pomes of buddy don: An Item that Nobody Wants

An Item that Nobody Wants

Black and white thinking seems so very clear
Except that it mistakes the facts for the smear
Except that it misses the complexities
Of the hearts and the minds of our “enemies.”

Such thinking’s the province of our politics
At least from one side (though nothing much sticks),
But they think a scholar is a terrorist
If he doesn’t blend into their great white mist.

Imagine a PC with just one bit
That does almost nothing except to sit
And click on or off, yes or no, true or false,
That can’t even count out the beats to a waltz
A small little thing that “doesn’t do nuance” —
You’ve conjured an item that nobody wants!

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joy of buddy don: them phils!

ifn yer a long time reader of this here blog, ye dun alreddy know i have been rootin fer them phillies since i wuz 8 years ole (1962). i cum to be a phillies fan one saturdy when thay wuz a game on the tee vee twixt the phillies n cubs. at that time, i had more baseball cards frum them two teams than i had frum inny other team. i had been a'rootin fer the yankees up till then (in the south thay wudnt no team till atlanta moved thar over a decade later), but i wonted to switch to the nashnull league n quit rootin fer the yankees on a counta daddy kep sayin twuz easy to root fer a team that dint never lose.

so i deecided that whoever won that thar game, i wood root fer them. lucky fer me twuz them phils.

oh they have dun made me pay fer my loyalty time n time agin. i mite never wooda becum a fan atall ifn them phils hadnt led the league almost all year long in 1964 ere they had pullt off one of the gratest chokes of all time, witch lucky a nuff fer me, them mets dun em one better last year.

then thay wuz 1980, when they won it all n i figgerd thay wood probly win a cuple more worl serieses after that, but twernt to be. by 1983, thay wuz bein calld the wheeze kids n them baltimore orioles proovd they dint have a nuff to win agin.

then in 1993, durin a time of grate personull grief (witch i will eggsplain by and by), they wuz beat by toronto whenever wild thang (thar reliever) made a grate pitch that joe carter hit over the left field wall, witch twood be the walkoff homer of the hole series.

i wuz afraid to say much bout my hopes this year (dint wonta janx em), but they finely cum thru.

i caint say why a bidy feels good whenever thar team favert wins one, but tiz a verr nice feelin. it dont fix nuthin. dont really matter much cumparrd to whuts a'goin on with the economy n such.

but it do feel good!

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1500th post of buddy don: jes a nuther rider on this bus

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: calm day in manhattan

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: folks hangin out round union square

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: more shootin frum the hip over in man hattan

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waka of budouadana: Age

Age

Our senses are dimmed
As we age and grow weaker,
Yet oddly enough
Sensitivity to pain
Becomes ever more acute.

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waka of budouadana: Navel

Navel

We all share one scar,
A keepsake punctuation
At the beginning
Of life’s limited sentence,
Our body's first memory.

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waka of budouadana: Drain

Drain

As leaves fall to earth,
As sands in an hourglass
Drop like salty tears,
As raindrops deplete great clouds,
So our brief lives drain away.

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pomes of buddy don: What Voters See

What Voters See

Once more the same old arguments are made
As left and right line up this year to fight
With each side’s “fairness” a bald masquerade
That barely even tries to be polite.

A voter on the right has to believe
That middle names and inexperience
Should trump good judgment and what’s been achieved
By brains and drive and uncommon good sense.

A voter on the left must live in fear
That voters will be cheated by machines
Of business men who want to engineer
A victory by artificial means.

How silly are those who would disagree:
All voters see just what they want to see.

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waka of budouadana: Love

Love

Each newborn baby,
Born in complete ignorance,
Utter helplessness,
And ravenous selfish needs,
Inspires mother’s selfless love.

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waka of budouadana: Rollercoaster

Rollercoaster

A rollercoaster
Slowly rises to the crest
Of its highest point,
Seems to pause — what a great view! —
Then plunges with giddy speed.

this lil waka mite look lack tiz bout the economy, but tiz really bout migraines n the highs n lows they putt a bidy thru.

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waka of budouadana: Patriotism

Patriotism

Those of us born here
Believe without questioning
That our land is best,
Even without visiting
Any other place on earth.

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waka of budouadana: Reach

Reach

Low lying dark clouds
Obscure the bright orange red
Of the rising sun,
Creating angel ladders
That reach for the high heavens.

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waka of budouadana: Transformation

Transformation

All springs flow downhill
Into small inlets and brooks,
Transforming themselves
Into powerful rivers,
Becoming one with great seas.

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waka of budouadana: Roots

Roots

Ripening acorns
Fall each year to loamy earth,
Where squirrels steal them,
Thorny weeds choke tender sprouts,
And few find good soil for roots.

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: playin in the garden

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: on a counta i caint thank of innythang to rite

nuther homeless in man hattan, witch i shore am hopin that dont git more common than tiz alreddy ...



wunder ifn these folks has been chrismus shoppin?



i gut lodes of pitchers, moren i could ever post, witch tiz amazin how minny folks looks wurried ...



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pitchers tuck by buddy don: more ny street

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: walkin round town

so much fer our retirement accounts: thar near ded, not that i could live without wurkin innywho. so tuther day, i tuck a lil walk round town whilst miz bd wuz sponsorin a class, witch that meant she had to be thar the hole time.

sum folks wuz outta focus, but sumhow still revealin. furst, how stressd folks kin git when the wunder how to pay thar bills n raze thar kids ...



then thays the need to eat ...





fer them that dont wonta pay so much fer gas, thays legs to git around ...





nuthin lack sales to git ye a'goin ...



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waka of budouadana: Upstream

Upstream

Small divided creeks
Flow in diverse directions,
Yet moving upstream
In search of their simple source,
All seekers come together.

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waka of budouadana: Clothing

Clothing

The trees shed their leaves,
Blanketing the frigid earth,
Bare branches exposed
To chilly winds as people
Unpack warm winter clothing.

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pitchers tuck by buddy don: cuple wide angulls

i dint have my tripod with me, so i coudnt do no hdr n i wonted to keep the angel ladder effeck n the shiney water n all, witch thats how im trine to splain why tiz so dark n all ...


this heres the site of that cherokee weddin miz bd cunducted last saturdy


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pomes of buddy don: My Job

My Job

They tried to explain the crisis to me,
But I just could not understand
How margins and credit lines increasingly
Are no longer ours to command,

How years of getting just what we wanted
Have left us with nothing we want
Except to know that we must act undaunted,
Pretending to be nonchalant,

How regulations that we put in place
To ensure such things couldn’t happen
Were simply ignored or even replaced
Or missed while somebody was nappin’.

They said it’s the edge of the yawning abyss
Where there won’t be two pennies to borrow,
But all that I'd like to know is just this:
Will my job still be there tomorrow?

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waka of budouadana: bof sides now

everbidy knows that the news has evolved to a higher form whar them news talkers on tee vee dont know whuts true n whuts not. so insted of findin out n reportin it, they call it 'news' whenever they git folks on eethur side of a topick to cum into the studio nflap thar gums on whutever they claim is the case.

me n miz bd lack to thank of it as the 'bof sides now' method of pertendin to deeliver news. tiz a artifishull fite on main street, witchh everbidy knows is innertainment that caint nobidy reesist.

so heres a cuple waka writ with the idee of how ye mite have the news deliverd in waka ifn them tee vee talkers wuz ever to take up the issue of theevil weed based on whut it ackshly duz to a bidy that smokes it (n i know bout how it feels on a counta i dun smoked my fair share back in collidge). we dun alreddy know it dont make ye crazy on a counta ifn it did, half the folks in amurka wood be crazy (or mayhap thay is?). innywho, heres a cuple of waka, bof sides of the topick, agin n fer.

Poison

After I get high
It is not foolish madness
That poisons my life,
But sensual contentment,
Laziness and lack of will.

Muse

Getting high can help
Silence that inner critic
Who jeers at the urge
To be fully creative,
Thus freeing the muse to speak.

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waka of budouadana: Grip

Grip

Each leaf is a life
That runs its course from green youth
To dry yellowed age,
Waving with every breeze
Until it loses its grip.

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