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Poetry Sunday: My Hispanitude by Darrel Alejandro Holnes

" My Spanish is the color of rust in a sugar boiler ." That line grabbed me as I was searching for a poem to feature this week. Spanish is very much a part of the culture where I live. One hears it spoken in the stores while shopping, in restaurants by the other patrons who are eating, in any place where people gather. I'm not Hispanic but it is something I find comforting and familiar. It is all a part of "Hispanitude" and it says "home" to me. I like it!  My Hispanitude by Darrel Alejandro Holnes I speak in the fold of the map—  creased between empire and salt.  Mother braided three names into my hair,  none of them white.  I carry a chair made of silence—  its legs, the Grito de Dolores,  its seat, a tongue bitten in school.  My voice is a garden  planted in the ruins  of a burned-down convent,  mint growing wild in the mouth of a well.  They said my Spanish was broken.  But what they heard was  Arabic echoing thro...
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This week in birds - #666

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  A roundup of the week's news of birds and the environment : I have been gratified this week to hear the voice of Mourning Doves whenever I have ventured out into our yard. Over the past few years they and the little Inca Doves had been largely displaced in our neighborhood by the invasive  White-winged Doves .  The White-wings are still here but not in the numbers that they once were and the Mourning Doves and Incas have resumed their place in the habitat.  *~*~*~* The daily news is filled with doom and gloom for those of us who care about the environment but there is hope . *~*~*~* However the news about greenhouse emissions from last year  for the United States was not good as it showed an increase while the two previous years had shown decreases.  *~*~*~* Moreover, conservative activists seem poised to succeed in their efforts to stop government efforts to combat climate change. *~*~*~* We know how it ended but how did the age of dinosaurs begin ? *...
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Poetry Sunday: February by Margaret Atwood

"February, month of despair..." saith the poet.  But also month of joy - the month of my firstborn daughter's birth. Those of you who have been following the blog for a while may recognize that I have featured this poem before (the last time in 2024) but it is actually a favorite by a favorite author, so here it is again. I hope you enjoy it.  February  by Margaret Atwood Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead. If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am He’ll think of something. He settles on my chest, breathing his breath of burped-up meat and musty sofas, purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat, not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door, declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory, which are what will finish us off in the long run. Some cat owners around here should snip a ...
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