Introducing the Dialectic Sylloschism Club.

Este se  llama el sepo de la vaca

(Photo credit: falconpr75) You’ll notice that this pic has nothing to do with the subject at foot.

Syllochism: a seductive form of reasoning, consisting of a major promise and a minor trifling one, which ends up getting you sod all. Also leads to a general feeling of confusion on the part of the uninitiated. Favourite pass time of politicians and great thunkers, such as myself, Platato, thunker of messy thoughts.

Dialectic: in the vernacular.

Club: group of lay-abouts with nuthin better to do.

For example:

1.”To stay or not to stay? Methinks I’ll bugger orf!” -> major promise

2. “I’d stay if you arsed me!” -> minor promise

3. Conclusion: the old fart is still here!

Anybody brave enough to join the club? I ‘promise’ not to call your bluff… 😉

You can also join us on Facebook:


Helloooo From Belgium!

From Hart voor Dieren(Heart for Animals):

Het grootste paard ter wereld (op dit moment) is Big Jake, met een schofthoogte van 210.2 cm. Deze 11 jaar oude kanjer is een Belgisch trekpaard.

The biggest horse in the world (currently) is Big Jake, with a height to the withers of 210.2 cm. This 11-year-old behemoth is a Belgian.


Sister Rosetta Tharpe Live in 1964.


The Godmother of Rock & Roll: Sister Rosetta Tharpe Live in Manchester, 1964

“I’m singing, oh I’m singing in my soul, when the troubles roll, I sing from morn’ till night, it makes my burdens light…”

Sister Rosetta Tharpereconstructionist, gospel music’s first superstar, the godmother of rock and roll, “the original soul sister,” Literary Jukebox hero — was born on this day in 1915. No better way to celebrate her spirit and legacy than with her legendary, electrifying 1964 live performance of “Didn’t It Rain” at the Manchester train station, complete with her iconic white coat and electric guitar.


I Wonder Why?

Taken, and then Forsaken by Andaelentari,  Digital Art

Taken, and then Forsaken by Andaelentari,
Digital Art

In that time between times,
In that multiflux phase,
I see a kaleidoscope of worlds,
I live a myriad lives at once.

In awe, perplexed, dumbfounded,
at all the love in all its states,
I wonder why in heaven’s name,
there is still hate around.

The Secret!

Grandma Burcke did whisper to her seven daughters

a mighty secret known only to some quaint farmer folk,

not to be repeated to none other but their own true kin.

‘t Was a wizardry of wondiferous proportions,

a sacred, saucy spell of perma-transmution of…

how to turn a lowly, common slice of meat and grease

into a crispery feat of great delight to taste and sight,

fit only to be served to those one truly, truly loved:

that of their daily bacon!

Talking to the Pussy.

Medieval Mickey Mouse, c.1300 AD. On November ...

Medieval Mickey Mouse, c.1300 AD. On November 14, 2002, this image was discovered during restoration of a church’s outside wall in the town of Malta, Austria. It is part of a 14th century fresco depicting Saint Christopher of the Catholic Church, who is often shown accompanied by fabulous creatures. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Whenever I had spied Miss Kitty, which was not often, she was always clad in a colourful veil, which led me to believe that, either she had a terminal case of shyness, or maybe it was a religious thing. But when I ran into her today, she was al fresco, so to speak. Imagine my surprise, when I deduced, from the absence of eyes…, that the poor thing was blind.

I feigned innocence and politely introduced myself, to which she wrinkled her nose at me. Not one to be easily riled, I told her a story I’d seen in a Mickey Mouse cartoon, thinking that this might be of interest to someone of the feline persuasion. She did seem to lick her lips, but still remained mute. I sincerely prayed that she was not twice challenged, but when I heard a slight ‘Pfff…’ I was reassured and at the same time somewhat put out. Apparently, my story had failed to entertain her.

She did have quite a funny hairdo, but I complemented her on it anyway. It was then that she ambushed me and gave me a wet, slobbery kiss, which tasted of fig leaves, honey and of all things mysterious and sweet. I thanked her profusely, but explained to her that I was quite happy in a relationship and promptly took my leave.

Next I bumped into my girlfriend, who was all smiles. She gave me a big, slobbery kiss aswell and for no particular reason. Women? Pussies? I don’t get them!

Glimpse of the Aboriginal Universe.


Again from Aboriginal Desert ART Centre:

World renowned artist and good friend of the Desert Art Centre Dorothy Napangardi has once again joined with us for an extended residency. Dorothy moved back into familiar surrounds this Sunday just past and has begun work on her much sough…t after Mina Mina Rock Hole story. This first work has been commissioned by an astute collector. Remember you too can commission an artwork – just contact us through our website for details. Here’s a picture of Dorothy with her beaming a smile whilst working on this commissioned artwork.

Here is Dorothy’s Rock Hole work that she has put the last stroke to . I think you’ll agree it has some lovely movement and an overall stunning visual impact. The collector is ecstatic!

Paintings from Lockhart River.

Do visit this art site:

One example, which is for sale, btw – Silas Hobson – Sorry Moment:


Artists from Lockhart River on Cape York, known as the “Lockhart River Art Gang”, are some of the most innovative of Aboriginal artists. These artists have developed highly individual styles, but are drawn together by their common country, themes and cultural heritage.

Aboriginal Wisdom.

I have added a new category to Ralphie’s Portal, which you can see in the title of this post. I am an aficionado of the wisdom of the American native tribes, who have my utter respect, but there is more wisdom to be found elsewhere. Wisdom that I for one have not had the pleasure of reading or hearing much about.

After reading Marlo Morgan’s book, Mutant Message Down Under, I am so overcome with admiration for these wonderful people, the Australian Aboriginals, that I take it upon myself to learn more about their spirituality, poetry and plight and whatever I learn I shall share with you, our esteemed readers.

Cyber Speak.


Tweet up

Limited Love Span Syndrome: Kiss, kiss, cuddle, cuddle, go!

Love is all??? Only when I’m online, dear!

Have you got the latest love app yet?

I cuddled your profile, while you were offline!(from Groovimax on EP)

An oldie: Oh, DOS off!

What are you up to? — Just hanging out my Windows, listening to the Tweets. I can’t Facebook anyone now!

I rebooted his sex drive up the Yahoo!(=not good)

Facepalming your duckface is obscene, bitch!

A robodog is what we need. To suffer his affections but for a while, until the off-switch beckons.

Merlin’s Song.

By John Freeman

By John Freeman

Said Merlin about young Arthur:
This child was born to raise me,
to raise me to a higher plane,
and by his example show me how.

How to connect with nature,
to delight in every morrow,
live in the now and then
and read between the lines.

How to reign with laughter,
throw sternness to the wind,
see a grail in ev’ry bird’s nest,
say hello to the four winds.

To find grace instead of fault
in each and every human being,
be he humble or highborn,
to serve and eat my pride.

To unlearn my stubborn teachings
and open up my heart’s content
and share its magic with the world,
to teach an old man wonders!

Those Learned Bones.

From Gypsy Spirit Wind

From Gypsy Spirit Wind

Why does the heart understand
what the mind can not grasp?
Give me the formula for love!?
What’s the atomic weight of tenderness?

Is kindness a philosophy?
To me it’s all a mystery.
How then do I KNOW love intimately?
Why do I grasp it in my very bones?

I can relate to the wisdom of stones
and spy out the reasons for the seasons
and the intricacies of ebb and tides.
I get the abstractness of the spider’s web…

But I will never get the wickedness of some!

Beauty Everywhere!

Mister Peter Scharpach of the site brought these wonders to my attention:

Exquisite photography by Diane Paquin Photographe:


Along one of Diane’s pictures were these words, which I thought a wonderful poem, but are actually the lyrics to a song(Youtube link) by LOREENA McKENNIT:

The Mystic’s Dream…

A clouded dream on an earthly night
Hangs upon the crescent moon
A voiceless song in an ageless light
Sings at the coming dawn
Birds in flight are calling there
Where the heart moves the stones
It’s there that my heart is longing for
All for the love of you

A painting hangs on an ivy wall
Nestled in the emerald moss
The eyes declare a truce of trust
And then it draws me far away
Where deep in the desert twilight
Sand melts in pools of the sky
When darkness lays her crimson cloak
Your lamps will call, call me home.

And so it’s there my homage’s due
Clutched by the still of the night
And now I feel, feel you move
Every breath is full
 So it’s there my homage’s due
Clutched by the still of the night
Even the distance feels so near
All for the love of you.

A clouded dream on an earthly night
Hangs upon the crescent moon
A voiceless song in an ageless light
Sings at the coming dawn
Birds in flight are calling there
Where the heart moves the stones
It’s there that my heart is longing for
All for the love of you.

Meet Rumi!

303461_368257859884639_1218383380_nStumbled onto this 13th century Persian poet, Rumi on Gypsy Spirit Wind. I thought you’d like to meet him too (if you haven’t already):

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
 and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”
― Rumi —

For more Rumi-nations: <Click here!>

An Exercise in Empathy.

The many portraits by Abbott originate from th...

The many portraits by Abbott originate from the wish of Horatio Nelson’s friend William Locker, Lieutenant-Governor of Greenwich Hospital. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nathalie is thinking to herself that this party might not be a total waste of time, after all. She’s just spotted the dashing Jonathan at the other side of the room, but he’s being cornered by some old biddy, who will have her say to him, no matter what. You know the type! She looks like one of those formidable douairieres in full regalia, straight out of an Oscar Wilde play.

Or she could be compared to an old but still fearsome battleship, sailing through the battle of Trafalgar, blissfully unaware of all the commotion around her, after just having drunk Lord Nelson under the table and feeling none the worse for it. Nathalie is a woman of good upbringing and with a sensitive nature. Much as she would like it, her sense of politeness as yet prevents her from rescuing her future beau from the clutches of the old dragon. Jonathan is of a similar disposition and this prevents him in turn from telling the old woman to shut up and leave him alone. And Aunt Zelda is being ruled by her inner demons and is pretty much on autopilot.

I think that so far everyone can identify with this scenario from having seen it in a movie, read it in a book or even from having experienced it in real life. How things are developing between the two youngsters is pretty much obvious. Nathalie can judge from Jonathan’s body language, that he feels uncomfortable at this stage. He himself, out of inbred respect for his elders, does not want to show the old dear how he feels, but is unable to prevent himself from doing so. That leaves Aunt Zelda: how is she feeling and what could she be thinking? Let me point out, at this stage, that I call her aunt because it seemed appropriate to do so, but she is not in any way, shape or form related to either of the others.

This lady is feeling a pervasive sense of despair for acting the way she does and secondly for what causes her to do this in the first place, which also adds a sense of impotent rage. You see, the only way can can get anyone to acknowledge her these days, is by brute force, for if she doesn’t, then people tend to ignore her altogether. This was not always the case, but she knows that she is showing the wear and tear, inflicted upon her by her main enemy in life, which is time!

She is telling herself: “I hate to do this. I can tell that this young man is obviously uncomfortable at being accosted by me in this manner, but what to do, how to break the vicious (in both senses of the word) circle? For although I must admit that I am starting to show my somewhat advanced years, I still have the soul of a young woman, one that needs to be appreciated and even loved! Why can’t people just come up to me and have a chat, without me having to resort to this?” Just then, a light went on in the darkest recesses of her mind. This was provoked by a thought that startles her, frightens her even. What!!? Just spit out the truth!!???” A booming silence engulfs her from all fronts. “Surely you jest, Marie-Antoinette? (which is her real name, but kept secret). Well, what have I got to lose? It can’t get any worse than this!

“Jonathan, I can tell that you’d rather be anywhere else but here! Please excuse this foolish old woman. All I really want is to have a nice and cosy chat with someone, but everybody seems to be avoiding me. I do apologise! Now, run along and go and rescue that damsel in distress across the room!” This confession startles Jonathan out of his reverie for the lovely Nathalie.

For the first time, he really looks Aunt Zelda in the eyes and what does he see there: intelligence, wit, compassion even and a plainly human need for a bit of companionship. He tells himself that Nathalie will understand and asks auntie is she would fancy a cup of tea?

She answers: “Tea? What a novel idea! I’d be delighted. You know, you might not be as shallow, as I thought to begin with, young man!”, and takes him by the arm. He counters: “You’re not as fearsome as you let on, old woman!” — “Watch it with the “old” bit, you young whippersnapper!” They both laugh and head for the kitchen.

Nathalie has followed the proceedings and comes over and asks if she can join them? Auntie says: “Why of course, my dear! Why don’t you sit next to this remarkable young lad. I am sure he won’t mind!” And she winks.

Right at this moment, a gentleman of around Aunt Zelda’s age comes over and asks her is she would care to dance? Off they go to dance and they start murmuring to each other. After a while, the murmurs grow sweeter in tone. And the rest in NONE of our business!!! End of the Exercise in Empathy.

Did you notice that once the door to humanity was opened, everybody seemed to recognise it immediately? Do you still have the same opinion of these three protagonists as you did at the start of this story? Because they’re still exactly the same people! So what has changed? You see: a dragon is only a dragon if you let it. Once you allow it to have feelings, you need not fear it anymore! Toodeloo gang, love you all to bits!

When is Forever?

rabbi nahman tomb

rabbi nahman tomb (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I know exactly on which day ‘forever’ falls. How do I know that? Let me tell you the story. I was in love with a woman, whom I thought was my twin soul. When I was with her, I could have sworn that she thought the same, silly me. Well, maybe she did but then, as is a woman’s prerogative and often man’s downfall, she changed her mind.

She actually pulled my sleeve a couple of times, with a twinkle in her eyes, telling me: “Hey, you, come back down to Earth, will you!” I was in seventh heaven and floating on cloud nine, but it wasn’t to be. First of all, she was a young widow and then, to top it all off, her beloved mother, who was my best friend, by the way, died of cancer. Those two deaths in two years time, messed her up to such an extent, that she decided she had to be alone, to recover from it all.

In no way was I to blame, she told me. Intellectually, I could understand this, of course. But my shattered heart was not so understanding. The higher you fly, the deeper the fall. This is how I know, that forever falls on March 31st. For she left me on April first, leaving me feeling like a fool and that the joke was on me.

This episode taught me a valuable lesson in survival. After six months of pure, unadulterated hell, I was ready to call it a day, but my indomitable spirit came to the rescue. It told me to stop hurting myself over something that could not be changed and to finally accept the fact, that she wouldn’t have me in her life anymore (for whatever reason). Acceptance is the key, hard though it may be. And believe you me, it was damned hard.

Three years later, I met a beautiful, wayward, gypsy princess, who swore to me, that she would love me till her dying day. We were inseparable and she told me, that I was the best thing that ever happened to her. And then, she had a brain hemorrhage and passed away, at the tender age of twenty-eight. She had kept her word, my sweet love, but…strike two! As you may imagine, I was a trifle upset with the Big Guy upstairs. There is supposed to be a reason for everything, but the only thing is, often I can’t see it.

So, I have been alone for almost five years. I’m a bit anxious to even look at another woman, for fear of “what next?”. And the misery of it all is that I do so love to love. “Without love, life has no meaning!” someone said. In my opinion, he or she was right. Rest assured that I have not given up hope.

In that, I agree with Rabbi Nachman from Breslav, who admonished us by categorically stating: “It is forbidden to despair!” Those are wise words and well worth listening to.But where is miss right? I am here, ready, willing and most of the time able. Fortunately, even though I am generally an impatient man, when it comes to things that really matter, I have the patience of a monk. And face it, until she shows up, I shall need it. But Lady, be warned, I have some serious hugging and kissing to catch up on!

Do You Give a Rat’s Arse?

Detail of rat tail (Rattus norvegicus) showing...

Detail of rat tail (Rattus norvegicus) showing dermal scutes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My entrepreneurial mind has come up with an astonishing idea.

I shall sell rats’ arses to be given as tokens of mild interest.

Not the real thing, of course, but a suitable replica.

I shall build a little stand and park my arse outside the theatre.

This might catch on!

No more vulgar throwing of eggs, tomatoes and such, but the polite act of handing to the actors a neatly packaged rodent’s posterior.

An eminently more civilized approach, you must agree!

I shall educate the masses. Just you wait and see.


Falling light,
transported by water,
impossible to catch,
plays tricks with my senses.

If a drop falls,
does the light drop with it?

Each drop,
caught by the light,
mirrors its neighbour,
dazzling me.

A painter’s nightmare.
An observer’s delight.
I give up the fight and enjoy.

But still, in my mind’s eye,
the light falls,
and I catch it,

I’m Lucky by Stef Bos.

Stef Bos

Stef Bos (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A song translated from Dutch!

Stef Bos “I’m lucky”

 I’m sometimes too blind

to see what I have.

Sometimes I still get lost ,

even though I know the way

Free as a bird

that has survived the storm.

The wind in my back

and still at times I complain.

But I’m happy

even though I don’t see:

too dissatisfied with everything,

too few times satisfied with nothing .

I keep feeling lighter.

I dance with sorrow

and I know six chords,

but I only use three.

For I am happy

even though I don’t see:

too dissatisfied with everything,

too few times satisfied with nothing .

I slowly become invisible,

Disappear in the fog.

Swap my past

for what is now…

And so I lose the way,

Happily lost,

Because always somewhere

I am received with love!

Ralphie To Be Published In An Anthology!

"Grinning Man" is one of many short ...

“Grinning Man” is one of many short stories published in the Legends anthology (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is an excerpt of an email I received yesterday:

Dear Contributor,
Thank you for contributing your writing to the Short Humour Site –
You may recall from browsing the site that a paperback anthology of work by fifty contributors was published in 2009 called People of Few Words, a second anthology of work by fifty different contributors was published in 2010 called People of Few Words – Volume 2, and at third anthology of work by a further fifty contributors was published in 2011 called People of Few Words – Volume 3.
We would now like to publish a fourth such anthology containing the work of fifty more contributors and would like to include one piece that you have submitted in the new book.

Story to be included: Things That Go Vrooommmm!

Does The End Justify The Means?

The Borgias (2011 TV series)

I´m happy, because I have a problem, two actually. I have found that when there is a complete lack of problems, life gets boring. And I´ve been known to go to great lengths to avoid boredom, just for the heck of it. What the Chinese consider a curse, namely: “May you live in interesting times!”, is to me a blessing in disguise. You may be wondering by this time what my problem(s) is(or are)!?

You know how, when you are a writer, you sometimes find yourself at a loss about what to write about… The opposite has happened to me over the past few days, in that so much has happened that I could write about, that I simply don´t know where to start. And even more frustratingly, most of it I am forbidden to mention even. for fear of the consequences. I shall keep schtum on all these topics, for reasons that I have mentioned in another chapter. I´ve done well so far, haven´t I?

I´ve already written two paragraphs on not much in particular. Maybe I should have become a speech writer for politicians!!??? Any-way, I´m in Gandia, which entirely  by coincidence, I wrote about a little while ago, only to find everybody whom I knew gone. And I do like a bit of company! Of the right kind of course, because the company I was in a couple of days ago, I want to avoid at all cost! I do not in the least appreciate stocky gentlemen with a complete lack of humor. Nuff said!

The Borgias are still here by the way, looking as grim and sanctimonious as I remembered them. I would like to go on a rant and a rave, but the trouble is that the unpolished truth hurts and people want to forget all about that. All that counts is entertainment, a little respite from your own conscience. Because, … you are not doing wrong to anybody, are you, by being a cog in the machine?

The machine that equates people´s lives, misery and heartbreak to numbers on a spreadsheet!? I shall just say this and then I shall shut up. If you equate, for example, a father or a mother´s inability to provide their children with a crust to eat, with numbers, for the sake of your idolised profit, then you are guilty of a crime, period!

And somewhere, somewhen, you will have to account for your actions. In the meantime, I salute you, with a smile on my face, in the assurance that Karma´s irony will catch up with you… Chiao, Bambini, sleep tight!

What Does A Writer Do?

English: "Don´t worry, be happy" Deu...

English: “Don´t worry, be happy” Deutsch: “Don´t worry, be happy” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He writes!  I didn´t feel much like writing, but I have a secret… I refuse to worry  and then everything sorts itself out automatically. And let´s face it, there is nobody standing over me with a gun, who says: “Write or I kill you!”, now is there! ?  I feel like I´m in limbo, stuck between two planes, on the outside looking in. I´m not quite here yet, in Fuengirola. Once I will have established a firm routine, then everything will start to flow naturally, as before.  Until then,  I´ll just muddle along.

I´m happy to be free again. The street gets under your skin. It is not a place, it´s a state of mind, a way of life. I´ve met several people, who spent time on the street and then returned to a more or less regular life and they all, without exception, told me the same thing and that is that it never leaves you. You carry it with you for the rest of your life. Now don´t get me wrong, I do not consider this a negative thing.

You can not imagine how liberating it is to no longer carry the fear with you of being destitute. Because you´ve been there and you survived. And you know what? It wasn´t all that bad! You go where you want, when you want, meet loads of interesting people and you learn that all you really need are the bare necessities. All the rest is pure and unadulterated luxury!

Why would I want to create a prison of my own making with a mortgage, more debts and endless worrying? For what? My luck (and my pain…) is that I have no children. I am responsible only for myself and to myself (within reason). And the world would still keep on turning just as happily without me in it. So, why worry? Be happy! A lot of people stop and stare at me, when they see me begging with a smile and a real one at that. Well… there obviously must be something wrong with that one! Except, there isn´t! At least, nothing that a good meal wouldn´t fix.

I was a bit remiss earlier, I know that my friends worry about me and I love them for it. But don´t, because you see, some days(if not most) it´s so wonderful to be alive in my billion star hotel. Except that the room service sucks! I shall have to have a word with the management.

For Whom The Bell Is A Friggin’ Nuisance!

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower

Italiano: campanile English: bell tower (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I heard an Imam calling the faithful to prayers at five o’clock this morning. I thought that was a bit early or late, depending on your point of view, but then that is the custom here in Morocco. I was transported back to some decennia ago, when I used to live right next to a church.

Now, when I say right next to a church, I mean that my bedroom was about fifty yards away from the bell tower. And these were not iddy biddy tiny bells, these were humongous bastards that fairly shook the life out of you, if they caught you unawares. And if you think that they were wont to ring every hour on the hour, you would only be partially right. They rang every fifteen minutes, day and night for every day of the catholic year and that’s a bloody long year, let me tell you!

I’m quite good with languages and I cursed those bells in just about every language I could think of and then some. I had nightmares about them, luckily short ones, for those blasted bells would save me from them with their annoying clanging every fifteen minutes, remember? BIG brass bells whose reverberations would rattle your very bones and marrow… I looked like a parent with triplets, I looked a mess and I wasn’t even married! Every morning some frightful red-eyed monster would scare the living daylights out of me, when I looked in the mirror… not a pretty sight!

Every year around Christmas I would beg Santa on bended knees to please bring me a bazooka, but he never did. He must have been in cahoots with them, methinks! I thought that this was a bit petty of him. Was this really too much to ask for! I did not ask for a tank… only one little bazooka and he denied me it. *sob!* He thereby deprived me of the joy and privilege of refurbishing the bell-tower of this church to my very own specifications, which is to say bell-LESS!

One day I’d had enough. I started looking in the papers for a flat to let, somewhere as far away from my home town as possible. Anything to get away from those horrible bells. Most of them were too expensive for my humble means, but finally I spotted one that looked right up my, hopefully bell-less, alley. I arranged for a meeting with the estate agent and we soon met up.

Imagine my dismay when the flat in question turned out to be right next to a cathedral, a BIG one. Just when the estate agent showed up, the bells started ringing. I cringed and hunched up one shoulder and I moaned: „The bells, the bells!!!“ This made the man slightly nervous, but he soothed my soul and saved my day by saying that the bells were shut off from 10 pm till 10 am, out of consideration for the neighbours. I was so deliriously happy that I hugged and kissed him. He turned red as a beet and for some inexplicable reason I never got the appartement…

As soon as I got back, I started a petition to copy this very sensible practice of the shutting-off-of-the-bells-at-night, but the deacon turned a deaf ear towards it, probably because of the bells!? I swore then and there to Saint Peter that when my time comes and the bell tolls for me, I ain’t comin’! If he notifies me with some quiet flute music or a nice guitar fandango, I’ll follow as quietly as a lamb, but not for those beastly bells!

Ralphie’s Perspective…

Portrait of Galileo Galilei by Justus Susterma...

Portrait of Galileo Galilei, who was wrong after all!, by Justus Sustermans painted in 1636. National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, London. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We were driving through the countryside, when I noticed some ruins that looked splendid in their worn-outness. I remarked to myself how difficult it is for me to render this faithfully on canvas, as I am not very good at painting or drawing architecture. Thus it came to be that I was pondering the rules of perspective and it was then that a horrific realisation dawned on poor Ralphie…

People and all things essentially get smaller the further they get away from old Ralphie, until they disappear altogether! Is this not horrible? Whole countries have been known to disappear from the face of Ralphie’s universe, for example when I was on a plane looking out. Galileo Galilei must have been wrong all along: the earth is flat after all!!!

Imagine all those people, who never did anybody any wrong, falling off the planet and floating around in deep space, for what reason, I ask you? I sincerely hope that I am not to blame for their misfortune!

Just the other day my friend Dermott told me he was going on a little trip and he pointed into the distance and said: “Over there!” I asked him, with a trembling lip: “Do you mean where the little people live?” I was quite apprehensive by this time! I entreated him to stay within eyesight of ole Ralphie, for I have lost enough friends already in this lifetime and he laughed at me, the scoundrel! There I wax filled with concern for his well-being and safety and he laughs in my face…

A couple of days passed and I was mourning my lost friend, when I rounded a corner and who should I bump into but my dear friend Dermott. I thought I was seeing things and asked him with tears in my eyes if it was really him or if I was being delusional. He told me that he was my born-again friend Dermott and this reassured me no end. Although he had a big grin on his face. I sometimes suspect him of pulling my leg!

Now wait a minute, you lot, would you mind explaining in no uncertain terms where you all disappear to when old Ralphie goes to sleep! Hunhh, hunhh!!! Come on, fess up! I’ll bet you all get up to no end of mischief, when I’m not there to keep an eye on youse! Dermott reassures me yet again that you all go to sleep aswell, but I still have my doubts… I shall be forced to install camera surveillance in the four directions of the wind to see if he spoke the truth! There is no fooling lil ole me!!!

Death’s Sweet Voice

I had spluttered into life

Onto a path of bitter strife

From the darkness of a womb

Into brightness from the gloom

But life’s journey always ends

Within the blackness of a tomb

A lost love once made me cry

I had seen my chance pass by

Death’s sweet voice entrances

She smiles and she advances

And my spirit she will cradle

She gives no second chances

I had flattered to deceive

I was reluctant to believe

I dug my head into the sand

I destroyed the promised land

Became the master of remorse

But still I did not understand

Now a resting place I crave

Far away beyond the grave

Death’s sweet voice is pleading

She’ll give me what I’m needing

And my spirit she will cradle

To stop my soul from bleeding

I had lived with morbid fears

Through the adolescent years

False dreams of immortality

Success a mere formality

But floundered in my apathy

With comfort zone mentality

But now I cease to weep

The tears no longer seep

Death’s sweet voice is calling

To free me from life’s mauling

And my spirit she will cradle

As into her arms I’m falling

I had seen my bridges burned 

And my lessons duly learned

But I found the truth too late

And though I tried to mitigate

I faced the sabres of revenge

And the silenced guns of hate

Darkness closes in on day

And I will soon be on my way

Death’s sweet voice is singing

Her bells of freedom ringing

And my spirit she will cradle

To soothe away life’s stinging

I had dreamed of time beginning

And the universe was spinning

Before the quirks of evolution

Brought the ultimate solution

And the victims of misfortune

Were left seeking retribution

And so I must bid goodbye

My tears have now run dry

Death’s sweet voice is sighing

She is calm and pacifying

And my spirit she is cradling

As I’m laid here gently dying





Affection by Lindell Vecchio

Affection by Lindell Vecchio.

I did not get this the first time I read it, but then I did not have my brain switched on. After having read it a second time, I must admit that I find this piece of poetry intriguing, endearing and alas very true.

Lion Affection by Google/imgres

Present from Lieven 23.

The Drunken Silenus

Image via Wikipedia

Lieven Grillaert

  • Sweet serene sky-like flower,
    Haste to adorn her bower;
    From thy long cloudy bed
    Shoot forth thy damask head!

    New-startled blush of Flora,
    The grief of pale Aurora,
    Who will contest no more,
    Haste, haste to strew her floor!

    Vermilion ball that’s given
    From lip to lip in heaven,
    Love’s couch’s coverlet,
    Haste, haste to make her bed!

    Dear offspring of pleased Venus
    And jolly plump Silenus,
    Haste, haste to deck the hair
    Of the only sweetly fair!

    See! rosy is her bower,
    Her floor is all this flower;
    Her bed a rosy nest
    By a bed of roses pressed.

    But early as she dresses,
    Why fly you her bright tresses?
    Ah! I have found, I fear,—
    Because her cheeks are near.

Present from Lieven 22.

Carnage (comics)

Image via Wikipedia

Lieven Grillaert

  • Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
    Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
    Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
    Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
    Stroke on stroke of pain, — but what slow panic,
    Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
    Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
    Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
    Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

    — These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
    Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
    Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
    Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
    Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
    Always they must see these things and hear them,
    Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
    Carnage incomparable and human squander
    Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.

    Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
    Back into their brains, because on their sense
    Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
    Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
    — Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
    Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
    — Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
    Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
    Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
    Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.