Homicide

I spent most of my adult years in the Pacific NW where there's 9 months of rain and 3 months of dry.  About 4 days after the rains stopped, everybody was out watering lawns and plants.  Didn't seem like there was such a thing as too much irrigation.
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Now I live in the desert; very dry, very hot.  Seems logical that you'd have to water the living crap out of everything virtually every day.  Right?  Wrong!  The plants are different, the soil's different, it's a whole 'nother shooting match entirely.  Cacti have attitude: 'Go ahead, dumb ass, water me once a week, see what happens.'  What happens is they quickly become sullen and lethargic.  Keep it up and it's, 'Up yours, sucker.  I'm outta here.'  Game over.  Post mortem: homicide.  Weapon: water.  Perpetrator: me.
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Homicide victims are not noted for their photogenicity and cacti are no exception.  Pix of the survivors are considerably more appealing.  Here are 3 that have yet to succumb to my ministrations.

Golden Barrel Cactus

Echinocactus grusonii

Tubac Prickly Pear

Opuntia macrocentra/violacea

Century Plant

Agave americana

Doggerel 2

Readers' comments were positive on the first doggerel, so here's another one.  Gotta warn you: this one really stinks!

MANURE!

This was written for, and first read at, the Delaney family reunion in July, 2005.  My siblings and I relate to manure as only one-time farm kids can.  It’s audience participation: listeners are encouraged to shout 'MANURE!' where indicated.

Making hay is our biggest chore,
Three crops each summer, sometimes four.
A hundred tons a year or more,
And all will end up on the floor.  MANURE!

It comes in varied shape and size,
Horse apples, sheep pellets, large cow pies.
Whatever the size or configuration,
I’d much prefer constipation.  MANURE!

It splats and plops, oozes and flows,
It covers floors and walls and clothes.          
It’s on our shoes, our shirts, our hair,
It permeates our underwear.  MANURE!

We fork it from the gutters,
And wipe it off the udders.
We shove it here, we pile it there,
It tears our eyes and fouls the air.  MANURE!

The spreader flings it wide and high.

And as it plops down from the sky,

We cower on the tractor seat,
And shower in that fragrant treat.  MANURE!

On the day I turned eighteen,
I left to make the college scene.
It’s over finally, in the past,
I’m outta’ here, I’ve forked my last.  MANURE!

In ending this, I should mention,
In case you haven’t paid attention,
Though perhaps I’m just a picky chap,
I’m really not that fond of crap.  MANURE!

Mike Delaney  
6-20-05
All rights reserved.

Doggerel

Sporadically, very sporadically, I'm inspired to write bad poetry.  I call it doggerel - for reasons that will soon become obvious.  Also sporadically, I inflict these literary gems on innocent, unsuspecting friends and relatives.  Since returning to LHC, there's been a lack of breaking news and exciting adventures to report but I feel obligated to post something.  So, here's a doggerel.

HOLEY WOMEN

The barbaric trend in female fashion,
Is body puncturing, with a passion.

Like members of the Zulu nation,
They glory in self-mutilation.

The holes are for attaching things,
Chains and pins and studs and rings,

To noses, tongues, lips and nipples,
A host of dangling participles.

Studs and metal everywhere,
Living ads for ACE hardware.

Do they think they’ll win men’s hearts,
By punching holes in body parts?

Maybe some guys like to squeeze,
Women holier than Swiss cheese.

But I feel this fashion’s overrated,
I still like mine unperforated.

Mike Delaney

6-30-05
All rights reserved.