The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Star-Field On Red Lines" by Duncan Sheik

To observe National Poetry Month, once a week I am featuring lyrics of rock n' roll or pop songs that also double as exquisite poetry.

Duncan Sheik made a splash when he first appeared in 1996 with a debut album that featured a marvelous song called "Barely Breathing." Since then, he has released nine albums and created the music and lyrics for Broadway musicals including the multi-Tony-award winning "Spring Awakening." As a lyricist, he has always presented compelling stories and this song, "Star-Field On Red Lines" from his 2006 album "White Limousine" is quite evocative, and can work for multiple periods of American history like the Cold War in the 1950s, perhaps Vietnam in the 60's and 70's, and maybe even Bush the First's Gulf War in the 90s.

Star-Field On Red Lines
by Duncan Sheik

Playground
Home-land
A countryside to save

Blue skies
Air-space
Soldiers to raise
And sacrifice

Strong armed
Christians
Oiled up and fed

Safe as
Houses
In aprons of lead
And sanctified

Omens and Signs
A star-field
On red lines
Turn those blind eyes
To fantasies
And white lies

How much
Longer
This empire of night

The smallest
Subjects
All begin to fight
And multiply

Omens and Signs
A star-field
On red lines
Turn those blind eyes
To fantasies
And white lies

Omens and Signs
A star-field
On red lines
Turn those blind eyes
To fantasies
And white lies

Head down
Brace yourself
Here it comes

https://www.duncansheik.com/

"Art"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I have posted work by myself each Friday. This poem is brand new after rattling around in my head for a few months and a few weeks of work, and I think it tells its own story. I hope you enjoy it.

Art

I had no one to play the game with
so I never learned the rules. But they didn’t matter,
they never did. 1970, a board game under the
Christmas tree, just me and stuffed animals and toys
and Masterpiece, a box that held a treasury,
a collection of paintings I’d never seen,
post-card sized landscapes, portraits, still lives,
quietly presenting possibilities of color and shape,
an art-shaped world, an art-colored world
a world of vast collections in hushed salons of
white, red, green walls, worn parquet floors,
a world of mansions and safes and movie-heists,
life lived larger than what I knew, out there somewhere
beyond my sheltered bedroom, the house, our little town.

On a round braided rug on hardwood floors I studied the cards:
arthritic sunflowers in a bulbous orange vase,
cotton candy angels floating in a sepia sky,
a dour farmer with pitchfork and a mournful wife,
a green-faced barmaid in a raucous dance hall,
whips of black and white paint slashing a surface,
umbrella-ed couples on a wet cobblestone street,
a bleached cow skull on white sandstone,
a bright diner counter seen from an eerie, dark city.
Windows not just to other places or times
but other ways of thinking, seeing, believing,
beckoning, imprinting on me, whispering to me,
“no journey is simple, but this one will be long.”
From a child’s game came a slow devotion, an embrace of its language,
a realization that there’s freedom to choose content and then form,
or even more expanding: to choose form for its own sake,
a startling dedication to the physical act of creating.

Did the makers of that game know that I would never play
by their rules using their tissue-thin pastel dollar bills,
but that I would many years later weep in front of works
in museums far from the braided rug by my toy box, in front of a
small, tenderly ordered bedroom in Arles with a yellow chair,
in front of a dizzying cascade into a pond of pink purple blue
water lilies rendered in rushed gobs of paint like cake frosting,
in front of a geometry of sunlight slicing through windows into an empty room?
Did the makers of that game hope—did just one of them on that team even dare to guess
that I would raise my hand with a brush loaded with pigment
to participate in this evolutionary urge to create using the
language of form color texture repetition symmetry asymmetry the head the heart

©JEF 2025

Poem In Your Pocket Day 2025: "For A Student Who Used AI To Write A Paper" by Joseph Fasano

For today's Poem In Your Pocket Day, part of 2025 National Poetry Month, I am stuffing into my pocket a beautiful little gem of a poem from Joseph Fasano. It speaks to the inescapable nature of being and the only thing we have to do while we are here: don't shirk it, let it take us, describe it, create something from it.

For A Student Who Used AI To Write A Paper
by Joseph Fasano

Now I let it fall back
in the grasses.
I hear you. I know
this life is hard now.
I know your days are precious
on this earth.
But what are you trying
to be free of?
The living? The miraculous
task of it?
Love is for the ones who love the work.

http://josephfasano.net/

"Rending the Garments" by Ronna Bloom

For this National Poetry Month, I am grateful I came across the work of Ronna Bloom. She has six published volumes of poetry under her belt and creates works of penetrating tenderness and immediacy.

This astonishing piece, "Rending the Garments" speaks to the idea of recognizing painful life changes--not just death--with ritual.

Ritual is the technology of the sacred, and can give events a shape and meaning, especially when those events are hard to comprehend and process. And ritual within one's community gives a kind of support missing in the world at large.

Rending the Garments
By Ronna Bloom

There should be a shiva for every kind of grief—
the break-up, the diagnosis, the assault—
where people come unbidden and
wash their hands and casseroles
and hold you.

They do this all day or three times a day
for seven days so you know, you know
it happened and matters to more
than you, matters to a community of you.

What’s needed is wailing with an ax, frights,
outings, and touch. Touch and singing.
Can you hear me?
Has anyone done that for you, lately
Or ever? Come over, torn open the sky
and let the snow fall in the wrong mouth
to show there’s a rip in the face of the world?

https://ronnabloom.com/

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Wanderer" by Angelo De Augustine

To observe National Poetry Month, I am featuring lyrics of rock n' roll or pop songs that also double as exquisite poetry. And this track from Angelo De Augustine called "Wanderer" is just that: the narrative is very intimate, like a stream of consciousness voice in someone's head...a narrative of unease, of something just not quite right steeped in a tale of missed love.

The song appeared on De Augustine's album "Tomb" which he described as "a motion towards positivity, addressing lost love, the worthwhile cost of honesty, and the ramifications, of regret. In the end...it isn’t about burying or hiding something away, it’s about opening the seal and letting something new emerge. It’s about telling people how you feel when you feel it, instead of burying everything over the span of years."

Wanderer
by Angelo De Augustine

Wanderer
Just like a song
That's been rubbed out above your left arm
Full of light
Eager eyes
For the adventure of a lifetime

She's on the run
Who you running from?
It can't be me cause I'm no one
Turtle dove
Carried my love
And left it on the moon to shine

I'll try
My best to find some peace of mind
But the light fades to black
And you don't know where the exit is at

Wanderer
Labyrinthine fern
Planted in your dilated mind
Evil talk
Heaven above
Protect her in her darkest night

Angelo De Augustine | Photo by Jess Collins

https://angelodeaugustine.com/

Happy Easter 2025!

Easter developed from the Old English word Ēastre or Ēostre, derived from the Anglo-Saxon Pagan month of Eostur-monath (which roughly corresponds to our month of April). This month was named after the goddess Ēostre or Ostara who symbolized the dawn, spring, renewal, and rebirth of the earth after the long winter.

Now we celebrate by decorating eggs, a symbol of birth and fertility and new growth, and with chocolate rabbits, since bunnies are also a symbol of spring.

When I was little, I always loved Easter time because my grandmother displayed vases of daffodils and lilies, and panoramic sugar eggs around the house. And my aunt hollowed out eggs, cut a window in the side of the shell, and painstakingly assembled pastoral scenes inside using miniature trees and flowers, and tiny ceramic rabbits to make literal panoramic eggs. But the best part was the Easter Bunny who came to deliver beautifully dyed and decorated eggs in a basket full of chocolate and treats; my mom and dad would guide me through the house with clues as to where the Easter Bunny hid my basket (thanks Mom and Dad--I miss you)!

I hope the Easter Bunny brought you some treats! Happy Easter!

"The Church of the Reindeer"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am posting work by myself each Friday. This piece is about an encounter with the natural world that goes beyond nature...an encounter that is enigmatic, transcendent. 

The Church of the Reindeer

In a white clearing at the bottom of a hill three men
stand in a row, each wearing a hat:
a turban of fur, a crown of wood, a crown of ice.

Supplicants, officiants, the surrounding fir trees
bend, brighten, settle under gathering snow.
If the gloaming could talk it would say,
“I take this form because it pleases me.”

For those who have died in a dream, you are welcome.
For those who can feel their heart beats, you are welcome here.
For those who hear music where there is none, you are most welcome.
Keep your eyes wide open, but be still, frozen to the ground.
In this clearing the air is even colder, effervescent,
a rustle behind a branch, a visible cloud of hot breath,
it is manifest before you, flanks, muzzle, tail, fur,
topped with velvet antlers and boughs of pine.
It says, “I take this form because it pleases me.”

It ambles past, gently brushes each one with a tine.
It disappears at the deckled edge of this forest dream,
all this held in your mind just for a moment.

©JEF 2024

"Pornography" by Richard Siken

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am sharing exquisite poems by talented poets each Wednesday. And this prose poem by talented poet, painter, and filmmaker Richard Siken proves that, with a tender and curious mind, anything can be a mirror of ourselves and our undeniable presence, an inspiration to look through something at the deeper condition of life, the big swirling breathtaking beautiful confusing shattering eternal fact of physicality and consciousness...

Pornography
by Richard Siken

They shot him by the side of the road. The sun was tangled in his hair as he leaned against the car. He fingered his chest, just over his heart, as if touching it directly. — My car broke down. — You need oil and a belt. Take off your shirt. You could consider him compromised. There is no universe where he is not a hitchhiker asking a rancher for help, where he is not plugged in like a lamp. The doctor has to crack the ribs to get to the lungs. The plumber has to pull out the sink to get to the pipes in the walls. The pornographer has to adjust the bodies to catch the slant of the light. He moves them like furniture. In the barn, the rancher spreads a blanket and their clothes fall off considerably. They are technicians. It is a compliment. They clock and clam like eels and the night goes mink. I want to be them. I want to be like them. I want to f*** everything but I don't want to be touched. It's awful, my watching: the refusal to participate, the ogling and superiority, the approximation of a true desire. It's fake, but it isn't. It's art, but it isn't. They're pretending but it doesn't matter because they're actually doing it, exhausting themselves as the acting evaporates, peak beauty, that moment — the swan dive, the little death, a bird flying into a kitchen window, open or shut, this or nothing, it strips the bolts. The cameraman is standing very quietly. It looks like he is weeping.

https://richard-siken.com/

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Book of Brilliant Things" by Simple Minds

To observe National Poetry Month, once a week I am featuring lyrics of rock n' roll or pop songs that also double as exquisite poetry.

Simple Minds, a blockbuster group in the 80s, released a pair of albums that stand out as their best work: "New Gold Dream" and "Sparkle In The Rain." Both albums contained lyrics by lead singer-songwriter Jim Kerr that are romantic, surreal, literate, and dense. Some verged into metaphysical territory like this amazing track from "Sparkle" called "Book of Brilliant Things."

Book of Brilliant Things

by Jim Kerr

Thank you for the voice, the eyes and the memories shine
Thank you for the pictures of living in the beautiful black and the white
Some say we'll be together for a very long time
Some say that our first impressions never will lie

I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Book of brilliant things
I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book;
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Oh, book of brilliant things

I thank you for the shadows
It takes two or three to make company
I thank you for the lightning that shoots up and sparkles in the rain
Some say this could be the great divide
Some day some of them say that our hearts will beat
Like the wheels of the fast train, all around the world

I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Book of brilliant things

Some say we can be together for a very long time
Some say our hearts will beat like the wheels of a fast train
All around the world
All around the world
All around the world
Some say our hearts beat like the wheels of a fast train
All around the world
All around, all around, around, around
All around the world

Our hearts beat like the wheels of a fast train
A very long time
All around and all around and all around and all around the world
Some say we'll be together
Some say
A very long time, some of them will say
A very long time all around the world

https://www.simpleminds.com/

"Night After Night"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting work by myself each Friday. This is a piece about our second, inner lives...so there is a feeling of never resting, going from wake to sleep but still always present, always engaged, always doing, seeing, hearing, walking, running.

Night After Night

Plateau on plateau,
haunted by ideas,
tossing and rolling, parsed out
quadrants of measurements that
don’t need to be measured.

Here we are again,
the same street, the same building,
the same rising water,
the shift.

It’s the same store selling the
same toys and food.

It’s the same Boardwalk and
the same restaurant where
you look in and see yourself,
a few years from now or
a few years ago,
wearing glasses you’ve never seen.

©JEF 2020

"Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen" by Barbara Crooker

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am sharing exquisite poems by talented poets each Wednesday. Here I present a heartfelt, quite timely poem by Barbara Crooker.

Poem with an Embedded Line by Susan Cohen
by Barbara Crooker

When the evening newscast leads to despair,
when my Facebook feed raises my blood pressure,
when I can't listen to NPR anymore,
I turn to the sky, blooming like chicory,
its dearth of clouds, its vast blue endlessness.
The trees are turning copper, gold, bronze,
fired by the October sun, and the bees
are going for broke, drunk on fermenting
apples. I turn to my skillet, cast iron
you can count on, glug some olive oil,
sizzle some onions, adding garlic at the end
to prevent bitterness. My husband,
that sweet man, enters the room, asks
what's for dinner, says it smells good.
He could live on garlic and onions
slowly turning to gold. The water
is boiling, so I throw in some peppers,
halved, cored, and seeded, let them bob
in the salty water until they're soft.
To the soffrito, I add ground beef, chili
powder, cumin, dried oregano, tomato sauce,
mashed cannellinis; simmer for a while.
Then I stir in more white beans, stuff the hearts
of the peppers, drape them with cheese and tuck
the pan in the oven's mouth. Let the terrible
politicians practice / their terrible politics.
At my kitchen table, all will be fed. I turn
the radio to a classical station, maybe Vivaldi.
All we have are these moments: the golden trees,
the industrious bees, the falling light. Darkness
will not overtake us.

https://www.barbaracrooker.com/

The Poetry of Rock n' Roll: "Urn" by Chanel Beads

To observe National Poetry Month, once a week I am featuring lyrics of rock n' roll or pop songs that also double as exquisite poetry.

And we start off the month with a set of short lyrics from the song "Urn" by Chanel Beads, Shane Lavers' uncategorizable musical project (I posted a live set they played this past autumn that knocked my socks off here). A fleeting look at a certain aspect of death, one that we never think of until we are faced with it, occupies the first two lines of the song. Having one's grief free-floating or fixed is a powerful conundrum. We who are left when a loved one dies have to navigate the actual physical remains and what that means emotionally, since it is all that is left...buried in the earth or cremated and put...somewhere.

Urn
by Chanel Beads

Sometimes, I wish that we buried you now
Assigned a location to my grief somehow
But I know that you would think the cemetery is silly
It's dust to me
Your ashes move too quickly

It's funny, numbers have significance now
Yeah, your birthday that kinda hurts me now
Like the day you died, the day you drank all that honey
Like the day you died, the day you got sick from drinking honey

https://www.instagram.com/chanel_beads/

"Christine's Circus"

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be posting work by myself each Friday.

Last year, I learned of the death of a very close friend of mine whom I had known for forty years. We met in a drama class in college and she was a spectacular presence. Her high energy and explosive sense of humor was only matched by her fearlessness. She dove into any unusual situation, any odd job, any red-flag romance with bravado. But later her modus operandi gave way to mental illness, possibly bi-polar or manic depression, which she self-medicated with alcohol (and maybe more). She was troubled and she struggled against life itself, seemingly punching the air at all the injustice in her life and in other's, at anything and everything around her. I did as much as I could to help her but she disappeared from my life for periods and would resurface living in another part of the country, sometimes homeless, having suffered some more. As one could possibly guess, she ended up in the prison system the last several years. I spoke with her last year when she phoned me out of the blue, and it was a heartbreaking, erratic conversation in which she said she was going to buy property in Wales, and that she was feeding a family of racoons. The racoon part was not surprising...she adored animals, all of them, and often took in any stray dog or cat that crossed her path, and showered them with great love and care. I wrote this poem for her in 1991, already sensing the trajectory of her life. And now she is gone.

Christine's Circus

After she left college and
before she settled down,
Christine joined a
traveling circus.
After intermission,
she was a dancing
harem girl,
shaking her tambourine,
circling the tent
with the caravan.
They’d get the animals
ready, in a line:
white horses in
Arabian caparisons,
elephants with lions
riding on their backs...
and camels
loaded with parcels
and boxes and goods.
The cast assembled.

But the camels
always had trouble
getting up.
Their legs would shake
as they tried to
lift the weight.
“I have watched
those camels struggle,
with all that shit
strapped to them--
five days a week,
two shows on Saturdays--
and when the camels
were a little too slow,
they were whipped.”

One night, when
two of the camels
just couldn’t get up,
she ran into
the center ring and
led the audience in
“The Star Spangled Banner”
to stall for time.

Now, in her dreams,
she sees the camels
in a storybook
she reads to some children...
C is for Camel.

©JEF 1991

I hope you have found some peace and rest my friend, as you join the everything of the Universe.

"Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Every Wednesday of this National Poetry Month 2025, I will be sharing exquisite poems by monumental poets. And today I share the powerful, urgent "Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, because we live in desperate times and this poem is needed.

Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am signaling you through the flames.

The North Pole is not where it used to be.

Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.

Civilization self-destructs.

Nemesis is knocking at the door.

What are poets for, in such an age?
What is the use of poetry?

The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.

If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic.

You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words....

Happy National Poetry Month 2025!

April is National Poetry Month, sponsored by the Academy of American Poets since 1996. And this year marks the celebration's 29th anniversary! Over the years, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world with schools, publishers, libraries, booksellers, and poets celebrating poetry’s vital place in our culture.

How to celebrate?
- Read your favorite poet again.
- Read some new poetry.
- Find a new favorite poet.
- Write some poetry.
- Leave poems for people to find in public places.
- Read poetry out loud to family and friends.
- Dream a poem.

Throughout April, I'll be posting poems, some by me, some by others, as well as a series of lyrics to popular songs that double as exquisite poetry.

And this year, Poem in Your Pocket Day is Thursday April 25th! Every April, on Poem in Your Pocket Day, people celebrate by selecting a poem, carrying it with them, and sharing it with others throughout the day at schools, bookstores, libraries, parks, workplaces, and on social media using the hashtag #pocketpoem.

Poem in Your Pocket Day was originally initiated in 2002 by the Office of the Mayor, in partnership with the New York City Departments of Cultural Affairs and Education, as part of the city’s National Poetry Month celebration. In 2008, the Academy of American Poets took the initiative to all fifty United States, encouraging individuals around the country to join in and channel their inner bard. In 2016, the League of Canadian Poets extended Poem in Your Pocket Day to Canada.

To kick off the month, here is an incredibly inspiring quote about the nature of poetry itself from Robert Frost:
“A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words”.
--Robert Frost

Happy National Poetry Month!

https://poets.org/

"Hello Heaven, Hello" by YUNGBLUD

OK, this is not my usual musical style...and I was not going to share this with you, but ever since I have heard "Hello Heaven, Hello" by YUNGBLUD, I can't let go of it. It wants me to include it with all the other sounds in my head and heart. And there is just something here, an earnestness, a message that is begging to be heard and understood. And I love the fact that this is a nine-minute video presented in three sections. I always admire anyone who goes out on a limb to express a big, soaring idea. That is to be recognized and rewarded. So...I guess it is my usual musical style.

Hello, are you out there?
Are you tryin’? Are you patient? Are you blind?
Are you with me? Against me? Don’t know me at all
Hello x30
Hello, are you in there?
Do you still remember, or have you forgotten where you’re from?
Are you still scared of dyin’?
Scared of them finding out that you don’t know who you are?
And I dont know whats in my head
But I know what’s in my chest
I don’t know if I can make it
I don’t know if I can change it
But I know it’s how I feel even if it isn’t real, I wanna feel alive
Tell me do you wanna feel alive?
Oh, I wanna feel alive
Hello x8
Oh, I wanna feel alive
Hello x24
Tell me do you wanna feel alive Hello x8 / Tell me if you wanna feel alive / ohhh
Hello x7 / Tell me if you wanna feel alive / ohhh
Hello x8 / Tell me if you wanna feel alive / ohhh
Hello x7 / Tell me if you wanna feel alive / ohhh

Since I was a little boy I devised a windmill get away
They’d kick me in the mud and they told me that that’s the price you pay
So tell me are you gonna die with the lies that they force inside your head
Or are you gonna live by the thorns in what you said
Little freak, gonna walk, they don’t talk till youve packed up and gone away
Little boy, stupid boy, what you after, each and every day?
For its the fool who’s the last to jump off the edge
One step, one step into heaven
But first you’ll go to hell and back
One step into heaven
Are you gonna be the fool who’s the last to jump off the edge?
Don’t give a damn ‘bout what they said
Since I was a little boy I always held a tear upon my face
They’d hit me in the mouth and they told me it’s time to act your age
So tell me are you gonna die in the pain that they all inflict on you
Or are you gonna swim through the storm, of what you have to do
Little freak, gonna walk, they don’t talk till ya packed up and gone away
Little boy stupid boy, what you after, each and every day
For its the fool who’s the last to jump off the edge
One step, one step into heaven
But fast you’ll go to hell and back
One step, one step into heaven
Are you gonna be the fool who the last to jump off the edge?
Don’t give a damn ‘bout what they said
Little freak, gonna walk, they don’t talk till ya packed up and gone away
Little poor stupid boy, what you after, each and every day
For its the fool who’s the last to jump off the edge
One step into heaven
But fast you’ll go to hell and back
One step into heaven
Are you gonna be the fool who’s the last to jump off the edge?
Don’t give a damn ‘bout what they said

There’s a chance I won’t see you tomorrow,
So I will spend today saying hello
And all the hopes and dreams I may have borrowed
Just know my friend I leave them all to you
Hello x6

https://www.yungbludofficial.com/

BEAUTY: Painting--Duane Keiser

Artist Duane Keiser paints delightful food images as part of his Painting-A-Day series.

He sells his work on his site--you can own one of his Painting-A-Day creations!
https://www.duanekeiser.com/

Charlotte Perriand by Saint Laurent

For Milan Design Week’s Salone del Mobile, the fashion house Saint Laurent worked with the estate of famed French Modernist architect and furniture designer Charlotte Perriand (1903 - 1999) to create four Perriand furniture designs that were never realized. The pairing is not as random as it sounds, considering that Yves Saint Laurent was an enthusiastic collector of Perriand's work.

Perhaps the most beautiful of the four pieces, the monumental Banquette de la Résidence de l’Ambassadeur du Japon à Paris was commissioned by architect Junzô Takakura in 1967 for Japan’s ambassador in Paris. What makes this piece startlingly elegant is the way the frame curves up at each end to create side tables. The sofa is now remanufactured in limited numbers, crafted from rosewood, cane, and Jim Thompson Thai silk.

The sinuous, wavey bent-metal frame of the Fauteuil Visiteur Indochine (or "chair for the Visitor in Indochina") from 1947 was inspired by her time in exile in Vietnam during WWII.

Designed for Perriand’s husband during his time in Brazil, the Rio de Janeiro Bookshelf, with its rhythmic arrangement of open and closed storage, is crafted from solid rosewood with sliding doors of woven cane. The original resides in a private collection and has been exhibited publicly only three times in the past quarter-century.

And finally, the Table Mille-Feuilles from 1963 consists of ten superimposed layers of contrasting woods — rosewood and cherrywood — forming concentric circles on its beveled, recessed top.

Salone del Mobile in Milan runs April 8-13 where the pieces will be exhibited at Padiglione Visconti and will be accompanied by a book of Perriand’s photographs as well as a collection catalogue, available at a kiosk in Piazza San Babila.

https://www.salonemilano.it/
https://www.ysl.com/

Neal Francis

Now it's time for you to meet Neal Francis. He released his first album in 2019, sounding like a retro 70s cross between Elton John and Little Feat. Now his new album "Return To Zero" has him echoing more 70s rock but progressing into later funk and disco sounds as well. Accompanied by the wonderful retro disco band Say She She, here are a few of his new songs that just strike me so right...

"Don't Wait" sounds like an echo of some of that fabulous late 70s/early 80s jazz-soul-disco-funk like "Street Life" by The Crusaders or "Forget Me Nots" by Patrice Rushen.

And "Need You Again" brings a bit more funk and actually makes me think of KC and the Sunshine Band...

Finally, "Broken Glass" veers the funk back into rock territory, complete with a backing vocal line in the chorus lifted right from the awesome, classic "Magic Man" by Heart.

Photo by Jack Karnatz

https://www.nealfrancis.com
https://www.saysheshe.com/

Happy Spring Equinox 2025!

Happy Spring Equinox!

At 2:01 A.M. Pacific time, it was the first day of spring. Today, our planet is upright on its axis producing a day and night of equal length...perfect symmetry. Enjoy!

St. Joseph's Bread 2025

I come from a large Italian family. My great grandmother arrived in the United States on the SS Europa in 1910 to marry a man whose family came from the same village she just left. By the time I came along in 1964, she lived with her son and daughter-in-law and as you can imagine, was already quite old and hard of hearing (a problem that runs in our family). When I visited, she would be sitting at an enormous oak table in the front room, a soap opera blasting from the television, playing solitaire. Although she spoke English, she retained a very heavy Italian accent and would lapse into Italian whenever she was excited or frustrated. And I never saw her in anything but plain black or dark dresses, the kind…well, the kind immigrant women wore in the twenties.

She was of course a Roman Catholic and brought with her all sorts of feast days, observations, and traditions. But the most delicious feast day for us was that of Saint Joseph. There is a special kind of bread that is baked only on this day, Saint Joseph’s Bread or Panne di San Guiseppe. It is tender and sumptuous, more like cake but not sweet, more on the savory side. It was a treat everyone in the family looked forward to all year. I don’t know how many loaves my great grandmother would make but every family got one--she would bake all day and then walk to each home to deliver them in person...so today is the feast day of St. Joseph, the day when she would have delivered these treats.

Anise seed (a very traditional Italian spice that shows up in many national and regional dishes) is what gives this bread a subtle taste. Some traditional recipes call for the addition of golden raisins, but I will say that my great-grandmother never added them. While I am in no way religious (although I am a mystic at heart, which is very different!), I still enjoy this delicious bread.

St. Joseph's Day Bread

5 lb. flour
2 Tbs. salt
1 3/4 cups sugar
2 tbs. baking powder
2 tbs. anise seed
Combine these ingredients in a large bowl
Work in 1 1/4 cups vegetable shortening

In another bowl combine:
4 1/2 cups warm water
3 pkgs. of yeast or 3 tbs. of yeast
Dissolve yeast in warm water
Add 5 eggs, beaten

Add liquid ingredients to flour and shortening mixture. Mix well and knead on floured surface. Place in greased bowl and allow to rise until double in size. Punch down and let rise another hour.

Shape into small round loaves (should yield around 5), and let rise for 30 minutes. Traditionally, the loaves were small and could be made in the shape of a cross, bambino (baby), heart, beard, crown, or staff in honor St. Joseph.

Brush loaves with beaten egg and sprinkle with sesame and poppy seeds. Bake at 350* for 30 minutes or until golden brown. Cool.

Words For These Times

“Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.”
--Aldous Huxley

AI imagery by Xander Steenbrugge for "Exotic Contents" by Max Cooper

“We can judge our progress by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers, our willingness to embrace what is true rather than what feels good.”
--Carl Sagan

AI imagery by Xander Steenbrugge for "Exotic Contents" by Max Cooper

“Knowing how to think empowers you far beyond those who only know what to think.”
--Neil deGrasse Tyson

3.17.25

I'll have a boxty and a Guinness...

Top to bottom: St. Mary's Old Parish graveyard, Cahir, Ireland; Roadside sign, Cahir, Ireland; Ben Bulben mountain from Drumcliffe, Ireland; St. Columba's Church, Drumcliffe, Ireland; grave of W.B. Yeats, St. Columba's Church, Drumcliffe, Ireland; Giant's Causeway sign, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; Giant's Causeway sign, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland; basalt columns at Giant's Causeway, County Antrim, Northern Ireland

All photos above by JEF


"Belfast Child" by Simple Minds
When my love said to me
Meet me down by the gallow tree
For it's sad news I bring
About this old town and all that it's suffering
Some say troubles abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down
One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again

Brothers, sisters, where are you now?
As I look for you right through the crowd
All my life here I've spent
With my faith in God, and Church, and the Government
But there's sadness abound
Some day soon they're gonna pull the old town down

One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

So come back Billy, won't you come on home?
Come back Mary, you've been away so long
The streets are empty, and your mother's gone
The girls are crying, it's been oh so long
And your father's calling, come on home
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home?

Come back people, you've been gone a while
And the war is raging through the Emerald Isle
That's flesh and blood man, that's flesh and blood
All the girls are crying but all's not lost

The streets are empty, the streets are cold
Won't you come on home, won't you come on home?

The streets are empty

Life goes on

One day we'll return here
When the Belfast Child sings again
When the Belfast Child sings again

http://www.discoverireland.com/us/

http://www.simpleminds.com

"I'm Lost" and "Wonder" by Dan Black

I am happy to see the return of Dan Black. Last time we saw him here, he was singing for 24 hours about how our hearts never stop beating. And now, here he is with two songs that pluck at the idea of memory and nostalgia. Maybe I am just in a mood, but the words to each of these songs feel personal to me...when I was a boy, I spent a lot of time alone in my room listening to records, imagining a world full of music and performance. And sometimes someone would join me in my room, listening to records, dreaming...and where are they now...

Here is "I'm Lost"... "Everybody is an artist, not only painters."

"Wonder" is, despite its chugging rhythm, wistful. There it all goes, then it's gone.

https://www.dan-black.com/

A New Tartan Memorializes Those Executed Under Scotland’s Witchcraft Act

A new Scottish tartan has been crafted to honor the thousands of individuals—predominantly women—who were executed for witchcraft in Scotland between the 16th and 18th centuries. The Witches of Scotland, a movement advocating for "Justice for people accused and convicted under the Witchcraft Act 1563-1736," spearheaded this effort.

The initiative was driven by Witches of Scotland founders Claire Mitchell KC and Zoe Venditozzi, with the artistic vision brought to life by Clare Campbell, the creative mind behind the Prickly Thistle tartan mill. This meaningful design was formally registered on February 11, 2025, in the Scottish Register of Tartans.

The tartan's color palette is deeply symbolic: black and grey evoke the somberness of the period and the ashes of those who perished, while red stands for the bloodshed, and pink highlights the legal ties that bound the trial documents both then and now. Intricately woven into the fabric, the thread count subtly encodes the years 1563 and 1736 (1+5+6+3 = 15 and 1+7+3+6 = 17), these numbers are carefully included within the black and grey bands, encircling a white check pattern of three threads that symbolize the campaign’s three key goals: achieving a pardon, an apology, and establishing memorials. Additionally, the 173 black threads intricately stitched into the tartan’s squares commemorate the 173 years during which the Witchcraft Act was enforced.

https://www.witchesofscotland.com/
https://www.pricklythistlescotland.com/

BEAUTY: Clothing--Marni

Francesco Risso has been Creative Director of Marni since 2016 and he has thoroughly dedicated his work to a certain quirky, freewheeling, artistic expression that makes one give pause. So for this Fall Winter  '25-'26 collection shown at Marni headquarters, he incorporated imagery from his collaboration with the Nigerian artists Olaolu Slawn and Soldier Boyfriend. What started as talk over aperitifs in London evolved into The Pink Sun, a month-long residency where the three artists shared a studio, riffing on each other's works, inspiring and encouraging. "It was a moment of such liberation and freedom, we were like a pack of happy wolves. We really dared to dream." The name of the collection is The Pink Sun, and I am showing men's looks here but take a look at the video; the womenswear is quite special too.

Indeed, there is a wolf motif from their collaboration that shows up on a suit. The playfulness of gigantic fur elements (more wolfy-ness) adds a skewed, surreal touch. But there is something else deeper in this eccentric, visceral presentation, with live music by Dev Hynes (Blood Orange, previously here),... and it plays right into my mood and thinking about the state of not only my own country in peril but the world in general. Like the Dadaists who met World War I with a spiritual defiance ("I will see your insanity and raise you..."), these days I am feeling that I need to be more of who I am and what I value and love. I know many might say, well, this Marni collection is just some clothes,... but no, it is more than that. It is a statement. A bold statement. A vital statement. It is saying, "You, right-wing, oppressive elements of the world, can try to destroy a lot of what the world has built, but you can't take away my spirit, my essence. You can't take away what I love and value. Art and poetry will die only with the last human being. So I will continue to be myself with THE VOLLUME TURNED UP. So what are you going to do? Are you going to come for me, round me up, put me in a camp? Do it. I'll make it easy for you to find me...I'll be the one wearing a yellow sweater with a huge fur collar. And by the way...f**k you."

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”
--Albert Camus

Francesco Risso with Olaolu Slawn and Soldier Boyfriend

https://www.marni.com/

Once Again...Here Is How Tariffs Work

For anyone who *still* doesn't get it...

Link to original article:
https://www.cnn.com/2024/10/13/politics/donald-trump-tariffs/index.html