Saturday Rainbow

. . . this time . . .

. . . missing the chimneys.

Friday is Skyday

Chim, chimney
Chim, chimney
Chim, chim, cher-ee . . .

Q.e.d.

One for the shysters of Monsanto & Co. . . .

Got it, GOOGLE!

Cookies help us deliver our services. By using our services, you agree to our use of cookies. 
Learn more
Got it

In other words:

By being lazy and thus still using your services I do help you . . .

Oh, wrong label.
It's not about 'organised stupidity', but about organising stupidity.
 

May

Okay: April

Childhood

How could they survive?
Well, they had a telephone.
Their parents had none.

On the Road

It's not Majorca.

Dandelion Tree.

One stem,
sixty-nine blossoms.

Friday is Skyday

Before thunderstorm.
Just a few minutes to go.
What an atmosphere!

Rather be it Shakespeare*

On Shakespeare's 450th birthday and
the 398nd anniversary of either his death
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.

It's also the (International) Day of the book?

Well, yes. But isn't every day a day of the book?

Comparing the results of my recent attempts to write some sonnets myself with what I am rereading these days, I came to the conclusion, in order not to put anyone off the realm of poetry, to post rather one from the Master of Avondale.

Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
       And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
       Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

* Blessed be your good memory. Well, indeed, knowing I would be fighting with a deadline, I went back to April 23rd, 2009, copied and pasted, updated the years, and voilà.
After all, it's no dissertation. 

Les Nuits de Fourvière

Anoushka Shankar

Sitar

Seems I need that

Deadline getting close,
getting closer and closer –
and I am posting.

:)

In Times of Peace

They hardly could know
in summer nineteen-fourteen
what was to come, hm?