One good thing about being anonymous…

Feeling out the crowd movements with no desire for fame or fortune.

Only one person to keep fed and mentally occupied.

Do the cats know which way the path of sunlight travels across the chair in the sunroom?

Living in the moment.

Reading books like “Thomas Jefferson’s Scrapbooks,” “Righting the Mother Tongue,” and “When the Mississippi Ran Backwards: Empire, Intrigue, Murder, and the New Madrid Earthquakes,” found at Shaver’s Books in the Railroad Station Antiques and Interiors Store.

Wondering about the effect of Oprah’s announcement of seeking the 2012 VP nod from Obama.  How long can she keep the OWN channel running?

Birds and insects cycle through life under the trees.

EPISODE.

IN THE COLUMBIAD.

[Joel Barlow]

STORY. — Miss McCrea was betrothed to an English Officer, and was on her way, escorted by her lover to be married, when they were overtaken by a part of Savages attached to Burgoyn’s army — Two chiefs dispute for the lady and are proceeding to blows, when an old chief in order to prevent disputes, kills her — The Officer who had been driven off, returns with assistance and finds the lady dead.

Her eyes, that stream’d and fill’d again with tears
Like gushing founts, which many a riv’let pour
And yet are full; she throws on either chief
Alternate, suppliant, while her sad laments
Plaintive and loud the sorrowing Champaigne fill.
Beauty so sad, so woeful, but enflam’d
The savage chieftains to possess her, more —
They interchange fierce glances, which denote
Bloody intentions, fix’d and deadly hate;
Thus, when desire enflames the horrid rage
Of two fierce lions on the burning tops
Of Atlas; or parch’d banks of Senegal;
They pace the Female round, growing in wrath;
A short and sullen roar; their jaws distent
By rage, their horrid teeth and tongues display’d;
Their tawny flanks lash’d by their sounding tails;
Their mains on end, the earth with fury paw’d,
Are dreadful preludes to their lordly strife.
At once the Indians loose their weeping prey:
Their angry eyeballs glare and in their hands
Two missile Tomahawks shone; then had been sought
A combat, which if action bodily,
If physical exertion ought to gain
Warlike repute; had rais’d the victor’s name
High as Achilles, or the fabled strength
of Hercules: the fame of which had liv’d
Long as tradition oral, and perhaps,
Search’d from oblivion by the genial care
Of polish’d climes, whose records more exact
Written exist; had down the stream of time
Sail’d proud, immortal in the sacred arks
Of history and of song; had not the chiefs,
The Elders interpos’d, but chiefest, ONE —
Deep skill’d in savage politics, named OMAI:
He fearing that the interests of the tribe
Would suffer by this contest of the chiefs,
Snatches a Tomahawk and with savage zeal,
Seizes the lovely, trembling, guiltless cause
Of this disunion: and inhuman strikes
The iron deep, into her panting breast.
Her beauteous limbs relax’d, she falls alone
Like [t]o a Roe, whose comely side the spear
Of hunter pierces: Wonder seiz’d the tribe,
The rival chiefs resign their rage to weep.
And even the prudent ruffian felt his soul
Assail’d by pity. On her ivory breast,
The gash appears, as if a stream of blood
Had thaw’d a wound upon the virgin snow.

..<..<..<+>..>..>..

Extract from the “Mirror for Magistrates”

Wrote about two hundred years ago [sic]

What doth avail to have a princely place,
A name of honour, and a high degree;
To come by kindred of a noble race,
Except we princely, worthy, noble be!
The fruit declares the goodness of the tree.
Do brag no more of birth, or lineage then;
For virtue, grace and manners make the man.

..<..<..<+>..>..>..

ON A LONG NOSE

[Anonymous]

Heavens! what a nose! Forbear to look,
Whene’r you drink, in fount or brook;
For, as the fair Narcissus died
When hanging o’er a fountain’s side,
You too the limpid water quaffing;
May die, my worthy sir, with laughing.

..<..<..<+>..>..>..

Euphemisms and innuendos. Good topics for poetic, rhythmic musings.  I watch mothers send their sons and daughters off to war, many a parent hoping children returning home heroes and warriors.

I have nothing against the old ways of warrioring.  Too bad we have to keep thinking it’s our own species against which we ply our metal to prove our mettle.

In a thousand years hence, when we’ve conquered foes more deadly – cancer, viruses, drivers of large metal boxes – will we still sling our children’s bodies against one another to feed our innate bloodlust?

We’ll debate the entropy of language, no matter which most popular rules of tongue twisting we’ll use for common speech.

Does it matter to me where the future lies or where people lie about the future?

I know not.  Meditation is not far removed from happy, relaxing, lazy sleep.

Dreams of a cicada-filled forest call my name.