I'm a published author/artist but tend to think of myself as a doodler\dabbler. I've sailed the NW Passage & wrote & illustrated a book, ARCTIC ODYSSEY. Currently, I live on 50 semi wilderness acres & see lots of wild critters in the yard.
For those of you who have a starry outlook or hooked on stargazing, Cancer is one of the medium-sized constellations, which is bordered by Gemini on the west and Leo on the east. Although many of Cancer’s stars are rather dim, that doesn’t mean Cancerians are dim-witted, quite the contrary; they tend to be highly intelligent.
Damsel, one summer eve, did I desire, Thy red, coquettish lips and sparkly eyes To kiss and pierce my heart with burning fire,
OH, THOSE GEMINI'S!
Astrology and astronomy go together like Pollux and Castor: The Great Twins. Greek mythology claims that Zeus, the god of sky and thunder and also a dirty old man, seduced Tyndareus’ wife, Leda, who gave birth to their son Pollux. Castor was also born to Leda but because he was the son of the king of Sparta, he was unfortunately a lowly mortal. When Castor eventually died, because Pollux was so brokenhearted, he begged Zeus to give his brother immortality, which he did. He united them together forever and on a clear night, you can see them glowing in the heavens amidst the Gemini constellation in the northern celestial hemisphere.
I’m working late if a person can call it work because I love what I do. Not everyone has that luxury, they have to do whatever it takes to keep the wolf from the door. It’s thundering and raining outside but I’ve got the music cranked so loud all I can hear is Steppenwolf’s 'Born to be Wild' blasting through my sign shop. I don’t letter many signs. I’m known more for pinstriping and airbrushing graphics on vehicles, motorcycles being my favorite. I don’t know what it is but when I’m laying a thin stripe of enamel paint on a motorcycle gas tank, that long narrow brush almost feels like my finger tracing the contours of a woman’s big breast, gets me downright excited. And that’s what I’m doing right now, finishing up pinstriping a flame job on a Harley Davidson gas tank. Besides the blaring music, I’m also enjoying a bottle of cold beer. Not sure how many I’ve had since I started working on the gas tank today but judging by the empties lying around, I’d say this is probably about a fifteen or sixteen beer job. I’ve been told I have a drinking problem but as odd as it seems, as drunk as I get, my hand is still as steady as a rock and what’s really amazing and I have no idea why, I don’t get hangovers. Feel a little fuzzy the next day, that’s all, until I pop the cap on a bottle of brew and knock it back.
An old man sat on a bench feeding a flock of pigeons that had gathered at his feet. As he looked at the hungry birds scurrying around on the grass, their heads bobbing up and down as they pecked at the dried breadcrumbs, he noticed a boy looking at him. At first, he thought nothing of it but then, after a little closer observation, realized that the inquisitive boy reminded him of himself when he was around the age of ten. Times were tough then. The Second World War was still in progress and living in the small town of Penarth, Wales, nestled on the northwestern shores of Bristol Channel, the explosions of the Germans bombing Cardiff, only a short distance away, could often be heard.
Colored With Pride
Color me with sunshine On a hot summer day Warmth so glorious and fine Don’t omit a single ray And color me with dust
OH THOSE 70’S
Take me back to the 70’s, the era of beads, flowers, free-love, hippy-dippy hippies and let us not forget free love. “Make love not war” was the rally cry against the war in Viet Nam where a lot of young men died needlessly for “the man”. Although the awareness of antiestablishment was raised and fashion made a statement or no statement back then, it didn’t really matter because everything was cool man. Dudes had long hair, fu Manchu mustaches and some beards were as long as Methuselah’s. Many of the chicks resembled California blondes, long straight locks hanging down their backs that swished across their heart-shaped derrieres with every step, even though many of them would have looked sensational in a tattered flour sack.
The sea was wet. The sea was silent. The sea was as flat as a plate of piss and almost as yellow from the scorching sun staring down at the tiny dinghy I was lying in, dying in, thirsting for a glass of water. The only time any movement occurred on the sea was when I changed positions. As the dinghy rocked, the hungry waves' watery lips slurped, sucked and licked their way along the keel as if awaiting a feast and I was the main course. Salt water sloshed, slid and slithered inside the bottom of the boat like a slinking snake caught in the open with no where to hide. My eyes burned, my skin burned, and my mind burned.