ellyssian: (Default)
Sofeya and the Puffins CD Release Show

Please come join us in the joy of celebration as we birth of our songs to the world.

Sofeya and the Puffins are an original blend of folk, rock, bluegrass, world beat, mystical rock and rhyme!

The New Deal Cafe, in the lovely community of Greenbelt, MD is not only known for having fabulous live music almost nightly, but also for their delicious Lebanese food.

For more information:
Facebook event page

Come and see us at Sofeya's Summer House Concert Series, opening for some awesome people...

We'll be playing in Linglestown PA, starting at 7pm on the following dates:

Friday July 18th, opening for Ginger Doss & Lynda Millard

Saturday August 9th, opening for Sharon Knight & Winter JP Sichelschmidt

Friday August 29th, opening for Wendy Rule
ellyssian: (Default)
Went on a hike with Justin today, and some photos happened along the way:

Susquehanna Heritage Trail


More under the cut... )

If you want to browse all of the photos from today, they start here and go left, toward the train.
ellyssian: (Default)
I really have to get to bed earlier.

With that... good night! =)
ellyssian: (Default)


I've posted this a couple of times on Facebook, but there's been a lot going along that just shows me I apparently don't speak mutant monkey... =P
ellyssian: (Default)
Two new sets of photos from two different nature preserves run by the Lancaster Conservancy are posted over on Flickr.

Yesterday, we were at Tucquan Glen ~ that set starts here (and move away from the photos of the LGT's headlights to see the rest of the set!).

Today's set from Belleaire Woods starts immediately after the Tucquan Glen set, right here.

Photos of the kids in both sets, photos of me in the Belleaire set.
ellyssian: (Default)
Ah! The ribs are prepped and cooking (and will continue to do so all day) and the coffee's made...

First time using the Keurig with the permanent filter instead of the pre-packaged K-cups. It works well, although was more of a pain to get the old grounds out than I expected (not sure why I expected wet coffee grounds not to stick to the far reaches of the tiny little filter... I've made coffee once or twice before, and with permanent filters no less...)

While I still have a bunch of K-cups left over from the sampler, I can easily do the permanent filter for my daily cup and save the others for when someone wants a non-decaf or I'm in more of a rush (not that it takes much longer to use the filter).

Errands now, attending a graduation party this evening. Maybe some guitar playing and/or writing in-between?
ellyssian: (Default)







Mental Chameleon


By Everett A Warren

July 23, 1995

What you think
I think it too
How can you say
I don't feel it as do you

There's no difference between our thoughts
My mindscape iterates and forms the array that is the set
of
You

Identity
Swept away
Individuality
Erased

Like you I am me, myself,
and I walk alone to keep me company

And the moment arrives at last
The two who walk beneath the sun
Share the same shadow
we have become
One

Wordless now you stare at me
And there are two before you, how can this be?

In silent horror you call my name
I hear it shape into a familiar ring
Words I have echoed before
In your voice

Who are you now that I am me
Myself and I
and you
Yourself are We



Copyright (c) 1995 Everett Ambrose Warren

ellyssian: (sphinx)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at In Deep / When the Ocean was a Forest

In Deep

In Deep, 2008





When the Ocean was a Forest

By Everett A Warren

When the ocean was a forest, I was but a child,
I was but a young lass, when the ocean was a forest.
When the ocean was a forest, full of trees,
The sea without its waves, I was but a young girl.


When the ocean was a forest, ferns and trees,
I was then a young lass, when the ocean was a forest.

Each hundred years flown past, to the sea I return,
In the waves I must be bathe'd, each hundred years flown past.
Each hundred years flown past, to the shore I walk,
In the waters I am bathe'd, and I am young once more.


Each hundred years flown past, in the waters I must bathe,
Before bird or beast does speak, each hundred years flown past.

Upon the road I stop, cradling a life so dear,
Holding life within my hands, upon the road I stop.
Upon the road I stop, and I give them warmth,
Hold them as their life departs, with injuries so grave.


Upon the road I stop, as their soul departs,
My tears turn to stone, dripping grey rock upon the road.

I will be young once more, waves upon the stones,
Once I have bathe'd in the water, I will be young once more.
I will be young once more, as the tide pulls out before me,
I will bathe in the sea, and have my youth restored.


I will be young once more, when the seas have washed me clean,
In the tides my years wash 'way, I will be young once more.

It's early that the dog did speak, in advance of me,
The dog, in advance of me; It's early that the dog did speak.
It's early that the dog did speak, in advance of me,
In the quiet of the morning, on the ocean shore.


When the ocean was a forest, I was but a child,
I was then a young lass, when the ocean was a forest.
Each hundred years flown past, in the waters I must bathe,
Before bird or beast does speak, each hundred years flown past.


But it was early that the dog did speak, in advance of me,
The dog, in advance of me, as I crumbled before the tide.



Copyright © 2013 Everett A Warren











ellyssian: (sphinx)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at Martian Puppy Dog / Extrovert

Martian Puppy Dog

Martian Puppy Dog, 2006





Extrovert

By Everett A Warren

Skyward
Eyes upon the heavens
For the flash of life
Beyond may lie a universe
And there may your hopes reside
Pray for the grinding of thermal emissions
A light far off glimpsed between the cloudbanks
Whereby it may be claimed that Others arc along the sky
So conquered
Flight lies in the past forgotten
More is sought
Heights unfathomed
Man has broken ground and soars on tenuous wings
How weak they become
Under the light of the sun
Cries forever drift into the night
Seeking higher sights
A reason and a method must bend the world to a will
How far past the truth
Mankind's Wise do range
Humanocentric thought
Answers so limited render nothing
Grave moments of silence fall as though a dream must fail
Projecting outward
The truth lies hidden
The inner strength is lost
Unacknowledged frontiers
Where strange thoughts play in the fabric of all life




























Copyright © 1992 Everett A Warren



Although I'm sure you realize our little Martian puppy dog up there is not, in fact, from the planet Mars, you may be curious, and wondering exactly what he really is. He is a Sphinx eremitus, a hermit sphinx moth caterpillar. But with that wagging tail, I'm sure he looks exactly like puppy dogs on Mars look. I mean, after all, he is green...









ellyssian: (sphinx)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at The Grave of Dead Tanis / dreams in the mist

The Grave of Dead Tanis

The Grave of Dead Tanis, 2006





dreams in the mist

By Everett A Warren

ghost world
mists walk with me
hung in suspension
bathing with their breath
stained glass skies
framed by branching contortions
forest floor limned
moss, leaf, and fallen limb
crystals of ice encrusted
dreams flitter away
through minds of pre-dawn sleepers
seeking release, freedom of a thawing sky
sun melts away
the tendrils
Earth-bound no longer
and they know this
as they know deeper, darker truths
but in this drifting gray the sun has faded
cackling with madness, ripe with desire
dreams wander, untethered to a soul
yet held fast to the waking world
and there I walk, in their midst
calling to wayward thoughts
offering shelter for lonely dreams
until night cloaks the world
or dawn, delayed, arrives


























Copyright © 2004 Everett A Warren



This poem can be found in the collection Poetry from the Porch Period,
available via the publisher or from Amazon.com
or on order from your local bookstore!









ellyssian: (penguin)
I like the looks of Typesafe Slick. The Lifted Embedding is pretty cool, and would be great to get at data and really do all kinds of things most other languages couldn't dream of.

When I first started working with Scala last year, it struck me that a lot of the things I was learning were things I always found myself wanting to do in an imperative language but they just couldn't do it or they were things (like the recursion) that everyone always said to stay away from because they'd break down and fail in 4GL.

I'd really love to have a plugin for the Caché object database... while accessing it with SQL would be cool, it would be great to just be able to get the objects working together. They're still adding support, though, and with Caché being a niche market tool (although I'd love to see it in more widespread usage) it's not likely to get there unless someone writes it. I'll get right on it... and add it to my to-do list. =)

Of course, my interest in Caché is surface-deep at this point. I love the interface for maintaining the dbs, doing the admin, and running SQLs and object queries and stuff. I haven't spent the time working with it to see how it does with a more strenuous workout. The job I was hoping to interview for a while back fell through before it started, so I focused on what was applicable to other things... but I'd kind of like to work with it some more. I have no idea if it scales as well as their marketing material says it does, and I have no idea how many arms and legs it costs (but I expect it's pricey), but I like the promise it has, and the little I've used it has impressed me.

I'm thinking I might need to develop an app or two using those technologies and see how it goes. With scalability in the language and scalability in the dbs, there could definitely be the promise of handling gobs and gobs of data in a much more efficient manner than other tech I've worked with.
ellyssian: (Default)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at Waverly Oaks Sycamore / Of Seasons

Waverly Oaks Sycamore

Waverly Oaks Sycamore 2005





Of Seasons

By Everett A Warren

Winds forever blowing
A fade to a chill
Leaves upon the ground
A silent blanket upon the world
Speaking of seasons



Trees lay bared
Souls lie open to ponder
Restless they shake their limbs
For grey they will remain in despair
Whispering of seasons



Rains may echo
Falling slower
Damp beads shine and glimmer
In diffusion the light of full moon
Measuring of seasons



Restless sighing
In caverns of Heart
Forging new worlds to wander
Yet lost in the memories long past
Dreaming of seasons





Copyright © 1992 Everett A Warren











ellyssian: (penguin)
Developers: Just an FYI for those using OSX and upgrading to Mavericks: it hoses your JDK, taking you back to 1.6. If you need the latest and greatest (and I ran up against this submitting a Scala assignment last week), you'll need to reinstall the JDK after the upgrade. Also, make sure you install the JDK itself ~ the runtime environment will not update the Java version used by the command line. Just putting this out there in case anyone is wondering why Java suddenly stopped working as expected ~ and then forgot about the JDK/JRE differences!
ellyssian: (Default)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at With Long Boney Fingers... / The Spell of Jack O' Lantern

With Long Boney Fingers...

With Long Boney Fingers... 2008





The Spell of Jack O' Lantern

By Everett A Warren

With the chill of the night air
comes the fear that he shall return;
Dried corn stalks without the gleaming bones
line the paths he walks,
grinning ear to ear,
as in his heart evil wyrms churn.




Come the harvest moon and the flurry of falling leaves
comes the fear that he shall reap what we have sown;
Cried our tears and left them out to dry
up to the windowsill he stalks,
plucking them up like roasted seeds
upon which he feeds – if they please him, he shall leave us alone.




As the midnight bell tolls
over the fields he rides;
Firelight like autumn leaves flickering in his eyes,
the only warmth he'll ever show,
dancing in the darkness and blood,
as his world and ours collides.




With a creak of a door in the dark of night
comes the fear that has become real;
Soft footfalls upon the stairs,
like whispers of the ravens wing,
silencing the blood in a poor soul's veins,
quiet, now, the night, as the final bells peal.




So heed this warning, for in the waning months
comes the fear that each year he returns;
Bitter winds and silent cries
are all that he leaves behind,
fallen leaves and fallen lives
fuel the fires that, in our dreams, he burns.






Copyright © 2004 Everett A Warren



This poem can be found in the collection Poetry from the Porch Period,
available via the publisher or from Amazon.com
or on order from your local bookstore!









ellyssian: (Default)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at Graceful / seasons wane

Graceful

Graceful, 2008





seasons wane

By Everett A Warren

words drift downward
like leaves
dancing with gravity
somewhere between laughter and tears


whispers cling tenaciously
like mists
obscuring tomorrows
somewhere between hope and despair


offerings
of light and love
filter through the trees
sunbeams that flicker and fade
elusively retreating with each step



what does darkness bring as seasons wane
like dreams
upon the waking
somewhere between sunshine and falling rain




Copyright © 2004 Everett A Warren



This poem can be found in the collection Poetry from the Porch Period,
available via the publisher or from Amazon.com
or on order from your local bookstore!









ellyssian: (sphinx)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at The Wind Can Not Win / The Wind Remembers from Whence it Came

The Wind Can Not Win

The Wind Can Not Win, 2008





The Wind Remembers from Whence it Came

By Everett A Warren

The wind comes through the trees
and sighs softly in an aside as it stirs fallen leaves
who no more it's way obscure;
bare tree bones tremble and shake and bow their leafless crowns
but not so low as they had of old, for, although they no longer catch the wind up
in green grasp, the wind finds it no easy task to pull boughs down.
The wind, if it were of lesser kind, perhaps would feel thwarted,
but the wind is the breath of the clouds who are the mists of mighty waterfalls,
and the wind remembers from whence it came;
from sunlight descended and leaves assembled,
through heartwood descended and through the roots transcended,
until once more leaves release it, cleansed, to the sky ascended.
The fallen leaves rustle, brought low by the wind, to shelter
and blanket the Earth before the snows;
for the wind remembers from whence it came.















Copyright © 2004 Everett A Warren



This poem can be found in the collection Poetry from the Porch Period,
available via the publisher or from Amazon.com
or on order from your local bookstore!









ellyssian: (sphinx)
Originally posted by [profile] greenmanenvy_fd at Silver / To sing like a drop of rain...

Silver

Silver, 2008





To sing like a drop of rain...

By Everett A Warren

I am silent,
still, and listening.
The words I seek echo
just beyond my reach.
They crawl through fallen leaves,
dance in the falling rain,
they leave me wanting for more.





As the chill in the air
seeps into my bones,
the warmth I feel inside
calls fondly to a long-forgotten friend.
As timeless whispers
cascade from leaf to limb,
I long to run with them again.





To sing like a drop of rain
on Autumnal leaves -
cold clear waters drumming
on fiery hearts that wander free.
Rising in the mists
to chase the dreams
that are true but shall never be.







Copyright © 2004 Everett A Warren



This poem can be found in the collection Poetry from the Porch Period,
available via the publisher or from Amazon.com
or on order from your local bookstore!









ellyssian: (Default)
I have a lot of things I *should* be working on... so what happens?

Yep, that's right, as I should be getting up and getting in the shower and going, I catch sight of a friend liking a picture someone posted, and I look at a few other pictures posted on that page, and I catch a glimpse of a picture as I scroll by that might involve a certain watery tart and a sword (but it may not, I didn't look at it closely, so it might just have been a knight-lady in a sunny woodland glade or something entirely different) and suddenly I'm scrambling to open a new window in Open Office, and I'm typing... and this is (completely unedited) what I get:



Lady in the Lake

By Everett A Warren



That's not how the story goes.

Her voice is raspy, cold, weighted down by the years. There's wisps of grey visible from under the cloak, but not much else you can read from her. Maybe the hunching over, that curve like a sapling that reaches fast for the light and then, over time, bends closer to the ground... maybe that arc is from the weight of that cloak. A thick, heavy, unforgiving material like a warrior might wear. Why scratch the armour when that dense, uncomfortable fabric will turn the sharpest blade and dampen the mightiest hammer. The kind of weight that is not for old women to bear, but is invaluable to the young warrior.

So she tells me that's not how the story goes, and I'm caught. Story is my stock and trade, and I had been telling all about Arturo and Kam and the Table Round and The Sword and I know the tale, know it through and through, the words tripping off my tongue beautifully, and each word lovingly crafted into the whole.

I should know better, because I do know better. And who could know better than I? After all, it was not some poor, bent beggarlady who had watched The Sword from its Sheath leap out into Arturo's hand, glimmering with glamours and preternatural light. It was not some scraggly withered wench who listened attentively to the Wise Woman Myrlynne as she prophesied and advised and taught the Boy Who Would Be King.

And it was not, most certainly and empathetically not, no way, no how, some vile peasant wretch of a hag, a grandmother of shit and dirt and nothing of any worth whatsoever, who slid the blade betwixt Arturo's plate and into that soft, yielding under layer of his flesh, letting his blessed royal lifeblood flow on to the battlefield on that, his last day, and...

Pardon. A moment please.

There.

You see, I was there.

It was I.

I am Mordred.

Oh, some say I was Arturo's younger brother, some say I was his son. We called each other brothers, and although we spilt much blood side by side through the years, the blood that ran within us was wholly our own.

But that is of little matter, it merely clarifies some of the tales you may have heard. Which brings me back to this tale, and the tale I had been telling when this mere woman claims I am wrong and that my story is not what I know it to be, and that the tale I am telling takes a different path entirely.

My anger rises, and the years fall from me, the curse revived, and still... I listen to her, ensnared, myself and my audience now hers. I hear her words wind and twist and echo and resolve, and I wonder briefly if this is Myrlynne, freed from her entrapment -- which I was quite sure involved her death as well, or as close as I could manufacture to it -- and come to seek revenge, because so magickal are her speakings that I can not help but believe.


Copyright 2013 Everett Ambrose Warren

Updatia

Sep. 19th, 2013 01:19 pm
ellyssian: (Default)
The Poetry Page @ EverettAWarren.com has finally been updated with some improved content.

On a fairly closely related note, there is now a GreenManEnvy page, which ties in that site, and provides another avenue to help promote GME.

A few other minor changes were implemented throughout the site.

Profile

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Everett

July 2014

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