grey ghosts move through empty, dark streets
Three miles’ walk from my door
I like this misty look carved out of a drop of rain in the morning fog. Silver plated on curbs and ship’s ropes around. Covers with a white satin curtain a summer that never came. Summer. Summer. Summer. It doesn’t sink into my shoes. It doesn’t wet my pants’ bottoms. It doesn’t collect the dust of the road into the tight knitting of the t-shirt fabric. Everything is different than previously, different than before. Enjoy the rain.
Our Mayor is a highly respected, responsible and honest person. Alternatively, he could simply be certified by someone else, but everyone knows all about his honesty. This is an example of a typical, honest person who buys from an antiques merchant. You can always ask your constable on Sunday after church.
“I love you, little maid,”
Said the Sunbeam to the Shade,
As all day long she shrank away before him;
But at twilight, ere he died,
She was weeping at his side;
And he felt her tresses softly trailing o’er him.
John. B. Tabb
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.
I Am the People, the Mob
From you have I been absent in the spring,
April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
A lot is going on and more is going on.
Days pass quietly and Old Year closes slowly – And a New, Wonderful Year soon knocks on our doors.
These are a few handfuls of pre-Christmas time on a sunny day yesterday.
Merry Christmas to everyone somewhere else.
May the Spirit of Good Christmas be among you.
Bric-à-brac or bric-a-brac (origin French), first used in the Victorian era, refers to lesser objets d’art forming collections of curios, such as elaborately decorated teacups and small vases, compositions of feathers or wax flowers under glass domes, decorated eggshells, porcelain figurines, painted miniatures or photographs in stand-up frames, and so on.
In middle-class homes bric-à-brac was used as ornament on mantelpieces, tables, and shelves, or was displayed in curio cabinets: sometimes these cabinets have glass doors to display the items within while protecting them from dust. Today, “bric-à-brac” refers to a selection of items of modest value, often sold in street markets and charity shops, and may be more commonly known in colloquial English as “knick knacks.”
The fair wind failed. The wind dropped. Winds were unfavourable
straightaway. The favourable wind dropped and they were beset by
storms so that they made little progress. Then the wind dropped and
they were beset by winds from the north and fog; for many days they
did not know where they were sailing. The fair wind failed and they
wholly lost their reckoning. They did not know from what direction.
Driven here and there. The fog was so dense that they lost all sense
of direction and lost their course at sea. There was much fog and the
winds were light and unfavourable. They drifted far and wide on the
high sea. Most of those on board completely lost their reckoning.
The crew had no idea in which direction they were steering. A thick
fog which did not lift for days. The ship was driven off course to
land. They were tossed about at sea for a long time and failed to
reach their destination. We embarked and sailed but a fog so thick
covered us that we could scarcely see the prow of the
by Caroline Bergvall
I write a photographic journal every day. My thoughts are thrown at You between the beach and the crowded Union Street. I love you for every step I take with You and for each day. For putting my wings together with Yours in our small bedroom. For the scent of scrambled eggs and Your little steps on the wooden floor in the morning.
I love you because You are.
I love You and We are.