07 February 2016

horses love aubrey

The construction never ends.
It took 2 hours to get to work the other day.
And 2 hours to get home. 

My take on Valentines Day

My sock collection grows

This is how to store the lid to a crock pot.
Or to take a pot of yummy food with you.
Like to a party, for example.
This is not how to cook with one.
If you want a pressure cooker, go buy one.
But this is not a cooking strap.
This is just a glorified rubber band.
Don't cook with this on the crock pot.
Sheesh, already.

RibEye and Melted Butter

Pork Tenderloin

Cooked in the oven 6 hours
At 200 degrees. 

Still rocking the good blood pressure.
I stopped being in A-Fib 
When I lost weight on Low Carb. 

All the horses love to go to Aubrey, Texas.
Something about the soil. It is sandy.
Horses love that.

01 February 2016

the dark fields

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;

But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired: 

For then my thoughts--from far where I abide--
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:

Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.

   Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
   For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

29 January 2016


Whan that February, with his shoures soote
The droghte of January hath perced to the roote

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendered is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye
That slepen al the nyght with open ye

(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Canterbury they wende,
(or not)

The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, when that they were seeke.