Pine Mountain Trail

On the road out from the Allatoona Visitor's Center, I spotted the parking lot for the newest recreation area for the City of Cartersville, GA. The morning two-mile hike just wasn't enough fresh air for my mind and body, so I insisted that we hike the East Loop of this trail.

This picture is supposed to show how steep the trail is.

We began our 2.34 mile walk at 900 feet above sea level.

I had to stop often to catch my breath, as the summit level (1562) confirmed the moderate to difficult status of this trail.

Here is am at the top, smiling because I'm so proud of myself :)

We lunched on tuna fish sandwiches and enjoyed this view of north Georgia.














There will be more hikes like this because I'd love to do this one again. On foot or on a bike :)

Plus there's the Vineyard Mountain Trail at Riverside Park, 6.5 miles, calling my name. It's on the other side of Allatoona Dam in Bartow County. Here's a link to more trails in the Etowah Valley area.

And then, closer to my home, but still in Bartow, there's the Pine Log Creek Trail, 4.5 miles long.

Let's go!

Bravo Company / 1st Battalion / 6th Infantry Regiment















My nephew leads this company and buried in this post detailing his 25th week in Iraq is the impressive news that he received a Bronze Star!

Praying today for those who serve and protect us militarily,

I feel small.

Outwitted

For Poem-In-My-Pocket Day.

He drew a circle that shut me out --
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in!

Edwin Markham
American Poet
1852 - 1940



What's in your pocket?

Theme for English B

This poem is one of the one's recited by Poetry Out Loud Contestant, William Farley. He is from Arlington, Virginia and won first place. Here's a link to a newspaper article announcing the results. The other poem chosen by Farley was John Donne's, The Flea.

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you.
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you’re older—and white—
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

By Langston Hughes


I have discovered that Kathleenaomi (like that name) Wooten was Georgia's state winner. She's from the Columbus area, but I dont know which poem she recited.

What can you find out about your State's contest?

Poetry Out Loud

Each day this month I've been posting a poem: one I like, want to remember, or has special meaning.

It's easy to read poetry.

Much more difficult to write.

But it's an exercise in discipline to memorize and recite.

It can even be a gift.





From Caroline Kennedy:

For each holiday or birthday, John and I would have to write or chose a poem for my mother. We had to copy it down and illustrate it, and she pasted them all in a special scrapbook.

In fourth grade, I remember struggling to memorize I Corinthians 13 or the Love Poem. The problem was not with the words, but the fact that I had waited until the night before to begin the process.


Today in Washington, DC, the finalists in the Poetry Out Loud contest are reciting their final selections and soon we will know the winner.

I'm curious to know who wins.

And what poem was recited.

In the meantime, for today?

Tell me about the first poem you had to memorize and recite.

In beauty may I walk

No, not Lord Byron, but an unknown Native American poet writing about Nature. These verses are quoted by Leslie Mass who wrote a charming memoir about her hiking of the Appalachian Trail. I read the book a couple of years ago and wanted to remember her mantra. I'm no through-hiker, or even a dedicated enthusiast, but I do enjoy walking - through the woods, along the beach, or in my own neighborhood. It's refreshing to revel in God's creation


In beauty may I walk
All day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons may I walk
In beauty will I possess again
Beautifully birds
Beautifully joyful birds
On a trail marked with pollen may I walk
With wild flowers about my feet may I walk
With dew about my feet may I walk
With beauty may I walk
With beauty before me may I walk
With beauty behind me may I walk
With beauty above me may I walk
With beauty all around me may I walk.
In old age, wondering on a trail of beauty
Lively may I walk
In old age, wondering on a trail of beauty
Living again may I walk
It is finished in beauty.


Here's a link to my Xanga site where I've detailed my most recent hike.

Augustine of Hippo

Today is the anniverary of Augustine's baptism and his heart rested.

O God, by whose laws the poles revolve,
the stars follow their courses.
The sun rules the day
and the moon presides over the night;
And all the world maintains,
as far as this world of sense allows,
The wondrous stability of things
by means of the order and recurrences of seasons:
Through the days
by the changing of light and darkness.
Through the months
by the moon's progressions and declines,
Through the years
by the successions of

Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter,
Through the cycles
by the completion of the Sun's course,
Through the great eras of time
by the return of the stars to their starting points.

God of life,
There are days
when the burdens we carry
chafe our shoulders and wear us down;
When the road seems dreary and endless,
The skies grey and threatening;
When our lives have no music in them
and our hearts are lonely.
And our souls have lost their courage.

Flood the path with light,
We beseech you;
Turn our eyes
to where the skies are full of promise.

Our hearts are restless, O Lord,
until they rest in you.

Carmina Burana

At Hillsdale's Spring Choir Concert DD#3 and #4 will be singing this ancient collection of poems together with the 100-person choir. Since I cant attend in person I will be listening over the weekend to Atlanta's Robert Shaw rendition of this famous work. Here's a little taste - translated from the Latin:

Truly, in the season of spring
Stands above the withering tree
sweet Juliana with her sister.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
Behold the trees bloom,
Birds are singing lustily;
Among them, the girls are cooling off.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
Behold the lilies bloom,
And throngs of virgins give
songs to the highest of the gods.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.
If I could hold the girl I love
In the forest under the leaves,
I would kiss her with joy.
Sweet love!
He who is without you in this season
Is worthless.


Conductor James Holleman chose the most famous version to perform, that by Carl Orff, but has made sure that the text is *PG-rataed* and least likely to offend anyone in the audience.

Here's a link to a short analysis.


I have never heard Carmina Burana.

Have you?

The Brown Thrush


There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
He's singing to me! He's singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I'm as happy as happy can be!"


And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy;
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be!"

by Lucy Larcom
American Poet
1924 - 1893

From 1865 to 1873, she was the editor of Our Young Folks, later renamed St. Nicholas Magazine.


Be sure and watch the video in this link. A poet, photographer, blogger in Pennsylvania has captured the early morning vocalizing of one of my favorite birds.

Here's another related link to my xanga site where I review a book about a wood thrush.

God's Grandeur

This is my comment on Earth Day....and I do have one question. What do you think the poet means by *shining from shook foil*? Surely not aluminum foil!

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.


Gerard Manley Hopkins
English Poet
1844 - 1889

Photo borrowed from ViaNegativa

Lilac (Syringa vulgaris) versus Wisteria (Hygrophila difformis)

Lavender-colored blossoms abound at this time of year. Between the azaleas, lilacs (trees and bushes) and the wisteria vines, it can be a little confusing. So, here are a couple of pictures (for my own edification) and an Emily Dickinson poem.

The Lilac is an ancient Shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight -
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final plant
To Contemplation - not to Touch -
The Flower of Occident.

Of one Corolla is the West -
The Calyx is the Earth -
The Capsule's burnished Seeds the Stars -
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun -
Above his Synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time's Analysis -
"Eye hath not seen" may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By Theses be detained -


The lilacs in Emily's garden were laden with perfumed panicles of bloom in May. Apparently it is impossible for people not to stick their noses in them :) They are long-lived and their purple flowers reminded Emily of the sunset and of her botanical glossary. I will have to consult the dictionary to understand some of her verse.

At present I dont have any lilac in my yard, but a tip in Marta McDowell's book Emily Dickinson's Gardens states that

lilacs are undemanding plants. They will grow in sunny spots in practically any soil, and once established, don't ask for any extra water or fertilizer, though they will reward you if you give them a dusting of lime near their roots in spring.

Sounds like something I might could grow.

Wisteria is also lavender-colored.


This vine is something I'd rather not have in my backyard.

It is almost as invasive as kudzu.

I dont want to confuse it with Lilac.












Now I think I know the difference.

Nonsensical Poems

We all enjoyed as children reciting tongue twisters and such. I remember laughing over How Much Wood Could a Woodchuck Chuck (if a woodchuck could chuck wood). So, today's selections cover that genre.

Practice these today.

The Tutor

A tutor who tooted a flute,
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor,
"Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"

by Carolyn Wells






The Fly and the Flea


A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "Let us flee,"
Said the flea, "Let us fly,"
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

By Anonymous





Cheerio!!

O Day of Rest and Gladness

O day of rest and gladness, O day of joy and light,
O balm of care and sadness, most beautiful, most bright:
On Thee, the high and lowly, through ages joined in tune,
Sing holy, holy, holy, to the great God Triune.

On Thee, at the creation, the light first had its birth;
On Thee, for our salvation, Christ rose from depths of earth;
On Thee, our Lord, victorious, the Spirit sent from heaven,
And thus on Thee, most glorious, a triple light was given.

Thou art a port, protected from storms that round us rise;
A garden, intersected with streams of paradise;
Thou art a cooling fountain in life’s dry, dreary sand;
From thee, like Pisgah’s mountain, we view our promised land.

Thou art a holy ladder, where angels go and come;
Each Sunday finds us gladder, nearer to heaven, our home;
A day of sweet refection, thou art a day of love,
A day of resurrection from earth to things above.

Today on weary nations the heavenly manna falls;
To holy convocations the silver trumpet calls,
Where Gospel light is glowing with pure and radiant beams,
And living water flowing, with soul refreshing streams.

New graces ever gaining from this our day of rest,
We reach the rest remaining to spirits of the blessed.
To Holy Ghost be praises, to Father, and to Son;
The church her voice upraises to Thee, blessed Three in One.


Words by Christopher Wordsworth
Tune Mendebras & Lowell Mason

Time Tested Beauty Tips

Instead of highlighting a piece of my *closet* today, I'm posting this well-known poem. It describes the most effective way of maintaining beauty, a fashion that never goes out of style. It was originally written for the poet's granddaughter, but popularized by actress Audrey Hepburn.


For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; Never throw out anybody.

Remember, If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!

by Sam Levenson
American humorist, writer, journalist and television host
1911 - 1980

THE TAX POEM

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table
At which he's fed.
Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.
Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for peanuts
Anyway!

Tax his cow,
Tax his goat ,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.
Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.
Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.
Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.
Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.
Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you won't be done
Till he has no dough.
When he screams and hollers,
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He's good and sore.
Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he's laid.

Put these words
Upon his tomb,
'Taxes drove me to my doom...'
When he's gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax.
Accounts Receivable Tax
Building Permit Tax
CDL license Tax
Cigarette Tax
Corporate Income Tax
Dog License Tax
Excise Taxes
Federal Income Tax
Federal Unemployment Tax (FUTA)
Fishing License Tax
Food License Tax
Fuel Permit Tax
Gasoline Tax (44.75 cents per gallon)
Gross Receipts Tax
Hunting License Tax
Inheritance Tax
Inventory Tax
IRS Interest Charges IRS Penalties (tax on top of tax)
Liquor Tax
Luxury Taxes
Marriage License Tax
Medicare Tax
Personal Property Tax
Property Tax
Real Estate Tax & lt; BRService Charge Tax
Social Security Tax
Road Usage Tax
Sales Tax
Recreational Vehicle Tax
School Tax
State Income Tax
State Unemployment Tax (SUTA)
Telephone Federal Excise Tax
Telephone Federal Universal Service Fee Tax
Telephone Federal, State and Local Surcharge Taxes
Telephone Minimum Usage Surcharge Tax
Telephone Recurring and Non-recurring Charges Tax
Telephone State and Local Tax
Telephone Usage Charge Tax
Utility Taxes
Vehicle License Registration Tax
Vehicle Sales Tax
Watercraft Registration Tax
Well Permit Tax
Workers Compensation Tax

Not really sure who wrote this ditty, but it hones in on a very real problem. I'm ready for forgo *government services* in exchange for lower taxes.

Consider reading about the Fair Tax in Neal Boortz's book by the same name.

We cant keep up this pace.

Here's a link to the AJC article about the Tea Party/Tax Protest that took place in downtown Atlanta Wednesday evening.

Christus Victor

Resurrection hope hastens hence
on bud, breeze, and blossom
grieving rynds* banished in lilac scents.

Hark, the Easter Hymn rings haste
from its loveliest biding-place.

A lavish breach of winter's curt hard sword
an ardent repudiation of death's dark pall
the out-veining sun of the Christus Lord.



At the refectory of your loving-care
the transfiguration clarion sounds a call
that didicae** could ne're convey nor spare.

Thus, Gospel comes ensconced in Word and Deed
and the evidence is your shimmering touch:
Christus Victor, shown in a life's sown seed.

Hark, the Easter hymn rings haste
From its loveliest biding-place

by Tristan Gylberd
American poet
1954 -

Reading the blogs of George Grant and other reformed Christians, I learned of Gylberd and his poetry. But I cant find out any more information about him. If you have anything to share or know where I can secure a copy of his poetry, please leave a comment.


Photo borrowed from LauraC's blog.

rynds = rinds
didicae = ?? plural of learners or followers??

I Look at a Photograph


Child on Porch

Taken by Eudora Welty in the mid 1930's when she was working as a photographer for the Works Projects Administration in her home state of Mississippi.











Eudora Welty would be 100 years old today and wrote the poem, I Look at a Photograph, but I have been unable to read it.... yet.*

She wrote most of her poems as a young girl, the first being published in St Nicholas, a children's magazine, in 1920, at age 11. This one appears to be available in a current children's magazine, Cicada, a Cricket magazine group, the March/April 2005 issue.

While Welty is better known for her prose and photography, she did write a number of poems; and I would like to peruse a few. If you (or your library) has access to Cicada, I would appreciate receiving a photocopy of the poem.

But first, click over to my Xanga page and read my review of the acclaimed musical fable, The Shoe Bird, a delightful symphonic story, based on Welty's novella of the same title, published in 1964. I've listened to it several times over the weekend.

In the meantime, I will leave you with a short paragraph about photography from her memoir, One Writer's Beginnings.

The camera was a hand-held auxiliary of wanting-to-know.

It had more than information and accuracy to teach me. I learned in the doing how ready I had to be. Life doesnt hold still. A good snapshot stopped a moment from running away. Photography taught me that to be able to capture transience, by being ready to click the shutter at the crucial moment, was the greatest need I had. Making pictures of people in all sorts of situations, I earned that every feeling waits upon its gesture; and I had to be prepared to recognize this moment when I saw it.

These were things a story writer needed to know. And I felt the need to hold transient life in words -- there's so much more of life that only words can convey --strongly enough to last me as long as I lived.

In your family, who is the photographer, who is the story writer/teller?

Who writes poetry?




*Much later I received a copy of this poem from the library reference desk.  In fact, it is NOT written by Miss Welty, but someone who was inspired by viewing her photograph.

The Triumph of the Lamb

by Marguerite of Angouleme
11 April 1492 – 21 December 1549










Today is the 517th birthday of the author of this poem, and aside from noting that, I want to remember to study her. She was truly a Renaissance woman who not only carried out her political role at court but also devoted much of her energy and attention to spiritual matters. In 1521 she began a correspondence with Guillaume Briconnet, bishop of Meaux, who introduced her to the evangelist movement, the call for reform within the Catholic Church, and a return to the original purity of the Scriptures.

The following is only a small part of a larger poem.

Since my desire is now to celebrate
Thy triumphs, Word divine, impart to me
Such sweet accords and lofty harmonies
That no defect shall marr my song to Thee.
To sing Thy praises, Lord, is my intent
If by Thy Spirit Thou inspire my pen....
Thus, trusting, Lord, in Thy abundant grace
And knowing Thou wilt guide and lead me on,
I will begin to show the reason why
Thou first didst have compassion on mankind.



This is thought to be a portrait of Marguerite d'Angouleme,

Queen Consort to Henry II of Navarre and also the sister of Francis I, King of France.

Remember that Calvin addressed his Institutes of the Christian Religion to this king.

Oil on panel, 61.2 x 52.6cm
Jean Clouet, ca 1530
Court painter to Francis I

Walker Gallery
National Museums of Liverpool



This painting is full of symbols which may give clues to the painting's meaning. The sitter wears daisies in her hat. The French word for daisy is Marguerite. The parrot may symbolise eloquence and mean Marguerite was a good talker. The bird may also symbolise love, its green colour denoting passion.

Be sure and check out yesterday's Fine Art Friday post.

Zurbaran's painting is exquisite.

John Henry, Steel Driving Man

I hunted high and low for a poem about the Great Locomotive Chase aka Andrews Raid, which started April 12, 1862, but didnt find one. Instead I found a neat webpage with lots of other poems about trains.

From there I chose Old John Henry. Remember singing about him in grade school? I do.

Plus I thought this description of manliness might add to Cindy's discussion on Masculinity. What do you think?


John Henry was a railroad man,
He worked from six 'till five,
"Raise 'em up bullies and let 'em drop down,
I'll beat you to the bottom or die."

John Henry said to his captain:
"You are nothing but a common man,
Before that steam drill shall beat me down,
I'll die with my hammer in my hand."

John Henry said to the Shakers:
"You must listen to my call,
Before that steam drill shall beat me down,
I'll jar these mountains till they fall."

John Henry's captain said to him:
"I believe these mountains are caving in."
John Henry said to his captain: "Oh, Lord!"
"That's my hammer you hear in the wind."

John Henry he said to his captain:
"Your money is getting mighty slim,
When I hammer through this old mountain,
Oh Captain will you walk in?"

John Henry's captain came to him
With fifty dollars in his hand,
He laid his hand on his shoulder and said:
"This belongs to a steel driving man."

John Henry was hammering on the right side,
The big steam drill on the left,
Before that steam drill could beat him down,
He hammered his fool self to death.

They carried John Henry to the mountains,
From his shoulder his hammer would ring,
She caught on fire by a little blue blaze
I believe these old mountains are caving in.

John Henry was lying on his death bed,
He turned over on his side,
And these were the last words John Henry said
"Bring me a cool drink of water before I die."

John Henry had a little woman,
Her name was Pollie Ann,
He hugged and kissed her just before he died,
Saying, "Pollie, do the very best you can."

John Henry's woman heard he was dead,
She could not rest on her bed,
She got up at midnight, caught that No. 4 train,
"I am going where John Henry fell dead."

They carried John Henry to that new burying ground
His wife all dressed in blue,
She laid her hand on John Henry's cold face,
"John Henry I've been true to you."


by W. T. Blankenship
1909

The Children's Hour

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.


A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.



A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
American Poet
1807 - 1882

Link to more information about the painting.