Sunday, May 23, 2010

Father William




FATHER WILLIAM
by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
      "OU are old, Father William," the young man said,
      "And your hair has become very white;
      And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
      Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
       
      "In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
      "I feared it might injure the brain;
      But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
      Why, I do it again and again."
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
      And have grown most uncommonly fat;
      Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
      Pray, what is the reason of that?"
       
      "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
      "I kept all my limbs very supple
      By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --
      Allow me to sell you a couple?"
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
      For anything tougher than suet;
      Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
      Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
       
      "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
      And argued each case with my wife;
      And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
      Has lasted the rest of my life."
       
      "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
      That your eye was as steady as ever;
      Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
      What made you so awfully clever?"
       
      "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
      Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
      Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
      Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"

Saturday, May 22, 2010

The Traveler - The End Philip de Vos

I hope you have enjoyed the travel with me . . . . .. and that you've found the wise woman and her wisdom  . . . . I hope one day we all can look through our "corridors" and realize we have found the right stairways . . .and we will know why we have traveled . . .


"Stairway to Heaven" by Rachelarts

Philip de Vos

Friday, May 21, 2010

The traveler Part 5 - Philip de Vos


Image by Eleni.Rim

Philip de Vos

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The Traveler Part 4 - Philip de Vos


Philip de Vos

Monday, May 17, 2010

The Traveler Part 3 - Philip de Vos


Painting by Cyril Rolando


Philip de Vos

Sunday, May 16, 2010

The Traveler Part 2 - Philip de Vos


Painting by Cyril Rolando

Saturday, May 15, 2010

The Traveller - Philip de Vos


Painting by Jennifer Baird



Ghost house - Robert Frost


Image: Michael Otto

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Robert Frost 




Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The Fountains of Granada








                          The fountains of Granada
            Have you ever heard,
            in the perfumed, starry night,
            anything more sorrowful than their sad moan?
            All reposes in a vague enchantment
            in the fluid silver of the moon.

Fracisco Villaespesa 

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Man With The Blue Guitar


When I close my eyes, I can see the wise old man living in this house . . .sitting on the veranda . .on a green day . .. with his blue guitar



The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.

They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”

The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

And they said then, “But play, you cant,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,

A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are.”

Wallace Stevens