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Thursday, July 10, 2008

Rhubarb, Rhubarb, Rhubarb

The low muttering in stage productions is usually produced by the actors whispering Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. Why? Um... good question. But this is a superbly phallic rhubarb flower, and I had to call it something. Low muttering seemed to fit.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Larus

Larus is the latin nomenclature for seagulls. This one was after the hotdog chunk crab bait...

Monday, May 5, 2008

Waiting


Ahhh, but waiting for what?

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Dulce et Decorum Est



Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen March 18, 1893 – November 4, 1918

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

To_____



Music, when soft voices die (To___)
Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belov├Ęd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

High Flight



High Flight
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

When the Night Feels My Song



When The Night Feels My Song
Bedouin Soundclash

I'm on the rocky road
Heading down off the mountain slope
And as my steps echo echo,
louder than before
Another day is done,
say goodbye to the setting sun
See what i found,
Turn back to the ground
Just like before

And Hey hey hey hey hey hey
Hey beautiful day, hey beautiful day
Hey hey hey hey
Hey beautiful day, hey beautiful day
When the night feels my song
I'll be home, I'll be home

Into the undergrowth,
Twist and turn on a lonely road
In the twighlight
the day turns to night
And i'm alone

And when the light has let
I'm not sure of my every step
Follow the wind that pushes me west
Back to my bed

And Hey hey hey hey hey hey
Hey beautiful day, hey beautiful day
Hey hey hey hey
Hey beautiful day, hey beautiful day

When the night feels my song
I'll be home, I'll be home
When the night feels my song
I'll be home, I'll be home
When the night feels my song
I'll be home, I'll be home