DAILY PHOTO: Landscapes from Minchukallu Betta
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Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas [w/ Audio]
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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PROMPT: To Wear
What are your two favorite things to wear?
T-shirt and sweats-shorts. (If the 85% of my life that I’m wearing that is any indication.)
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Watercourse Weave [Haiku]
the river weaves -- just a gentle meander; a floating leaf roams.
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Fugu Death [Free Verse]
What a moment!
When you realize
that your lips had been more numb
than from Szechwan peppercorns,
and that numbness
has slid into paralysis.
You are dying:
death by Fugu --
poison blowfish.
Your heart will stop.
You will keel over,
falling from your stool
at the sushi counter.
A booth-dweller,
seeing you bounce off
an adjacent patron,
wonders why you don't
bring your arms up to catch yourself,
but - of course - they're dangling
uselessly,
and so you land face first.
The booth-dweller cringes.
There's nothing to be done for you.
You had the nerve
to try the Fugu!
But, while Fugu life is exhilarating;
Fugu death is inglorious.
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DAILY PHOTO: Sri Narasimhaswamy Temple, Srirangapatna
St. Crispin’s Day Speech [from HENRY V] by William Shakespeare [w/ Audio]
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian." Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say "These wounds I had on Crispian's day." Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words -- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester -- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered -- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's Day.
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PROMPT: Sleepless
If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
Probably the same stuff. I’m reminded of Parkinson’s Law that states that activities [ie work] expand to fill the time allotted. Plus, there would still be mental housekeeping tasks to be done. It’s not like sleep is just wasted time (contrary to popular belief.) There is a great deal of important stuff that gets done in body and brain during sleep. If you think your memory is bad now…
So, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep my sleep. I don’t think it’ll make the slightest difference in losing work to AI. (John Henry folklore notwithstanding.)
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Barbwire Bee-Eater [Senryū]
a bee-eater lands on a barbed wire fence for a cozy rest.
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A Strange Pain [Common Meter]
What is this thing I never saw that poked me from nowhere. I felt a pain that dripped insane and gave me quite a scare. I know it came from outside-in, and not from bones or brain. And yet it's not a break, a bruise, a lesion, or a sprain. Some demon breached a ghost portal, and stabbed me from hell's pit with an inferno-fired poker... oh wait, I'm fine. It quit.
