Thank you, Sundae. That's glorious!


Sent by thought transference

If you had seen me pecking it out, letter by letter on this tiny phone...
I swear, I must value you above rubies.

Love you, too, sis!


Sent by thought transference

Danse Macabre

I love dispatch I strike at once
The wit, the wise, the fool, the dunce;
The steel-clad soldier, stout and bold,
The miser with his treasur'd gold;

The studious sage, and matron grave,
The haughty noble, and the slave,
I strip, with unrelenting paw,
The ermine from the man of law:
Disrobe the prelate of his his lawn;
And dim with clouds the op'ning dawn...

I love Danse Macabre. A truly astonishing work. One of those almost timeless pieces of art. Nearly 500 years old and still speaks to us.

Nice thread

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

I like that one.

Telefon!!

Tired - Fenton Johnson

That's sad.

Yes, On the scale of greys, that's black.

Could have been written by any modern tax-payer.

Yes, it's time again for my annual posting of one of my favorite poems!

April

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Very nice.

Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup

Yes...the job and joy, for each and every one, is to fill that cup.