The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

should scare the hell out of you.


We don’t even know how big it is

because it keeps growing.


Located somewhere between Hawaii and California

it is one of seven garbage islands

spread across the world’s oceans

funneled and trapped by planetary rotation,

converging ocean currents and wind.



6.8 billion people will inhabit

planet Earth by the year 2012.



As of 2005

33 million live in Tokyo alone.

Beijing has 12 million.

Los Angeles another 12 million.



And 80 percent of our garbage comes from land sources.



Garbage that

impacts our wildlife



that has the potential to hitchhike.



Imagine

barnacles attaching to floating garbage

not normally found in your neck

of the planet

that can infect another

area’s native species.



Ninety percent of these islands contain plastic items

like nylon nets, six pack rings, balloons,

straws and sandwich wrap.

Water bottles, cups, bottle caps, plastic bags

and billions of plastic pellets called nurdles,

a byproduct of other plastics manufacturing.



Plastic that chokes whales, seabirds and other animals.



Brightly colored plastic pellets

that are mistaken

for fish eggs and krill



that is toxic

can magnify over time

across our food chain



and have an effect similar to DDT.



Plastic that does not break down easily in water

that is cooled and coated with algae

shielded from sunlight and

will last well into our future.



Clean-up and removal of these islands is futile.

They are growing faster than we can clean them up.



Our task begins here



Get involved



Clean up local beaches



Suppress further growth

by recycling and reducing the amount

of trash you throw out.



Your future is at hand.

How many Friends Do You Have?

I have four hundred and forty.

He is a new friend on FB

but he doesn’t have any posts on his wall.

He is a relative

but his wall is a blank space.

We share nothing.

We do nothing together.

I have

added him

to my list

of friends.

Cyber space

can be so cold.

The distance

is unfathomable.

The point

relentless.

R.S.V.P.

Thank-you for including me in your event
regretfully
I won’t be attending your celebration.
I have a previous engagement
perhaps another time?

It appears that Madame Pele
has a big surprise in store.
She’s busy cooking up
a decades old favorite recipe. It is a spicy concoction
sure to overwhelm
it promises
to melt the taste buds.

She is rearranging the table
as we speak. Had to lower it a bit
underwent a major transformation.

Clever hostess
insists that everything be just right.

The invitations
have all been sent.
The seating is fixed.
The guest register
reads like a who’s who
on the endangered list.

Says here to take note
the ring of fire
welcomes all
comers.
Mind the dress code and
observe the boundaries.

Llama

Lovely diva brays distinctive solo. She

Lusts for a three year old male. Tamed they

Are friendly and pleasant company.

Mature llamas guard livestock. Once depicted

As the god Urcuchillay by the Inca.

Six Word Memoirs on Writing

Voracious words eat writers for breakfast.

Syllable stew simmers notably spicy syntax.

A and E unite against U.

I keeps date with lady O.

I O U an E Mail.

Consonants pick up vowels; add meaning.

Cross word puzzles create sharp minds.

Pencils consistently lose their terse point.

Red pens bleed over tabloid article.

Articulate writers never get over themselves.

Laying Odds

Thank-you to David Johnson for this video
Enjoy!
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1529705457600



The weatherman was wrong.




My back yard is now a raging river.



I'm no expert

but as we speak

a traveling mass of dead leaves and dirt

has clogged the storm drain

and is forming a brown island

reaching towards a gray sky

obscuring mountainous peaks.



The weatherman didn't know

that it would pour

only that there was a

chance of showers.

Swirling streams now converge

on yesterday's cracked soil

flooding crevices

And a thick green carpet

threatens to overtake

and cover the curb.



So be sure to carry an umbrella

and apply your sunscreen

Because being mere lay people

of average intelligence

who live in screened houses

with glass windows

we can't even hope

to predict the weather.

CONNIE

Cute retiree loves dark chocolate and

Olive-skinned men.

Near-sighted

Nature lover is

Impulsive and

Enterprising.

Sweet Nothings

Decades had come and gone

since they had met

her face was lined and her eyes less blue

but she still had a spring in her step

she could still waltz.

The soft scent and velvet feel

of the petals had drawn her in.

She inhaled deeply

her thoughts in faraway

Rudescheim Germany

in the valley of the Lorelei

on the right bank of the Rhine.

He had taken her out

to dinner and dancing

at a quaint inn

just off the drosselgasse. (lane)

It had been a warm August night

and the food and wine had flowed.

She had felt safe

comfortable in his embrace

as he guided her effortlessly

across the dance floor.

Her pulse quickened

as he murmured a sweet nothing

reminding her once more that

he had stolen

the rose

out of Rosendale

and that their melody

would play on

just like the

player piano

at the famous

music museum.

Elation

Another slice of watermelon please!


Belle barked her order as

Chunks of sweet juice

Dripped down her chin.

Eloise, her Mother, had

Forgotten her bib

Girl, you are a sight! She grinned back at her Mom

Happy, her smile was

Infectious. The remains of the

Just eaten watermelon slid out of her chubby fingers.

Kool-Aid stains

Laced with the sweet syrup soaked her white t-shirt

Mom couldn’t help but smile.

Naturally the fruit landed

On top of her chest

Perfectly. Belle giggled again and slapped the top of the tray

Quite proud of herself

Releasing the

Sticky fruit which promptly slid

To the seat of the highchair

Under her chubby legs

Vaulting a

Wanton

Xing and achieving extra

Yardage in a

Zigzag zoom.

Indian Givers

*** Inspired by the book,
“Indian Givers-- How the Indians of the Americas Transformed the World” by Jack Weatherford

Mark the writing on the wall.


Take heed.

The painting in the cave sweats.

It elicits our response

to ignore it

will incur a penalty.


Reconsider the truth

of their contribution to our society.


They remind us of when our resources

were many

and the tether that held us

together

taught us true democracy and

revealed how their gold and silver

could provide us with a rich economy.


The Native American healer

introduced us to quinine

and the bark that healed malaria,

later transformed into a medicine show

and reintroduced as a healing tonic.



From the woody vines

of the chondodendron

in Peru

we came to know

curare a deadly

muscle relaxant,

to ointments

like petroleum jelly

still sold today as precious goods

by street vendors in Mali.


We have provoked centuries

of painful forced labor upon them.

Ignored their contributions

and drained the oceans of them.


We know more about the dead

civilizations

then about

the pockets of indigenous still alive.


Long before Columbus

landed in the West Indies

the Inca had built sophisticated highways

and bridges from Cuzco to Quito.


The North American

native pathfinders

blazed interlocking trail networks.

The Iroquois dispatched armies

from deep inside Canada

to the Carolinas.


The indigenous lead the European settlers west

developed a system

of canoes and small boats to reach

every corner and crevice

of the Americas.


And yet the history and culture

of the Americas

remains a mystery

It screams

for discovery.

Remembering Home

Let’s just say

The Beatles reigned
in Tillson Elementary school.
The cute boys,
the songs we danced to during recess.
I can still remember riding home
in the back seat of the school bus,
bouncing high every time we hit a bump
on the twisting old country roads.
My friends and I giggling
in our bright new clothes
just picked up from layaway.
My long straight brown hair
tied back in a ponytail
fastened with a matching colored band.

I woke up early on school days
it got really cold
in the winter
in upstate New York.
The old furnace
was turned down at night
this warmed up the downstairs nicely.

Upstairs the feather down comforter
that grandma sent from Germany
pulled up to my chin,
was all that protected me
from the frigid air in my bedroom.
I would lay out my school clothes
the night before,
dress, tights, shoes,
and race to pull them on.
Goosebumps covered
my arms and legs.

I loved my room, it was private.
I had my own portable TV
and stereo where I could practice
singing,

She Loves You
and I Want To Hold Your Hand
into my hairbrush
each afternoon after school.

Before Mom got home from work
and I had to start the potatoes.
Before Dad
would bellow I’m Home
where’s my dinner?

When being the oldest

meant you were accountable
when everything had a proper order
and my audience
would have to wait
until after
the dishes were done.

Feminine Legacy

She had traveled to six different continents

flown, cruised, driven, motorcycled and hiked

had walked inside the empty pyramids of Giza
marveled at the Sphinx
and the Coliseum in Rome.
Toured Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica,
hiked up steep mountainous cliffs
to the monasteries in Meterora.

Sailed down the Rhine
waved at The Lorelei
crossed the St. Charles Bridge in Prague.
Motorcycled around the Southern rim of the Grand Canyon
and witnessed the beauty of the fall colors.

She had climbed up steep steps
on the Great Wall of China
and posed for a picture
in front of Cristo Redento in Rio de Janeiro.

She had survived hordes of hungry flies
driving in a rental car
to swim in the great barrier reef in Australia
and along the way had shared dinners with
doctors, lawyers, teachers
seniors and exchange students
some robust and others on their last leg.

She had inhaled the markets of Casablanca
sampled their wares, skirting old men
smoking stale cigarettes drinking strong coffee
holding fast to ancient beliefs
no longer relevant to anyone but them.

Ignorant men
trapped inside decaying walls
stinking of urine and fish guts.
where women
are traded and bred as cattle.
and the smart ones get locked away
in cliff towers, never to be seen or heard from again.

She knew that she was
one of the lucky ones
that this still goes on
today evidenced by

movies of women being stoned
by indifference and fear
innocent
courageous women

who dared to upset the status quo.

Good women and their daughters
discarded like trash
by uncaring husbands.

By fathers who would taunt their children to
eke a living from a stone field

who had summoned the courage

to work for a
widower’s paltry coins
and were later accused of sleeping
with their employer.

She witnessed the degradation
and the intolerance
saw a courageous soul stand up
and speak out, branded as crazy
the name Soraya forever etched
into her hard drive.

She had touched the stain
that is mankind
and still she
dared to hope.

Common Thread

To communicate or not is not in question
whether it is nobler to write
in poetry or prose
requires further examination.

Taste
what moves you.

Observe,
poke
outline and
tweak.

Revel in it.

Stitch boldly
or you will surely perish.
And your cord will fray
beneath the vines
its connection
reduced
to a thin strand.

Quote of the Day

“Behave your way to success-Practice, Practice, Practice!”~ Dr. Phil McGraw


“If practice makes you perfect—Behavior should be added to the curriculum!” ~Cornelia DeDona

The McDougall Diet

I took this class in the 80's.  Awesome program!

http://vimeo.com/2336834

Directing Fear

“Feel the fear and do it anyway” ~ Susan Jeffers



Today she showed them what she was made of.

She slowed her pace
found her focus
channeled her energy
allowed herself time to reason and
ignored negative impulses

today had been different.

Comfort didn’t concern her.

Comfort was a well-worn pair of shoes
seconds before the strap broke.

It seeped from her consciousness
trickled down her back
and found warmth in a well-worn hollow
signaling an explicit riposte
from the trenches.

Childhood Home

Home meant different things at different ages. Music highlighted the various stages of my growing awareness. Let’s just say The Beatles reigned in Tillson Elementary School. At eleven, I can still remember the cute boys, the portable record player and the songs we danced to outside during recess. I remember riding home in the back seat of the school bus bouncing high every time we hit a bump on the twisting old country roads, my friends and I giggling in our bright new clothes just picked up from layaway at Sears and J.C. Penney, my long straight brown hair tied back in a ponytail and fastened with a matching colored band.

I woke up early during school days. It got really cold in the winter in upstate New York. The old furnace in the basement only managed to warm up the downstairs. The upstairs bedrooms were another story. The feather down comforter that grandma sent from Germany, pulled up to my chin, was all that protected me from the frigid air. I would lay out my school clothes the night before, dress, tights, shoes all neatly arranged, and  pull them on as quickly as I could. Goosebumps would cover my arms and legs on those mornings. I loved having my own room. I had my own portable TV and Stereo where I could practice singing, She Loves You and I Want To Hold Your Hand, into my hairbrush each night. The door had a floor length mirror, so I could inspect myself before I went downstairs. My sisters had to share a room down the hall; being the eldest had its advantages.

Dad  usually left the hall window partially cranked open. I could see my breath as I closed it each morning. The glass always had a layer of frost on it. The black banister would shake from us girls sliding down it; at the bottom the post provided a landing. Sometimes if we hit it just right it would fall off and roll down the hall. Dad never got around to fixing it along with many other things that remained in a virtual state of unfinished; small things like baseboards without molding, wires suspended from the ceiling, the bathroom tub that needed a new hot water knob. We used a wrench to turn it on. It became a permanent fixture. I remember how my Mother would hound him about the closet doors in their bedroom that were never hung. One time he bought Mom a dishwasher, but she only used it once, because he never found the time to get the necessary hook-up to permanently install it. The one time she did use it, he had jury rigged a hose from the back of the dishwasher to the kitchen faucet that he took off of the washing machine. He was always going to do it LATER. There was always some reason why he didn’t have time, or couldn’t get the necessary part. He always had a truckload of excuses, like the neighbor needed his expert help with a project. This usually started another argument about getting PAID for all that help, which he never did.

Poor Mom, she did her best to supplement Dad’s salary and feed and clothe her three girls. She went to work after my sister Angie was born and still hasn’t stopped. I was seven years old and I remember this because I was elected to babysit my two year old sister for twenty minutes, five days a week, until Dad got home. She started as a night cleaning lady in an office building and now at seventy five, she still works part-time preparing salads at the deli in the local supermarket, three days a week.

Meanwhile Dad retired thirty five years ago, stating that there wasn’t anything suitable for someone with HIS qualifications. Mom waited over fifty years for him to finish this and that, and now she has to beg her sons-in-law, because Dad has dementia. He thinks the neighbors are trying to steal his identity. He still drinks too. On a recent visit I took to see them, Angie and I caught Dad acting completely normal when he was out spending time with friends. Mom is still in denial about everything. She says that it’s too late, she can’t leave him now. My other sister chalks it up to LOVE. Wow, all I can say is, “If that’s love, Mom’s a NUN!” Today’s song would have to be, Call Me When You’re Sober by Evanescense, I learned early on exactly what I did and didn’t want my home life to turn out like.

Six Word Memoirs for Valentine’s Day

Mint chocolate hearts
savor fresh kisses.

Love willingly skates
backwards through tunnel.

Conversation in most
marriages equals hurdle.

Success in marriage
jumps boundless obstacles.

Relaxed couples reconcile
his and hers.

Surrender in marriage
recognizes who’s boss!

Men drip intelligence
Women glow restraint.

Be my Valentine
dance through life.

The Barometer

The Barometer


slowly drops
on a frosty trucker
at a snowed under rest stop
howling for a cup of Joe and
longing for lost serenity while
steering through endless back water towns.

Flashbacks pan on persistent billboards
empty promises on the I-95 and
daydreams of a midnight rendezvous
beneath a star speckled
blanket on a lonely Valentine’s night.

Melting briefly midday
as the pressure begins its hopeful rise on
the whim of a fresh faced
adventurer
with a hall pass
thumbing for a ride

and artfully dropped soon after
behind
a dinghy diner
forecasting more
frigid, pale,
and foul weather.

Zeus Meets Apollo and Rocky