[NicknamedBob]

I was thinking of that one earlier, in regard to that young lad in England said to be a prodigy in watercolor painting.

Sometimes it's hard to understand what the heck I'm talking about, until you get far enough along to realize the point I'm making. This one illustrates that:

As Long As I Live

In one of my first adventures,
I traveled as a fox,
I then became a cat or two,
(I think outside the box!)

Of course, back in my caveman days,
So much I did not know!
The warm inviting firelight,
The cold, warmth-drinking snow.

As Robin Hood, my Merry Men,
Could entertain me well,
In hidden bowers of the wood,
Where I and they did dwell.

I didn’t like the dying,
But that’s a part of life.
You take the bitter and the sweet,
And struggle with the strife,

For this is why you’re living,
Here in the folded lands,
The flat landscape that opens up,
Uncovered by your hands.

Transferring wisdom through those funnels,
You call eyes into your head,
To give you memories of past lives,
As gifts of what you’ve read.

For now the thousand lives I’ve led,
Inure me to some pain,
Those joyous friends I will not see,
Unless I read again,

Yet still they wait, on dusty shelves,
For other eyes than mine,
Like goblets for the next to taste,
Their own first sips of wine.

NicknamedBob . . . . . June 26, 2008

[Lady Jag]

I love the feeling of that.

Sorry to say I have to hit the hay. My eyeslids have gone on strike.

Rest well.

[Lady Jag]

I really connect with this one -

As Long As I Live

In one of my first adventures, I traveled as a fox, I then became a cat or two, (I think outside the box!) Of course, back in my caveman days, So much I did not know! The warm inviting firelight, The cold, warmth-drinking snow. As Robin Hood, my Merry Men, Could entertain me well, In hidden bowers of the wood, Where I and they did dwell. I didn’t like the dying, But that’s a part of life. You take the bitter and the sweet, And struggle with the strife, For this is why you’re living, Here in the folded lands, The flat landscape that opens up, Uncovered by your hands. Transferring wisdom through those funnels, You call eyes into your head, To give you memories of past lives, As gifts of what you’ve read. For now the thousand lives I’ve led, Inure me to some pain, Those joyous friends I will not see, Unless I read again, Yet still they wait, on dusty shelves, For other eyes than mine, Like goblets for the next to taste, Their own first sips of wine. NicknamedBob . . . . . June 26, 2008