Month: November 2017

Happy Thanksgiving 2017

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Whereas Thanksgivings past there was one four-minute long video of a single turkey attack, this year it’s time to get serious:  I’m linking to a video compilation of many turkey attacks.

You read that right, I’m embedding the code to a video that someone else compiled, of other people recording their turkey attack experiences in real life, and I’m putting that code on a platform that someone else coded so you can view this compilation right here!

How long is this entertaining, holiday-themed video you ask?

4:26 minutes!

***Should you click on another video link after the video stops playing on this platform, you will open a new tab and possibly spend hours viewing related videos in a mindless haze of vicarious living on that platform.

Who knows where you’ll end up?

Happy Thanksgiving!:

 

Sunday Poem-Theodore Roethke

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Autumn Poem

I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.
I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.

–Theodore Roethke

Not always one of my favorites, but thanks to a reader!

 

Friday Poem-Robert Frost

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My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

–Robert Frost