tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65687592024-03-14T02:44:00.414-05:00The Rat SqueaksRon Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.comBlogger2210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-34244879866144437582010-06-29T12:23:00.003-05:002010-06-29T12:30:05.012-05:00Time Elapsing<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=plain>I 've only now gotten the computer back in the house after many weeks. I've been sick a couple of months and it's bad. Pancreatic cancer, liver cancer, both inoperable, untreatable, impenetrable. In hospital a few weeks, out of it now, a few weeks, in hospice now at home and totally weak. Don't know how much time is left, but it could be short. I suppose i'll be a bad writer from now on and a worse speller... </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-48983119021815329262010-05-23T17:41:00.001-05:002010-05-23T17:43:47.994-05:00BP SATAN<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=plain><table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=plain>And then one day British Petroleum decided that they would fuck the Universe and that no one could stop them or make them admit it or force them to pay with their lives for it. <br /><br />"Tough shit, America, we're a corporation with all the God-given rights that your stupid-ass corrupt politicians gave us!" <br /><br />Although the corporation is Satan, we'll never be able to do a fuckass thing about it! </p> </td></tr></table></p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-35520584672139840552010-05-22T13:43:00.000-05:002010-05-22T13:44:36.205-05:00I Hear From No One<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I hear from no one much <br />Or at least very seldom. <br />Some send me their junk mail, <br />Though it’s not clear if they don’t know the difference <br />Or if it’s only that they think I won’t know it…<br /><br />I’ll read the first few words of anything, <br />Though that don’t mean it doesn’t make me mad.<br />There’s no longer any purpose in getting mad, though, <br />Just as there is none in practicing indifference to one and all.<br /><br />I prowl the broken teeth and bones <br />Of my array in the mirror<br />And wish for more input in the soup, <br />Though I’m expecting less. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/22/2010<br />Created on 5/20/2010 10:58 AM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-28536831009131940452010-05-21T13:19:00.000-05:002010-05-21T13:20:21.161-05:00Straight View<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>Can you cure me of what ails me <br />Or cure the ailment of its attachment to myself?<br />Is there any hope or spell for anyone I know <br />Or just these strange straight views down long deserted roads? <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/17/2010<br />Created on 5/17/2010 6:57 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-74279161539860874222010-05-20T12:43:00.000-05:002010-05-20T12:44:19.650-05:00The Pristine Blonde<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I think she was a pristine girl <br />Who went out into the world <br />With many delusions and intentions, <br />One of which was to sleep with Jews and Negroes <br />To prove her liberality—whether to herself <br />Or to the white-bread world she came from. <br />I was never certain, but I’m certain that she thought so! <br />Alas, that I was white and Protestant. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/20/2010<br />Created on 4/25/2010 10:54 AM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-67943150944228222682010-05-19T13:45:00.000-05:002010-05-19T13:46:29.690-05:00Grateful Or Not<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>Not one of my lovers <br />Were ever much like me or even close, <br />But for that I should be grateful. <br />I should probably even roll over and play dead.<br /><br />Almost all those I loved, you see, were guilty <br />In some small respect of things I’d never believe, <br />Things I couldn’t imagine that I’d ever tolerate. <br />Now that they are gone, I’ve reflected, find I was mistaken…<br /><br />I suppose it’s just that I’ve discovered and suffered for <br />How I miss them, how hard it’s been to replace them, <br />How feeble is my existence, growing old without their faces, <br />Without those native traces, voices, and embraces to keep me. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/19/2010<br />Created on 5/15/2010 8:31 PM<br /></p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-51346712658952501622010-05-18T11:43:00.000-05:002010-05-18T11:46:13.653-05:00Carmen Delzell (Opposites)<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I hear the voice of an American woman living in Mexico. <br />She speaks of her attachments to nature in a rural landscape <br />With 2 burros, 9 dogs, and some chickens. <br />She is immersed, it seems, <br />Though she is also uncomfortable and lonely. <br />She is similar—however opposite—to myself. <br />Once in a while, she sees a truck drive down her dusty road, <br />Whereas I live immersed in modern-life’s most unnatural world <br />Where it’s always hard to see the stars <br />And cars are always passing me by, <br />And I am almost always uncomfortable in it. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/18/2010<br />Created on 5/15/2010 6:30 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-86017908995822455862010-05-16T11:46:00.000-05:002010-05-16T11:47:27.925-05:00Too Late<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>It’s getting too late to die young, <br />So I’ll have to live with that—<br />Though I cannot say how long. </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-77343124968697989362010-05-13T11:30:00.000-05:002010-05-13T11:31:07.571-05:00Beautiful Day, My Ass<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>“It’s a beautiful day,” the house-painter said <br />each morning as I went out, <br />and it always seemed such garbage to me. <br />I’m sure that sunny days must be of worth <br />To those who work outdoors, <br />But I don’t work and I’ve been sick so long, <br />It doesn’t mean a rat’s-ass thing to me. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/4/2010<br />Created on 5/4/2010 1:36 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-30155174440762015102010-05-12T09:18:00.001-05:002010-05-12T09:19:51.473-05:00In The Flame<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I don’t really care for living, I fear, <br />But I’m incapable of facing death—<br />Not the rope or the jolt or any drowning or the gun. <br />There’s nothing to it, I am told, but I can’t get there. <br />I just stay stuck here in the flame in dread and doubt <br />And never leap for heart’s true beauty or go out. <br /><br />Now when I ache I don’t know what for, but only<br />That there are few if any hearts that break for it. <br />I can’t pretend to pray for it <br />Or expect any other to see to it <br />And fail myself to see that this old heart, when divulged, <br />Is anything more than it ever was. <br /><br />Sad songs and movies <br />Never used to make me weep <br />Nor illness, age, or death, <br />And I would as lief return there <br />Where a grievous song was only a song <br />And my heart among life’s beauties was ever mine to give. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/10/2010<br />Created on 5/5/2010 4:27 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-44675910752310059002010-05-09T11:21:00.000-05:002010-05-09T11:22:23.141-05:00Delight<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>You were always such a good girl. <br />It made it more delightful to me <br />That you chose me at one time to do those bad things with!<br /><br />You were so nice, I mean, if not good! <br />You were nice to your parents, <br />To your friends and those who weren’t <br />And even those who weren’t likely to be. <br /><br />Even me now that my life is lived in spite and nearly over. <br />You’ve always been a sweet kind soul, <br />And well-behaved and intelligent, too— <br />And that made you not only tolerable to me, <br />But one of the few who could tolerate me!<br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/8/2010<br />Created on 4/23/2010 3:15 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-90054662756690960002010-05-07T14:19:00.001-05:002010-05-07T14:27:05.874-05:00Missing You<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I miss her a little still, it’s true, but <br />I miss you more and you’re still here.<br />I missed out somewhere <br />In a long-ago dream that never ceased, <br />I took a long step across a too wide stream <br />When things got too real and I wetted myself, <br />Whether anyone knew of it or not. <br />It was only a misstep, <br />Combined with something I lost or threw out <br />When it didn’t seem like anything of very much value. <br />I was unquestionably mistaken, <br />But I know I can’t take it back. <br />I miss you when I cannot caress or even kiss you, <br />But there’s nothing new in that.<br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/07/2010<br />Created on 4/20/2010 9:36 PM<br /></p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-72082925920742607352010-05-04T15:30:00.002-05:002010-05-04T20:13:14.354-05:00from "Things Are Strange" or "Things Have Changed"<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=quo>Bob Dylan: Feel like falling in love with the first woman I meet<br />Putting her in a wheelbarrow and wheeling her down the street </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-39746257468724819412010-05-04T10:43:00.001-05:002010-05-04T10:45:16.149-05:00IN MY LIFE<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=oldsong>(By Lennon/McCartney)<br /><br />There are places I remember<br />All my life though some have changed<br />Some forever not for better<br />Some have gone and some remain<br />All these places have their moments<br />With lovers and friends I still can recall<br />Some are dead and some are living<br />In my life I've loved them all<br /><br />But of all these friends and lovers<br />There is no one compares with you<br />And these memories lose their meaning<br />When I think of love as something new<br />Though I know I'll never lose affection<br />For people and things that went before<br />I know I'll often stop and think about them<br />In my life I love you more<br /><br />Though I know I'll never lose affection<br />For people and things that went before<br />I know I'll often stop and think about them<br />In my life I love you more<br /><br />In my life I love you more </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-15875239267171161512010-05-03T16:22:00.000-05:002010-05-03T16:25:05.201-05:00Swiss Cheese Memory<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=plain>I had an odd remembrance the other day. First I recalled the ascot I wore for a couple of my teenage years, probably in the same time period that I bought into the popularity of Carnaby Street--you know, all those splashy colors, sometimes with white cuffs on colored or striped shirts, sometimes white collars that also contrasted. I recall also a blazer that I guess you'd call a dark gold; if there was some other name for the color, I never learned it. Maybe some called it "tan", though I don't recall it. At any rate, I remember that the ascot went with the blazer, though I can't recall the ascot's color or if it had spots or stripes or any other pattern. Ain't memory a wonderful thing when it decides to leave so many holes in the fabric? </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-69906187697232449742010-05-01T16:15:00.002-05:002010-05-02T13:31:38.455-05:00How Or Why<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>I know you’re younger than me <br />And none of my business, <br />But I wish I had a pretty woman like you to kiss<br />Once again before I forget how or why. <br />But I’m really just admiring you <br />When I didn’t know I did—<br />I don’t mean for you to feel discomfort <br />Or to start to wonder when I’ll die. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 5/1/2010<br />Created on 4/27/2010 3:54 PM </p> </td></tr></table><br /><br /><strong>Strangely enough, this is post #2,222.</strong>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-33205613314634232262010-05-01T09:13:00.001-05:002010-05-01T09:16:12.645-05:00Forever Young<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=oldsong><small>by Bob Dylan</small><br /><br />May God bless and keep you always<br />May your wishes all come true<br />May you always do for others<br />And let others do for you<br />May you build a ladder to the stars<br />And climb on every rung<br />May you stay forever young<br />Forever young, forever young<br />May you stay forever young<br /><br />May you grow up to be righteous<br />May you grow up to be true<br />May you always know the truth<br />And see the lights surrounding you<br />May you always be courageous<br />Stand upright and be strong<br />May you stay forever young<br />Forever young, forever young<br />May you stay forever young<br /><br />May your hands always be busy<br />May your feet always be swift<br />May you have a strong foundation<br />When the winds of changes shift<br />May your heart always be joyful<br />May your song always be sung<br />May you stay forever young<br />Forever young, forever young<br />May you stay forever young<br /><br /><small> Copyright © 1973 by Ram's Horn Music; renewed 2001 by Ram’s Horn Music </small> </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-71850646743723939442010-04-30T13:05:00.005-05:002010-05-01T08:53:21.980-05:00Kill The Sidebar<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=mech>One of the recent changes I made at <a href="http://jgblues.blogspot.com/"> Judy Garland's Blues (poetry blog)</a> that I really like was to get rid of the sidiebar by changing the template to the "Simple II" that's been around a long time, but seldom turns up on blogs because sidebars are so popular. I decided they were unneeded claptrap in a dedicated poetry blog. Besides, the sidebar items can still be found if you make it to the bottom of the blog. Just a small alteration, but I like it. </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-63632513381945961492010-04-28T15:47:00.001-05:002010-04-28T15:47:56.577-05:00Where Is That Painted Lady?<table border=4><tr><td><p id=pr>Here's a link to a poem written in my old age about the "first love" of my youth. As I've done previously with other poems that were either long or of very special quality (this one is a little of both), it's located at my poetry blog, "JUDY GARLAND'S BLUES". <br /><br />See this poem about love and loss and art and beauty and remembrance, if you wish, at <a href="http://jgblues.blogspot.com/2010/04/painted-lady.html">PAINTED LADY</a>. </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-73526490379916421832010-04-28T09:56:00.001-05:002010-04-28T10:01:33.766-05:00I Weep For Poems And People<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather><small>(For My Aunts Pearl and Louise Who Died The Same Day This Week)</small><br /><br />I weep for poems that went astray <br />And people who seem long-gone as dust <br />That some ill wind blew away eons ago, <br />But they only now have died.<br /><br />I weep as if for a stranger on a sinking ship or for <br />That fraught overwrought final bearer at the eternal pall— <br />We’re dead-fast running out of time <br />And good simple souls and tissues for our tears. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 4/28/2010<br />Created on 4/26/2010 3:51 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-64148704881931300422010-04-25T10:48:00.000-05:002010-04-25T10:49:11.432-05:00It Injures Me<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>It injures me when you think ill of me, <br />Though I guess in truth I injure myself <br />When I know you are forced to such disgust <br />And disappointment and forgiveness <br />By all my vulgar snarling and despair. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 4/25/2010<br />Created on 4/22/2010 10:39 AM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-46910771398158296712010-04-24T19:17:00.001-05:002010-04-24T19:21:23.626-05:00God Will Get You Either Way<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=erratic>I've decided God is indifferent to some of us and hates the rest. Which group I fall in, I can only guess. </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-78439478032637005412010-04-23T20:37:00.001-05:002010-04-24T08:39:05.609-05:00A Thousand Dollars<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>If you sent me a thousand dollars<br />With which to make the trip from here to you, <br />That would be enough, <br />More than enough, <br /><br />But not enough to overcome my constipated brain <br />And aches and pains—I would have the road maps and the means, <br />But not the spirit or the strength to actually get up and go. <br />You might think I might as well be dead. </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-71356479483343272312010-04-22T18:47:00.002-05:002010-04-22T19:38:26.290-05:00Dead Or Alive?<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=plain>What's the deal, did I die? <br /><br />I don't think so. <br /><br />Okay, then, don't clam up! </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6568759.post-51352594991238311842010-04-19T20:09:00.000-05:002010-04-19T20:10:12.272-05:00Sensations<table border=4 bgcolor=NavajoWhite width=100%> <th align=center bgcolor=NavajoWhite></th><tr><td bgcolor=NavajoWhite> <p id=leather>Our lives are full, too full-- <br />But full of what? TV and dis-ease, <br />Distant neighbors just there across the street<br />Or on the left beyond the fence— <br />All I know of them is the constancy of their yapping dog, <br />And all they know of me is that I haven’t killed that dog. <br /><br />It's all true, it's all false,<br />It's all a great grief and all a great relief.<br />It's nothing we didn't mean <br />And nothing that meant very much,<br />We still are not subject to sense, but only to sensations <br />We submit to alive <br />Though each maintains that all is hubris, <br />And is all we may ever achieve. <br /><br />rcs.<br /><br />Current draft: 4/19/2010<br />Created on 12/25/2009 7:01 PM </p> </td></tr></table>Ron Southernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08604305014713612990noreply@blogger.com0