Update: 10/22
John from Candle
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Salesman #1
Thinking about trying to make a few comics about a traveling salesman. Maybe something like Guy Noir. Here is a potential start for the strip.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Monday, June 30, 2014
Balloon
Well it isn't much of an entry but, in an effort to keep up the posts, I am sharing this paper craft balloon kit I made assembled this sunday. Not quite sure what to do with this thing. I am thinking of dropping it off of something high. Well see.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Dirge for Croatan
Some S.O.B. stole my house
Out on Lake Cherokee
If I hadn't loved that house so much
It wouldn't mean nothin to me
But you son of a **** I'll tell you what
I will not be deterred
I'll find you out and track you down
On that you have my word
Chorus
The Road goes ever onward
Under cloud and under star
but feet that wandering have gone
Turn back, to home afar
I don't predict the world will end a
And I don't presume it won't
And I don't pretend to give a damn
If it do or if it don't
Now I bet you got a raise this year
but that don't make it right
That view does not belong to you
That fireplace at night
Chorus
Now brother death and father time
Are almost loaded up
And they are headed for the borderline
In a stolen pick-up truck
For old acquaintance not forgot
For old house home no more
I wont' forgive and I can't forget
The year of 1 and 4
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Mother's Day Card
I also included a cup of coffee in this picture, as I would have served you one if I was at the house. Instead, I drank it. Hope it has been a good Mother's Day so far Mom.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Advice to Paterfamilia on A Sunday
Advice to Paterfamilia on A Sunday
Come blaggards and feebles
Those prone to the groan
For there's wise to get up
contained in this pome
There's a stick for a dog
and some carrots for hares
and for slackin two-leggers
some la-z-boy chairs
I've got pickles and peanuts
Pretzels and Pop
Be ye walkin by,
please make for to stop
I'm prepared to be preaching
pre-prone to down-talk
Yes the pensivest salesman
is settin up shop
The first of me lessons
Is quit tappin yer leg
Quit jugglin nothin
and spoilin' the bed
The second is this:
forget of the first
and if tappin's yer like
then be quenchin' yer thirst
The third is a fourth
of the fifth out of six
put cream in yer coffee
tornade with a stick
The fourth is a paper
wrapped yellow and sag,
Read up with the Coff
Read down with a Bag.
The fifth is four times
that which was the third
post coffee-with-cream
Ye must watch-up the birds
Having watched all the birds
Of the seed takes their picks
dropping binocs in shelves
must scrabble to six
The sixth is a calling
some call a disease
The sixth is a work
For the Brothers to please
The Sixth is slapped up
tape stapley nailed
To a board in a ship
in a mind that's set sail
The Sixth is a something
like flowers or cheese
not strict-hard for working
but loose-goosed to please
The Sixth is a scribbly
dance of a tale
a treacle stream dribble
sent by the night mail
The Sixth is announced
from a wide and soft throne
It starts with a sentence
and ends with a groan
The sixth is a story
From a paw filled with might
for young cubs to wonder
about in the night.
Come blaggards and feebles
Those prone to the groan
For there's wise to get up
contained in this pome
There's a stick for a dog
and some carrots for hares
and for slackin two-leggers
some la-z-boy chairs
I've got pickles and peanuts
Pretzels and Pop
Be ye walkin by,
please make for to stop
I'm prepared to be preaching
pre-prone to down-talk
Yes the pensivest salesman
is settin up shop
The first of me lessons
Is quit tappin yer leg
Quit jugglin nothin
and spoilin' the bed
The second is this:
forget of the first
and if tappin's yer like
then be quenchin' yer thirst
The third is a fourth
of the fifth out of six
put cream in yer coffee
tornade with a stick
The fourth is a paper
wrapped yellow and sag,
Read up with the Coff
Read down with a Bag.
The fifth is four times
that which was the third
post coffee-with-cream
Ye must watch-up the birds
Having watched all the birds
Of the seed takes their picks
dropping binocs in shelves
must scrabble to six
The sixth is a calling
some call a disease
The sixth is a work
For the Brothers to please
The Sixth is slapped up
tape stapley nailed
To a board in a ship
in a mind that's set sail
The Sixth is a something
like flowers or cheese
not strict-hard for working
but loose-goosed to please
The Sixth is a scribbly
dance of a tale
a treacle stream dribble
sent by the night mail
The Sixth is announced
from a wide and soft throne
It starts with a sentence
and ends with a groan
The sixth is a story
From a paw filled with might
for young cubs to wonder
about in the night.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Let the Stories Burst Forth
There was once a young boy who listened and watched.
He lived in a full household, a busy town, a vibrant world.
The world was full of sights and sounds and the boy drank them in like a parched man gulping water from a cold spring.
The boy seldom spoke, and so words and images began to fill his head.
The boy kept the pictures and words inside, until he grew to be an average sized man, with a larger than average head.
And soon the man began to have children of his own.
And when it was time for bed, the children demanded he tell them stories.
So when it was dark and the children were sleepy and the man was tired, he let some of the words and pictures out.
They did not come out as they went in, for over time the sights and sounds interacted and they came back together in unpredictable ways.
Sometimes made up heroes served real-life queens, and made up animals dodged the real life threats that filled the river below.
And sometimes the animals were made of cardboard, and they raged through grassy plains.
Familiar faces and names, like Oprah and Ovaltine, took on unfamiliar behavior.
Even the people and moments of his past took on new lives that were larger than life.
Ships sailed to uncharted waters.
Ancient ceremonies conferred tribal honors.
And icy lakes became the backdrop for great deeds.
For many years, the stories flowed – sometimes repeating again and again – and yet different each time.
And only when all the children were fully grown and had homes of their own, did the stories stop.
And at night, the man was silent.
And the house was silent.
And again he listened and watched.
And again his head filled to bursting – sometimes to aching.
And sometimes, just before he fell asleep, he could feel their pressure, fighting to be free.
As though the beings that inhabited this imaginary world were no longer content to remain captive.
As with all prisoners, once they had tasted freedom, they demanded release.
And the man yearned to emancipate them.
He longed to let the stories burst forth, unbridled by any confinement.
And someday they will.
He lived in a full household, a busy town, a vibrant world.
The world was full of sights and sounds and the boy drank them in like a parched man gulping water from a cold spring.
The boy seldom spoke, and so words and images began to fill his head.
The boy kept the pictures and words inside, until he grew to be an average sized man, with a larger than average head.
And soon the man began to have children of his own.
And when it was time for bed, the children demanded he tell them stories.
So when it was dark and the children were sleepy and the man was tired, he let some of the words and pictures out.
They did not come out as they went in, for over time the sights and sounds interacted and they came back together in unpredictable ways.
Sometimes made up heroes served real-life queens, and made up animals dodged the real life threats that filled the river below.
And sometimes the animals were made of cardboard, and they raged through grassy plains.
Familiar faces and names, like Oprah and Ovaltine, took on unfamiliar behavior.
Even the people and moments of his past took on new lives that were larger than life.
Ships sailed to uncharted waters.
Ancient ceremonies conferred tribal honors.
And icy lakes became the backdrop for great deeds.
For many years, the stories flowed – sometimes repeating again and again – and yet different each time.
And only when all the children were fully grown and had homes of their own, did the stories stop.
And at night, the man was silent.
And the house was silent.
And again he listened and watched.
And again his head filled to bursting – sometimes to aching.
And sometimes, just before he fell asleep, he could feel their pressure, fighting to be free.
As though the beings that inhabited this imaginary world were no longer content to remain captive.
As with all prisoners, once they had tasted freedom, they demanded release.
And the man yearned to emancipate them.
He longed to let the stories burst forth, unbridled by any confinement.
And someday they will.
Sunlit Days
this morning as I sat at home
i felt the world was mine alone
each meadow crafted for my sight
for my eyes only, each moonlight
as turtles walk along the creek
i realize it's me they seek
wild deer and turkey take a chance
to come nearby for just one glance
the daffodils are blooming now
and winds have warmed that will allow
each blade of grass to rise to me
and leaves reach down from every tree
and when I wish for warmer days
then brighter will the sunlight blaze
and winter, though it freezes me
is here because it pleases me
i sing my song for all the land
for I alone each day command
and happiness to all conveys
as I imagine sunlit days
i felt the world was mine alone
each meadow crafted for my sight
for my eyes only, each moonlight
as turtles walk along the creek
i realize it's me they seek
wild deer and turkey take a chance
to come nearby for just one glance
the daffodils are blooming now
and winds have warmed that will allow
each blade of grass to rise to me
and leaves reach down from every tree
and when I wish for warmer days
then brighter will the sunlight blaze
and winter, though it freezes me
is here because it pleases me
i sing my song for all the land
for I alone each day command
and happiness to all conveys
as I imagine sunlit days
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Sunday Poem
Resume
What pays the bills
needs to be filled
but worthless,
can't contain a thing?
What carries weight
what proves we're great
but frail and mute
is a point, moot?
What draws the blood
and, sucking, floods
our lives with endless
vain pursuit?
What is this crap?
A 2D trap?
All life inside
a one page map?
As pants the heart
for cooling streams
So seethes the soul
at endless reams
of bullet points
and years and dreams
Condensed to seem
and not to mean.
What pays the bills
needs to be filled
but worthless,
can't contain a thing?
What carries weight
what proves we're great
but frail and mute
is a point, moot?
What draws the blood
and, sucking, floods
our lives with endless
vain pursuit?
What is this crap?
A 2D trap?
All life inside
a one page map?
As pants the heart
for cooling streams
So seethes the soul
at endless reams
of bullet points
and years and dreams
Condensed to seem
and not to mean.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
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