Sticks and Stones

From Weekend Wordsmith

Sticks and Stones

March 14, 2008

All day we labored
with sticks and stones, to build
this edifice to our own ingenuity.
A boulder rolled there, and a few sticks
wedged in over here,
and the rushing stream became
a still, deep swimming hole.
Flushed by our success and exertions,
we floated on our backs,
watching the red-tailed kite,
so far up in the blue, we knew
him only by him cry.

He tore it down with a single word.
Our dam was making his cows thirsty.
The afternoon amusement
of four boys was causing a village
a great deal of discomfort.
What was, to us, a quiet place
to dip our toes, was their pantry,
and we had withheld the bounty
which was not ours.

Six Words

All I wanted was another story.


The Weekend Wordsmith this week reminded me of a tiny neglected cemetery on Nicholasville Road, right before Regency Center (heading North), on the edge of a parking lot. You can't quite see it from the road. You could even park there and not notice it. All that remains is perhaps 4 headstones, only two of which are actually still legible.

And one broken stone on which the only thing legible is one word.

January 26, 2008

Stepping over the tumble-down
rock wall into the past,
the chill of the wind
chewing at our fingers
and noses, the urge
to move on and forget
resisted for just a moment.

A few broken stones,
all that is left to remember
these lives.

John died in 1885,
aged 46.
Martha Tull, a beloved
mother, departed from us.

And this one, only
and nothing more.

Our three score and ten,
and nothing more,
leaving only


Meyers-Briggs and Document Analysis Graphs

graph analysis of the DOM on

Meyers-Briggs and Document Analysis Graphs
January 12, 2008

Like those annoying personality tests
endured in college,
even now my thoughts are
analyzed, reduced to numbers,
graphed and catalogued
like so much statistical data.
Some subversive joy, then,
lurks in the fact that
even in this, the numbers
produce a swaying vine
and blossoming flowers.

Via Weekend Wordsmith


Some people are heroes. And some people jot down notes. Sometimes, they're the same person. (The Truth. Terry Pratchett)