Two Birds on a Wire

It's a picture of a song by He Is We.

Yes. Crayons were my medium.

Self Portrait

My favorites are the band-aid and the hoodie. 

Happy Dresser

My dresser is happy now.

It used to be sad.

Poppies

My brother told me to draw a picture for him and his wife.

Hope you like flowers, Jimmy.

Painted Picket Fence

A gal from church hired me to paint a little picket fence for an indoor decoration.

 She asked me to do a few with no bird houses, just vines.

Sarah M. helped me paint a bunch of them.

There were fourteen all together. These are just a few. 

Smart Phones

The waitress showed them to their table and the baby in his car seat was put on a chair. The waitress smiled at their two-year-old and handed him a coloring page and two crayons. The little boy colored occasionally as the evening marched on. The waitress came and went at intervals as they ordered and ate... But this is what I saw.
He took a phone out of his pocket and set it on the table before he sat down. She ordered and then discreetly answered a text while her husband decided what he and their son would eat. His phone vibrated quietly against a water glass just as the waitress brought their food; his wife reached across the table to their little boy and moved the paper and crayons so there was room for his food. The waitress was out of earshot when he looked up to thank her. She didn’t hear him. Later on, the baby fussed so his mom fixed him a bottle of formula and held it in his mouth. Her phone vibrated again; she picked it up while still feeding the baby with her other hand.

 

The family didn’t have one conversation all evening.

 

She didn’t look her baby in the eye.

 

He didn’t smile at his son once.

And we pretend not to understand why that couple has a 50% chance of divorce and those precious little boys a 40% chance of trying drugs in high school.


~sigh~

Horatius ~by Thomas Babington Macaulay

This is really looooooong, but worth reading, at least I thought so.  It's my favoritest.  ~Grace

Lars Posena of Clusium,

By the nine gods he swore

That the great house of Tarquin

Should suffer wrong no more.

By the nine gods he swore it,

And named a trysting day,

And bade his messengers ride forth,

East and west and south and north,

To summon his array.

East and west and south and north

The messengers ride fast,

And tower and town and cottage

Have heard the trumpet’s blast.

The horsemen and the footmen

Are pouring in amain

From many stately market-place,

From many a fruitful plain;

And now hath every city

Sent up her tail of men;

The foot are fourscore thousand

The horse are thousands ten.

Before the gates of Sutrium

Is met the great array,

A proud man was Lars Porsena

Upon the trysting day.

But by the yellow Tiber

Was tumult and affright:

From all the spacious champaign

To Rome men took their flight.

A mile around the city,

The throng stopped up the ways;

A fearful sight it was to see

Through two long nights and days.

Now from the rock Tarpeian,

Could the wan burghers spy

The line of blazing villages

Red in the midnight sky.

The Fathers of the City,

They sat all night and day

For every hour some horseman came

With tidings of dismay.

They held a council standing

Before the river-gate;

Short time was there, ye well may guess,

For musing or debate.

Outspake the Consul roundly:

“The bridge must straight go down;

For since Janiculum is lost

Naught else can save the town.”

Just then a scout came flying,

All wild with hast and fear:

“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul;

Lars Porsena id here.”

On the low hills to westward

The Consul fixed his eye,

And saw the swarthy storm of dust

 Rise fast along the sky.

And nearer, fast and nearer,

Doth the red whirlwind come;

And louder still and still more loud,

From underneath that rolling cloud,

Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud,

The trampling and the hum.

And plainly and more plainly

Now through the gloom appears,

Far to left and far to right,

In broken gleams of dark-blue light,

The long array on helmets bright,

The long array of spears.

But the Consul’s brow was sad,

And the Consul’s speech was low,

And darkly looked he at the wall,

And darkly at the foe:

“Their van will be upon us

Before the bridge goes down;

And if they once may win the bridge

What hope to save the town?”

Then outspake brave Horatius.

The captain of the gate:

“To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds

For the ashes of his fathers

And the temples of his gods?

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play,-

In yon straight path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me?”

Then outspake Spurius Lartius,-

A Ramnian proud was he:

“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,

And keep the bridge with thee.”

And outspake strong Herminius,-

Of Titan blood was he:

“I will abide on thy left side,

And keep the bridge with thee.”

“Horatius,” Quoth the Consul,

“As thou sayest, so let it be.”

And straight against that great array,

Forth went the dauntless Three.

Now, while the Three were tightening

Their harness on their backs,

The Consul was the foremost man

To take in hand an axe;

And Fathers mixed with Commons

Seized hatched, bar, and crow,

And smote upon the planks above,

And loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army,

Right glorious to behold,

Came flashing back the noonday light,

Rank behind rank, like surges bright

Of a broad sea of gold.

Four hundred trumpets sounded

A peal of warlike glee,

As that great host, with measured tread,

And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,

Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head,

Where stood the dauntless Three.

The three stood calm and silent,

And looked upon the foes,

And a great shout of laughter

From all the vanguard rose;

And forth three chiefs came spurring

Before that mighty mass;

To earth they sprang, their shields, and flew

To win the narrow pass.

Aunus, from green Tifernum,

Lord of the hill of vines;

And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves

Sicken in Ilca’s mines;

And Picus, long to Clusium

Vassal in peace and war.

Who led the fight his Umbrian powers

From that grey crag where, girt with towers,

The fortress on Nequinum towers

O’er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus

Into the stream beneath;

Herminius struck at Seius,

And clove him to the teeth;

At Picus brave Horatius

Darted one fiery thrust,

And the proud Umbrain’s gilded arms

Clashed in the bloody dust.

But now no sound on laughter

Was heard amongst the foes.

A wild and wrathful clamor

From all the vanguard rose.

Six spears’ lengths from the entrance

halted that mighty mass,

and for a space no man came forth

To win the narrow pass.

But hark! the cry is Astur:

And lo! the ranks divide;

And the great lord of Luna

Comes with his stately stride.

Upon his ample shoulders

Clangs loud the fourfold shield,

And in his hand he shakes the brand

Which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romsnd,

A smile serene and high;

He eyed the flinching Tuscans.

And scorn was in his eye.

Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter

Stand savagely at bay;

But will ye dare to follow,

If Astur clears the way?”

Then, whirling up his broadsword

With both hands to the height,

He rushed against Horatius,

And smote with all his might,

With shield and blade Horatius

Right deftly turned the blow,

The blow, though turned, came yet to nigh;

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh.

The Tuscans raised a joyful cry

To see the red blood flow.

He reeled, and on Herminius

He leaned one breathing- space,

Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,

Sprang right at Astur’s face.

So fierce a thrust he sped,

The good sword stood a handbreadth out

Behind the Tuscan’s head.

And the great lord of Luna

Fell at that deadly stroke,

As falls on Mount Acernus

A thunder-smitten oak.

Far o’er the crashing forest

The giant arms lie spread;

And the pale augurs, muttering low,

Gaze on the blasted head.

On Astur’s throat Horatius

Right firmly pressed his heel,

And thrice and four times tugged amain,

Ere he wrenched out the steel.

“And see,” he cried, “the welcome,

Fair guests, that waits you here!

What noble Lucumo comes next 

To taste our Roman cheer?”

But meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been applied,

And now the bridge hangs tottering

Above the boiling tide.

“Come back, come back, Horatius!”

Loud cried the fathers all;

“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!

Back, ere the ruin fall!”

Back darted Spurius Lartius;

Herminius darted back;

And as they passed, beneath their feet

They felt the timbers crack;

But when they turned their faces,

And on the further shore

Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have crossed once more.

But with a crash like thunder,

Fell every loosened beam,

And, like a dam, the mighty wreck

Lay right athwart the stream;

And a long shout of triumph

Rose from the walls of Rome,

As to the highest turret-tops

Was splashed the yellow foam.

Alone stood brave Horatius,

But constant still in mind,-

Thrice thirty thousand foes before,

And the broad flood behind.

“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,

With a smile on his paleface;

“Now yield thee to our grace!”

Round turned he, as not deigning

Those craven ranks to see;

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,

To Sextus naught spake he;

But he saw on Palatinus

The shite porch of his home;

And he spake to the noble river

That rolls by the towers of Rome:

“O Tiber! Father Tiber!

To whom the Romans pray

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,

Take thou in charge this day!”

So he spake, and speaking, sheathed

The good sword by his side,

And, with his harness in his back,

Plunged headlong in the tide.

No sound of joy or sorrow

Was heard from either bank,

But friends and foes in dumb surprise,

With parted lips and straining eyes,

Stood gazing where he sank;

And when above the surges

They saw his crest appear,

All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,

And even the ranks of Tuscany

Could scarce forbear to cheer.

But fiercely ran the current,

Swollen high by months of rain,

And fast his blood was flowing;

And heavy with his armor,

And spent with changing blows;

And oft they thought him sinking,

But still again he rose.

And now he feels the bottom;-

Now on dry earth he stands;

Now round him throng the Fathers

To press his gory hands.

And, now, with shouts and clapping,

And noise on weeping loud,

He enters through the River Gate,

Borne by the joyous croud.