pitchers tuck by buddy don: that thar golden pig

as ye know, tiz the year of the golden pig. i wuz a pig bout sleepin last nite n dint wake up in time to do nuthin but post this here pitcher!



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cold disapointment of buddy don: no firewurks fer the chinese new year

me n miz bd braved the verr cold nite sos we could git a pitcher of them firwurks that wuz advertised fer the chinese new years celebrayshun down in chinatown, witch tiz the year of that thar golden pig.

we knew whar twuz a'gone be n knew thay wood be way too minny folk thar fer us to git a elbow in edgewise, so we tuck the lite rail down to eggschange place n figgerd we wood take sum pitchers frum thar. we lackd to froze, but we dint git nary a pitcher of no firewurks, mayhap on a counta thay wudnt nun? we jes caint tell. taint a wurd bout em in them local noosepapers, neethur the new york times nor the daily news nor the post.

heres a cuple pitchers of lower man hattan i tuck whilst we wuz waitin:





that wite bildin is the woolwurths bildin. ifn them twin towers wuz still standin, they wood be jes to the lef of the tall bildin to the lef of it.

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pomes of buddy don: Brigid

anne over at the gods are bored give me a challenge tuther day, witch twuz to rite a pome in honor of this day (or yesterdy in sum places) known in the celtic wheel of the year as imbolc. tiz the celebrayshun of brigid, witch ye kin google her ifn ye wonta know more. i will let this here lil pome speak fer my poor understandin of such mystries.

Brigid

Upon a day that legends say hog shadows can fortell
The ending of the hoary winter season,
A child was born one early morn between heaven and hell,
Between the warmth of spirit and cold reason.

The year was old, the winter cold, yet tiny shoots of grass
Still bravely pierced the hardened frosty rime –
Their shoots unbowed they stood the vow that like the newborn lass
The spring would quickly grow and reach her prime.

For from that start twixt head and heart a small girl bathed in milk
Would grow to be the saint of three great arts –
She would exalt distiller’s malt, weavers craft, poet’s ilk –
All treasures from the soul’s liminal parts.

Our faith is clear in times most drear, when earth is bleak and frigid –
The gods did send a guide, a friend, to all in lovely Brigid.


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