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Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
President Obama heads back to the Jersey shore
By Pablo Fanque, National Affairs Ed.
BHO returns to Jersey to relive his FEMA success during the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. And maybe pick up some Q ratings from his propinquity to the diminishing Governor.
BHO returns to Jersey to relive his FEMA success during the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. And maybe pick up some Q ratings from his propinquity to the diminishing Governor.
"For Obama, the tour helps him continue redirecting the political conversation after two weeks of dealing with the fallout over the administration's response to terror attacks last September in Benghazi, Libya, the targeting of conservative groups by the Internal Revenue Service and the Justice Department's review of journalist phone records as part of a leak investigation." - CBS News
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Another rough day at The White House
By Jack Brummet
They're having a lot of them of late.
They're having a lot of them of late.
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Monday, May 27, 2013
Poem: Chasing Ghosts
By Jack Brummet
And find a face in the crowd,
With a sad smile and a halo.
---o0o---
1
The scenery whirls by
In a drunken Gaussian Blur
Until I slow it down
And watch it unravel
In a multi-colored, quadrophonic
Parade of flora and fauna
Spinning Venn Diagrams
Around each other.
2
I quit chasing ghosts,
The scenery whirls by
In a drunken Gaussian Blur
Until I slow it down
And watch it unravel
In a multi-colored, quadrophonic
Parade of flora and fauna
Spinning Venn Diagrams
Around each other.
2
I quit chasing ghosts,
But
once in a while
I look over my shoulderAnd find a face in the crowd,
With a sad smile and a halo.
---o0o---
Poem: Frontier Justice
By Jack Brummet
1
A roiling thunderstorm clears the air
Like Wyatt Earp's peacekeeper
2
A bad beginning can be overcome
But a good end lasts forever
A roiling thunderstorm clears the air
Like Wyatt Earp's peacekeeper
2
A bad beginning can be overcome
But a good end lasts forever
---o0o---
Sasquatch Festival
By Jack Brummet
I spent Sunday/Monday morning at the Sasquatch Fesitval at the Gorge Amphitheater. I was especially knocked out by the performances of The Tallest Man On Earth, and particularly by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeroes.
I also saw The Dropkick Murphys, Elvis Costello (my fifth time) and The Imposters, Mumford & Sons, Danny Brown, and a bunch of other bands on the smaller stages.
I spent Sunday/Monday morning at the Sasquatch Fesitval at the Gorge Amphitheater. I was especially knocked out by the performances of The Tallest Man On Earth, and particularly by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeroes.
I also saw The Dropkick Murphys, Elvis Costello (my fifth time) and The Imposters, Mumford & Sons, Danny Brown, and a bunch of other bands on the smaller stages.
---o0o---
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Lord's bus shows up at Seattle's Golden Gardens
By Jack Brummet, Folk Art Ed.
I met these sweet folks at Golden Gardens on Shilshole Bay yesterday. They were very nice, and did not proselytize in any way. I think they were letting the bus do the talking. They did have a donation box for taking photos. I slipped them a few bucks to shoot some photos, not for their message but their moxie and medium and warm hearts.
I met these sweet folks at Golden Gardens on Shilshole Bay yesterday. They were very nice, and did not proselytize in any way. I think they were letting the bus do the talking. They did have a donation box for taking photos. I slipped them a few bucks to shoot some photos, not for their message but their moxie and medium and warm hearts.
---o0o---
Friday, May 24, 2013
Painting: The Landing
By Jack Brummet
[analog painting, scanned and lightning added in PaintShop Pro]
[analog painting, scanned and lightning added in PaintShop Pro]
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Poem: The Painting
By Jack Brummet
He is tired of the dark sun
And wants to lie down and rest.
No news comes from a far country.
The real estate around him —
A confabulation of blue and red stone —
Chills in an un-harbored sea.
The black sun was pushed, fell, or jumped,
To shine back upon itself.
He knows the sun will never set.
He cannot open his mouth to scream.
The oars will never move.
The island of color
Will always be eight inches away
And the boat
Will always be sinking.
The tattered sails hang in the wind.
The next day refuses to begin.
He clutches that blue banjo
As his ship tilts toward heaven.
---o0o---
Stuck
under a static sky,
The figure you brushed in
Wants off canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing a scumbled ocean
Under impasto thunderheads.
The figure you brushed in
Wants off canvas.
He will not be your Man With Blue Banjo anymore.
He wants to be what he will be,
Not sailing a scumbled ocean
Under impasto thunderheads.
He is tired of the dark sun
And wants to lie down and rest.
No news comes from a far country.
The real estate around him —
A confabulation of blue and red stone —
Chills in an un-harbored sea.
The black sun was pushed, fell, or jumped,
To shine back upon itself.
He knows the sun will never set.
He cannot open his mouth to scream.
The oars will never move.
The island of color
Will always be eight inches away
And the boat
Will always be sinking.
The tattered sails hang in the wind.
The next day refuses to begin.
He clutches that blue banjo
As his ship tilts toward heaven.
---o0o---
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