forms. The first pertaining to new systems. The latter pertaining to dismantling of systems. And it came to me that our modernisms are a story of movement, and this movement is accelerating. We’ve traveled through both eras, quickly. Our perception of the world (_Landscapes_) has been altered to perceive it at a different rate of velocity. Different perceptions lead to different conclusions. No wonder people are always telling one another to slow down. I question whether that’s even possible.  

    _Landscapes_ is a composition of movement, of acceleration, of viewing landscapes at an ever-increasing rate of perception.  

    Click on the image above or the image link to Soundcloud below to listen. Thanks so much! 

    Mountains and hills have their own weather. You can see in the distance on Tillamook Head, it’s raining on an otherwise blue sky day.
    13 comments on _Landscapes_

  • Lee

    February 24, 2025
    People
    They chased Lee.  
    That’s what they did. 
    He would strut up the street, yelling, mad-like... and they would chase him back home. 
    Back to a home tucked in a corner. The one his parents had picked for him, to make things easier. 
    He had wild eyebrows like erratic marker pen slashes drawn above his eyes and when he stomped up the street, he threw bright, unfinished Lego sets at them, which landed upon a hard tar-bubbled street. 
    The Converse Kids smashed them to bits while they ran, jumped, and squealed after him, until Lee’s red front door snapped back into place, onto his plastic blue home.  
    The one tucked in the corner. 
    They returned to the rules of whiffle ball with hollow bat & ball, involving the tops of trees, the boundaries of curbs, mailboxes, and the height of telephone wires. 
    The Lego pieces were picked up by morning by invisible parents, who, for some strange reason, never yelled at the Converse Kids to stop chasing, to stop running, to just...stop. 
    Well, they’d bought the house for him, hadn’t they? Wasn’t that enough? 
    Occasionally a lone Lego piece would appear during a rainstorm mixed with fallen leaves. 
    Neon yellow balancing on a storm drain.
    Thoughts…piled. (All images that I post can be enlarged by clicking on them)

    This is part of my people series. There are two others. Gerald and Shelley.

    16 comments on Lee

  • The Millisecond

    February 17, 2025
    Poetry, Short Stories

    Back from the grocery store, keys jangle as I place them (hopefully) in the spot they’re supposed to be found. I glimpse my cat asleep, dreaming, head down, buried in his bed, concealing his moustache. A paw is curled over a nose and hind legs stick out straight…awkwardly. Ears twitch, flutter, and slant. Eyes blink, bat, while closed. A muffled meow slips out trembling lips. 

    I know he dreams of me, the wizard of dry food, good witch of treats, Dionysus of catnip. Then, I am also evil magus of loud voice, mystic of flea medication, Charon, ferryperson to the veterinarian. Still, after all I’ve put him through, he will look up at me with those blue eyes, forgiving me for all my offenses, thanking me for all my kindness. 

    Then I remember, I forgot the cat litter. I shout out a well-worn expletive. Evil magus strikes again! This wakes him and there is a questioning look on his face. Well, let’s say it’s not really a question, but a realization. One that all who have an animal friend or two know. It says, “What’s this crazy human up to now?” It is in this moment when the reason why the universe exists is revealed…if only for a millisecond. 

    Generated by AI, “Almost Intelligent”. Your truly

    This is number 2 in the cat series. For number 1 click here.

    9 comments on The Millisecond

  • Falls

    February 14, 2025
    Poetry

    They are fat during the spring melt, thin when summer wanes. 

    In winter, snow slows their progress, placing a halo of ice around them.  

    In autumn, they play with leaves and rain, and an occasional evergreen branch. 

    There is always mist and a rainbow in its midst when the sun comes calling. 

    Calm with their frenzy, stoic as they giggle, tender power. 

    Dippers plunge themselves underneath their crest, unafraid of the current and the long tumble only a couple of feet away 

    While sparrows and tanagers sing hidden duets and soliloquies to the sky. 

    The ravens dart above, in ones or twos, preferring a casual conversation about reason and magic, which are indistinguishable. For here is where skeptics and believers meet.

    Around them 

    The forest can be still, quieter than comfortable, with the movement of shadows, the changing of light tucked deep inside. 

    But you know this is natural and your fear is combined with a sense of calm. 

    Other times, the forest yells, trees vibrate like vocal cords, rivers force their voice up into the blue and gray sky between the trees and though you’re quiet, your body hums along with their voices. 

    Some sweet water springs last year ‘round. You drink, even when the water is high, soaking your shoes and socks while you reach for the wildest water you’ve ever tasted. Every sip is your first. 

    There are still a few old growths standing, with roots, twisting around themselves miles long, like fingers running themselves over the stomach of a lover.  

    The smell of pine is as thick as syrup…until 

    You hear one. 

    As you approach, that pine smell is pushed down into the ground, taken away with the spatter, eventually moving downstream with the creeks. 

    In each season, you hear small nuances in how their water…falls 

    The twist of one note, a change in the rhythm of their syncopation. They are full of distortion yet never abandon harmony. 

    And I think of something silly. 

    They are like us, you and me.  

    For I remember when I held your hand… 

    Here 

    …Listening…to them 

    While the heat of summer scorched the world, and the rain of storms washed us away. 

    I speak these words… softly… so that you might hear.  

    Lower South Falls in Silver Falls State Park. Complete with someone about to walk underneath it.
    39 comments on Falls

  • Green Street Planters

    February 3, 2025
    Poetry
    Underneath the bridge 
    Old bricks  
    Hold onto streets 
    Unaffected by wind 
    Weather fronts 
    Rolling tires 
      
    We walk them as 
    Train tracks slice through  
    Gazing at high grass 
    Growing between the mortar 
    During a downpour of days 
    And the cold slant of weeks 
     
    There are others there 
    Tents, rigs, and schizophrenia 
    Blue tarps & wagon carts 
    Their bikes  
    Ride rough 
    Over the bricks 
     
    Waiting for trains to pass 
    We still watch the grass  
    Bent by the weight of seeds 
    Swaying with the train’s draft 
    Raindrops, faces, and reflections 
    On Amtrak windows 
     
    Further up 
    The streets throw away  
    Their numbers  
    Taking on names 
    Of everyone in particular 
    Where bricks give way 
    To multi-layered pavement 
    And rainwater moves easily 
    Into green street planters
    Slightly Bent
    25 de Abril Bridge – Lisboa

    13 comments on Green Street Planters
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