In an effort to thwart the spread of orange rust fungus in the coffee plantation, Heber and I have taken to using a solution of mandarin lemon juice , 1 liter, to 19 liters of water. The first application was last week. This mornings coffee inspection has revealed that the current outbreak of fungus has stopped. The usually bright orange spores have dried and are white powder, indicating that they are dead. It seems that a possible means of fungus control on coffee could be as simple as citric acid at the right concentration. 1: 19 is the formula.
Monday 10 September 2018
Thursday 28 September 2017
nothing
the difficulty of finding a motivation.
the sense that it is all one big mess and anything I do will amount to nothing.
But I come from nothing, as we all do, so finding a motivation should be as easy as being and being is so easy that we don't even notice it until it is nothing.
the sense that it is all one big mess and anything I do will amount to nothing.
But I come from nothing, as we all do, so finding a motivation should be as easy as being and being is so easy that we don't even notice it until it is nothing.
Sorry is just a word.
The day begins, the sun comes up outside,
the wildlife gets to it and inside
I sit and think about yesterdays.
The shouts exchanged, the cruel things said
that were not meant...
but we can't take back our words,
can't unsay what should never have been said
and as the light grows outside
I hope that words only vibrate
I hope that words that aren't meant
have no force...because we can't take back our words
and can't unsay what should never have been said.
the wildlife gets to it and inside
I sit and think about yesterdays.
The shouts exchanged, the cruel things said
that were not meant...
but we can't take back our words,
can't unsay what should never have been said
and as the light grows outside
I hope that words only vibrate
I hope that words that aren't meant
have no force...because we can't take back our words
and can't unsay what should never have been said.
Saturday 26 August 2017
Racing
Pole to pole
out of control screeching
into and out of each turn
rubber burning
wheels gliding
clouds of dust and wiping your eyes
these crazy racers
bi-polar heads
bi-polar minds
bi-polar visions
bye polar regions
the desert beckons
it's well-furrowed tracks
never having to look back
only looking to get back
around, dried out ground
cracks so deep they can keep
the light from shining
but the foglamps
made for blinding
do their jobs expertly
Pole to pole
the only goal
to get around and then
to get back.
out of control screeching
into and out of each turn
rubber burning
wheels gliding
clouds of dust and wiping your eyes
these crazy racers
bi-polar heads
bi-polar minds
bi-polar visions
bye polar regions
the desert beckons
it's well-furrowed tracks
never having to look back
only looking to get back
around, dried out ground
cracks so deep they can keep
the light from shining
but the foglamps
made for blinding
do their jobs expertly
Pole to pole
the only goal
to get around and then
to get back.
Disappointment, Expectation's Sister...
Just what is this dead thing I find in me?
Like some poor roadkill beast, pathetic and flat...
it smells of disappointment,
it reeks of expectation and it feels like wet clay in my mind.
It seems "I" won't be getting what "I want".
Are these the legs of this thing?
Not able to carry me anywhere,
not indicative of the path forward...only pointing stiffly at me.
Yes, words get spoken,
we say things that we hope to make good on
but then comes the world, running over these and making lies on
this stinky tongue of unfulfilled longing.
Bittersweet it could be, this self-pity and self-loathing,
if not for the odor of carrion that infuses it's very being.
The ambivalence of the tugging of emotions
to decide who I will see
when I look deeper into it's mirroring eyeballs
disappointing disappointed me.
And worse still, the thought that all of this
is caused by me, poor baby in actuality,
not by they whose words are left incomplete,
irresolute between speech and act
intentions paving a familiar road
of disillusion leading straight to the pit
to climb out of on the back of this dead beast.
The matted hair, once a mink coat of luxurious hopes
now dried up, hard and spikey,
as my expectations...
revealed for the folly they are.
Ears that no longer hear
are the deafness that brings
me here to this place of
slowly clearing blindness
now that my muted voice seeks return
So I write this and then I write that
scratching claws
trying to decide whether to eat this dead thing, crap on it
or to toss it to the winds and let the vultures have it.
Luckily the words take the form of bat-winged arrows
and I, bowed before them, launch disappointment
out the window to patrol the roadway
looking for some other
poor fool to antagonize
beak and claw and tooth.
Like some poor roadkill beast, pathetic and flat...
it smells of disappointment,
it reeks of expectation and it feels like wet clay in my mind.
It seems "I" won't be getting what "I want".
Are these the legs of this thing?
Not able to carry me anywhere,
not indicative of the path forward...only pointing stiffly at me.
Yes, words get spoken,
we say things that we hope to make good on
but then comes the world, running over these and making lies on
this stinky tongue of unfulfilled longing.
Bittersweet it could be, this self-pity and self-loathing,
if not for the odor of carrion that infuses it's very being.
The ambivalence of the tugging of emotions
to decide who I will see
when I look deeper into it's mirroring eyeballs
disappointing disappointed me.
And worse still, the thought that all of this
is caused by me, poor baby in actuality,
not by they whose words are left incomplete,
irresolute between speech and act
intentions paving a familiar road
of disillusion leading straight to the pit
to climb out of on the back of this dead beast.
The matted hair, once a mink coat of luxurious hopes
now dried up, hard and spikey,
as my expectations...
revealed for the folly they are.
Ears that no longer hear
are the deafness that brings
me here to this place of
slowly clearing blindness
now that my muted voice seeks return
So I write this and then I write that
scratching claws
trying to decide whether to eat this dead thing, crap on it
or to toss it to the winds and let the vultures have it.
Luckily the words take the form of bat-winged arrows
and I, bowed before them, launch disappointment
out the window to patrol the roadway
looking for some other
poor fool to antagonize
beak and claw and tooth.
Friday 11 August 2017
Waiting
Waiting
is not
what it
appears to be.
Waiting is not the
empty space,
the presence of
absence,
the longing and
yearning
of her place filled
by
the being of her
body
the void
devoid of any sense
whatsoever.
Waiting
for her is filled
with the memories
of time spent
together
the smell of her
rose skin and sweetness of her voice
the mystery of her
whispers in the dark
the embraces and
kisses and caresses
shared
My arms
locked tight
around her torso
the way she likes me
our tongues pressing
to discuss the depth
of our love and
passion
her heat sweating me
to a puddle
Before she comes to
my side, while she is underway
she is a fullness
almost unbearable
an extension of
myself to the furthest reaches
of the universe
pales
by her expansion of
my very self to
the limits of
loving.
Waiting
for her
is not a hollow
it is not a space of
doubt and need
I wait for her in
gratitude and will wait
until she seeks my
hands again
ending our waiting.
Unimaginable...
My wife passed away from leukemia on the evening of July 4th. 2017. It took her almost no time to die. We raced through the night in the Red Cross ambulance, but to no avail. My wife was too far gone from all the efforts made to diagnose and treat her cancer. I am devastated. I had no idea how sick she was and she refused to give the slightest hint of what she had to know was coming with horrible speed.
I will ALWAYS miss her presence in my life, but I rejoice in the life we shared, the time spent in loving company, the respect that had grown from our crazy arguments to the mellowness of just letting our opinions differ. I have learned a great deal about men and women in 42 years. I am a better man for having been married to my sweet Carla.
I will ALWAYS miss her presence in my life, but I rejoice in the life we shared, the time spent in loving company, the respect that had grown from our crazy arguments to the mellowness of just letting our opinions differ. I have learned a great deal about men and women in 42 years. I am a better man for having been married to my sweet Carla.
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