Mkuki kwa nguruwe, kwa binaadamu mchungu

1 1 1 1 1 1 naturalhistor6yin00beddrich_0093

A spear only fits a warthog, it’s bitter to a human being

In other words, those people who like to cause harm and discomfort to others, often times are very quick at crying foul when something bad is done to them.

http://www.glcom.com/hassan/kanga.html

1 1 1 1 1 1 naturalhistoryin00beddrich_0093

Always, though, fear
makes him careful:
like me, some scene
where the warthog masks up -
lips, tushes, plastered with blood -
settling small eyes to explain
that he’s kind, that he’s nice . . .

Martin Langford

http://www.hotsdots.com/poetry/author/mduwell/

1 1 1 1 1 1 na2turalhistoryin00beddrich_0093

 

The clown has great importance. as part of the search for what is laughable and ridiculous in man.

 

 

 

We should put the emphasis on the rediscovery of our own individual clown, the one that has grown-up within us and which society does not allow us to express.

 

Jacques Lecoq

http://www.silentclown.com/inspirations.htm

1 1 1 1 1 1 monsieur2clown00perr_0005

Open-mouthed, with painted smile, the clowns stand in formation,

Constantly they shake their heads in cynical negation,

Notwithstanding players skill the clowns will always win,

They walk free from the courtroom and the cycle starts again.

Graeme King

THE LAUGHING CLOWNS

1 1 1 1 1 1 monsieurc7lown00perr_0005

The Australian Women’s Weekly (1933 – 1982), Saturday 7 August 1937

1 1 1 1 1 1 The Australian Women's Weekly (1933 - 1982), Saturday 7 August 1937

1 1 1 1 1 1 monsieurclown00perr_0005

A clown needn’t be the same out of the ring as he has to be when he’s in it. If you look at photographs of clowns when they’re just being ordinary men, they’ve got quite sad faces.
― Enid Blyton, Five Go Off in a Caravan

1 1 1 1 1 1 monsieurclown400perr_0005

The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach. Henry Beston

1 1 1  1 1 1 Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. - 1909 - 1954), Tuesday 4 September 1951

 

Queensland Times (Ipswich) (Qld. : 1909 – 1954), Tuesday 4 September 1951

1 1 1 1 1 1 louisianatexasfo00chic_0044

 

THE SURFER

He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
climbed through, slid under those long banks of
foam–
(hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face stinging).
How his brown strength drove through the hollow and coil
of green-through weirs of water!
Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water;
and swimming so, went out of sight
where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling
in air as he in water, with delight.

Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.
Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.
Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and serve;
come to the long beach home like a gull diving.

For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies, snarling,
cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows
the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, wind blows
and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;
drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches
its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.

Written by Judith Wright

Big shots are only little shots who keep shooting. Christopher Morley (Journalist, 1890-1957)

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 motionpicturepho00carl_0432

 

Then someone else was interested to know just what he got,
How many kanga-bloody-roos he went and bloody shot,
And the shooting bloke says “Things are crook –
the drought’s too bloody tough.
I got forty-two by seven, and that’s good e-bloody-nough.”

And, as this polite rejoinder seemed to satisfy the mob,
Everyone stopped listening and got on with the job,
Which was drinkin’ beer, and arguin’, and talkin’ of the heat,
Of boggin’ in the bitumen in the middle of the street,
But as for me, I’m here to say the interesting piece of news
Was Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin’ kanga bloody-roos.

John Patrick O’Grady  9.10.1907 – 1981  (aka Nino Culotta) 

http://australianpoems.tripod.com/tumbabloodyrumba.html

There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning. Louis L’Amour

1 1 1 1 1 1 innaturesi3magech00adamuoft_0067

 

The Hypnotist

by Andrew Barton Paterson

A man once read with mind surprised
Of the way that people were “hypnotised”;
By waving hands you produced, forsooth,
A kind of trance where men told the truth!
His mind was filled with wond’ring doubt;
He grabbed his hat and he started out,
He walked the street and he made a “set”
At the first half-dozen folk he met.
He “tranced” them all, and without a joke
‘Twas much as follows the subjects spoke:

First Man
“I am a doctor, London-made,
Listen to me and you’ll hear displayed
A few of the tricks of the doctor’s trade.
‘Twill sometimes chance when a patient’s ill
That a doae, or draught, or a lightning pill,
A little too strong or a little too hot,
Will work its way to a vital spot.
And then I watch with a sickly grin
While the patient ‘passes his counters in’.
But when he has gone with his fleeting breath
I certify that the cause of death
Was something Latin, and something long,
And who is to say that the doctor’s wrong!
So I go my way with a stately tread
While my patients sleep with the dreamless dead.”

Next, Please
“I am a barrister, wigged and gowned;
Of stately presence and look profound.
Listen awhile till I show you round.
When courts are sitting and work is flush
I hurry about in a frantic rush.
I take your brief and I look to see
That the same is marked with a thumping fee;
But just as your case is drawing near
I bob serenely and disappear.
And away in another court I lurk
While a junior barrister does your work;
And I ask my fee with a courtly grace,
Although I never came near the case.
But the loss means ruin too you, maybe,
But nevertheless I must have my fee!
For the lawyer laughs in his cruel sport
While his clients march to the Bankrupt Court.”

Third Man
“I am a banker, wealthy and bold —
A solid man, and I keep my hold
Over a pile of the public’s gold.
I am as skilled as skilled can be
In every matter of ? s. d.
I count the money, and night by night
I balance it up to a farthing right:
In sooth, ‘twould a stranger’s soul perplex
My double entry and double checks.
Yet it sometimes happens by some strange crook
That a ledger-keeper will ‘take his hook’
With a couple of hundred thousand ‘quid’,
And no one can tell how the thing was did!”

Fourth Man
“I am an editor, bold and free.
Behind the great impersonal ‘We’
I hold the power of the Mystic Three.
What scoundrel ever would dare to hint
That anything crooked appears in print!
Perhaps an actor is all the rage,
He struts his hour on the mimic stage,
With skill he interprets all the scenes —
And yet next morning I give him beans.
I slate his show from the floats to flies,
Because the beggar won’t advertise.
And sometimes columns of print appear
About a mine, and it makes it clear
That the same is all that one’s heart could wish —
A dozen ounces to every dish.
But the reason we print those statements fine
Is — the editor’s uncle owns the mine.”

The Last Straw
“A preacher I, and I take my stand
In pulpit decked with gown and band
To point the way to a better land.
With sanctimonious and reverent look
I read it out of the sacred book
That he who would open the golden door
Must give his all to the starving poor.
But I vary the practice to some extent
By investing money at twelve per cent,
And after I’ve preached for a decent while
I clear for ‘home’ with a lordly pile.
I frighten my congregation well
With fear of torment and threats of hell,
Although I know that the scientists
Can’t find that any such place exists.
And when they prove it beyond mistake
That the world took millions of years to make,
And never was built by the seventh day
I say in a pained and insulted way
that ‘Thomas also presumed to doubt’,
And thus do I rub my opponents out.
For folks may widen their mental range,
But priest and parson, they never change.”

With dragging footsteps and downcast head
The hypnotiser went home to bed,
And since that very successful test
He has given the magic art a rest;
Had he tried the ladies, and worked it right,
What curious tales might have come to light!

http://www.occupypoetry.net/node/18962

1 1 1 1 1 1 1innaturesim4agech00adamuoft_0067

Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint: Each lost day has its patron saint.

BRET HARTE: _The Lost Galleon,_ Last St.

Sunday Times (Perth, WA : 1902 – 1954), Sunday 27 June 1937,

1 1 1 1 1 1 Sunday Times (Perth, WA - 1902 - 1954), Sunday 27 June 1937,

1 1 1 1 1 1 howardpylesbooko00pyle_0010

“There was a magic about the sea. People were drawn to it. People wanted to love by it, swim in it, play in it, look at it. It was a living thing that as as unpredictable as a great stage actor: it could be calm and welcoming, opening its arms to embrace it’s audience one moment, but then could explode with its stormy tempers, flinging people around, wanting them out, attacking coastlines, breaking down islands. It had a playful side too, as it enjoyed the crowd, tossed the children about, knocked lilos over, tipped over windsurfers, occasionally gave sailors helping hands; all done with a secret little chuckle”

― Cecelia Ahern, The Gift

Dogs bark but the caravan moves on. Arab

1 1 1 1 1 1 highlightsofsout00newz_0017

 

1 1 1 1 1 1 The Richmond River Herald and Northern Districts Advertiser (NSW - 1886 - 1942), Friday 29 June 1934

The Richmond River Herald and Northern Districts Advertiser (NSW : 1886 – 1942), Friday 29 June 19341 1 1 1 1 1 h2ighlightsofsout00newz_0017

“Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream.  There is magic in it.  Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries-stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region.  Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor.  Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded forever.”


–  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

1 1 1 1 1 1 h2ighlightsofsout00newz_0017

It is not the horse that draws the cart, but the oats. Russia.

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206182852

 

1 1 1 1 1 1 aQueenscliff Sentinel, Drysdale, Portarlington & Sorrento Advertiser (Vic. - 1885 - 1894), Saturday 26 July 1890,

Queenscliff Sentinel, Drysdale, Portarlington & Sorrento Advertiser (Vic. : 1885 – 1894), Saturday 26 July 1890,1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206182852

 

I’ve finally reached the age where my Wild Oats have turned into All-Bran!

 

TOM WILSON, Ziggy, Nov. 19, 1999

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206182852

Wild Oats

BY PHILIP LARKIN

About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked
The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt
If ever one had like hers:
But it was the friend I took out,
And in seven years after that
Wrote over four hundred letters,
Gave a ten-guinea ring
I got back in the end, and met
At numerous cathedral cities
Unknown to the clergy. I believe
I met beautiful twice. She was trying
Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.
Parting, after about five
Rehearsals, was an agreement
That I was too selfish, withdrawn,
And easily bored to love.
Well, useful to get that learnt.
In my wallet are still two snaps
Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.
Unlucky charms, perhaps.
1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206182852

Hope is the last thing to leave a human being.

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206165243

 tango, the relationship between lead and follower, man and woman, is so intense and all consuming, that there is simply no time for small talk. The last man I danced with, I know more intricately in many ways than his lover: I know that he perspires in a tiny spot above his brow; that when the dance slows and our connection is tight, his breathing almost stops; that when my leg sweeps his, he arches his neck imperceptibly upwards; that when another couple got too close he subconsciously enclosed me in a protective embrace; and that his hand rested so delicately on the flesh of my back. Yet all I know about him are his name and his country of origin. Small talk is a luxury not afforded to us tango addicts.

Anastasia Demaggio

http://www.verytangostore.com/quotes.html

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206165243

LOST IN THE BUSH

I’d left the camp, and lost my way,

‘Mid tangled vines and ferns;

And puzzled was which way to take

From out the many turns;

 

When presently I saw some smoke

Through swamp oaks wreathing up,

And close beside me soon I heard

The yelping of a pup.

 

A forked stick, two sheets of bark,

A low, small fire in front,

And on the ground there sat a black, –

He’d just returned from hunt.

 

And on the coals a sumptuous meal –

A ‘possum roasting whole –

Among the ashes two corn cobs,

Which he that morning stole.

 

I told him I had lost my way,

Was weary, and footsore.

He pointed to a log, and then

Was silent as before.

 

I questioned him – Why all alone?

Where piccaninny, gin?

He sullen looked, and then replied:

“White fellow bin take him.

 

And he bin promise gib it me,

Clothes, blanket, and white bread,

Bacca, and rum, and budgery things;

Baal gib it though,” he said.

 

“And many moons I’ve trabbled bin

With white man long a dray;

But now me going back to tribe;

Baal me now with him stay.

 

“Almost all gone, blackfellow, now;

Baal plenty kangaroo;

Whitefellow sit down everywhere,

Him take it all land, too.”

He led me on, I’d wandered far,

For now ‘twas almost night,

Then pointing to my camp, he turned,

And soon was lost to sight.

 

I thought ‘tis late now to begin,

At this the eleventh hour,

Yet still a something might be done

By those who have the power,

 

For those once owners of the soil,

Neglected thus so long;

I would I had the poet’s gift,

I’d plead their cause in song.

(Kiama Independent, March 28, 1884)

MELINDA KENDALL.

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206165243

 

“There is only one cure for grey hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.” ― P.G. Wodehouse

 

1  1 1 1 1 1 drawingsofrembra00bell_0091

“When You Are Old”

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

W.B. Yeats

There is a path to even the tallest mountain.

http://stevemccurry.wordpress.com/2011/01/29/proverbs-and-poems-from-afghanistan/

1 1 1 1 1 1 challengeofmount00canauoft_0003

I want my life to be a mountain stream that rushes down wild flowered slopes through pine glades into green valleys, I do not want culverts to contain my force or cement to channel my flow, nothing to break my life’s course with roots, stones and sand. 


– Lowell McMullin 

http://www.gmd4.org/quotes.html

I am Psmith,” said the old Etonian reverently. “There is a preliminary P before the name. This, however, is silent. Like the tomb. Compare such words as ptarmigan, psalm, and phthisis. P.G. Wodehouse, Psmith, Journalist

 

1 1 1 1 1 1 britishbirds00huds_0317

THE PTARMIGAN IS STRANGE
AS STRANGE AS HE CAN BE
NEVER SITS ON PTELEPHONE POLES
OR ROOSTS UPON A PTREE
AND THE WAY HE PTAKES PTO SPELLING
IS THE STRANGEST THING PTO ME.

Anonymous

He that has satisfied his thirst turns his back on the well. Baltasar Gracian

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor02061543918

 

this tiny crack

in our lives

wind and rain strewn

stranded on the limen

that space between

water and sky

rain and sun

cold and heat

where we could

be on both sides of time

span beingness

like the unfinished arc

of a bridge

is closing

Susan Hawthorne

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/10/09/limen/

1 1 1 1 1 1 Fotor0206143918

Fairies love weathered terra cotta, Chinese jumprope, blowing bubbles, mockingbirds, and sidewalk chalk pictures.

http://www.fairychronicles.com/Fun-For-Fairies/Fairy-Mottos-Proverbs-Trivia.html

1 1 1 1 1 1 5childrenofotherd00moor_0045

 

Ideas are like soap bubbles. They can pop or float away so easily. Then they’re gone forever.

1 1 1 1 1 1 childrenofotherd00moor_0045

The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 2 January 1932

1 1 1 1 1 1 The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW - 1842 - 1954), Saturday 2 January 1932

 

 

“Agua!, cielos”, dijo un pato cuando volar ya no pudo

Water!, Oh Heavens!”, said a duck when it could no longer fly
This proverb can be woven into conversation, by way of exclamation, to highlight a situation where there seems to be no way out.
When a duck in the air realizes it´s no longer able to fly, its options are not many. The best it can hope for is water – to make a soft landing.

http://www.spanish-learning-corner.com/mexican-proverbs.html

1 1 1 1 1 1 2britishbirds00huds_0287

a gate wide open

moving forward with courage

toward the unknown

http://gabriellebryden.wordpress.com/

GABRIELLE BRYDEN

1 1 1 1 1 1 britishbirds00huds_02872

 

Well, fuck a duck.
― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape. Proverbs 19:5

aesopinrhymewith00tayliala_0008

 

“I’m simply saying that there is a way to be sane. I’m saying that you can get rid of all this insanity created by the past in you. Just by being a simple witness of your thought processes.

It is simply sitting silently, witnessing the thoughts, passing before you. Just witnessing, not interfering not even judging, because the moment you judge you have lost the pure witness. The moment you say “this is good, this is bad,” you have already jumped onto the thought process.

It takes a little time to create a gap between the witness and the mind. Once the gap is there, you are in for a great surprise, that you are not the mind, that you are the witness, a watcher.

And this process of watching is the very alchemy of real religion. Because as you become more and more deeply rooted in witnessing, thoughts start disappearing. You are, but the mind is utterly empty.

That’s the moment of enlightenment. That is the moment that you become for the first time an unconditioned, sane, really free human being.”

― Osho