Glen Hansard

Fri, 31 Jul 2026 19:07:23 -0500

Sad to hear that Glen Hansard died this week.

Loved Once and the music of the Frames. Most people will remember Falling Slowly (and it’s great), but I love Fallen From The Sky in that film. A battery powered keyboard is always the best way to start a song.

Here’s a link to the film version of it.

Thu, 30 Jul 2026 21:14:19 -0500

One of my favorite flowcharts.

from Nadia Bolz-Weber at As requested - my flow chart when I am freaked out.

Dog Poems

Thu, 30 Jul 2026 12:23:12 -0500

This one’s hitting in a new and tender way today:

Her Grave

Mary Oliver

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the
green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile —
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the
unassuming perfect arch of her neck.

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We did not think of music,
but anyway, it began to rain
slowly.

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased
something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of happiness as she barged
through the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild, slightly mossy tongue.

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his
crimson throat?
He is wiser than that, I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,
but you
do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of
the hill
think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the
refreshment
of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching her,
that you know
almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of his own making?

She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come
back,
or wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.

Through the trees there is the sound of the wind,
palavering.

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!
How apt is her grave place.

How beautiful is her unshakable sleep.

Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.

Thu, 30 Jul 2026 07:00:55 -0500

Nice one about how serendipity is at the core of the human experience.

Please Use AI

Isaac Gaff

Glen Hansard

Dog Poems