Monthly Archives: March 2013

Fridays with Frost


I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth —
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth —
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?–
If design govern in a thing so small. 

Robert Frost


Fridays with Frost

A day late and a dollar short, but here is this weeks installment – in honor of my impatience for the impending spring:


Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb, 
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum 
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen! 

Robert Frost


Happy Birthday Theodor Giesel!!

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities.
Dr. Seuss

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it, but Dr. Seuss is my all time favorite author. Over the years some have said that it’s silly that as an adult this guy remains my favorite, yet who cannot learn a lesson from this master. His talent is without scope. Both fun and serious, his books allow for life lessons under the guise of a child-like imagination. While there are other authors that I both love and envy, this man was the all time best!

…And despite the sometimes criticism that I receive, I know that I am not alone. So go on now, pick out your favorite and read it again. It won’t take long.

Fridays with Frost

Come In

As I came to the edge of the woods, 
Thrush music — hark! 
Now if it was dusk outside, 
Inside it was dark. 

Too dark in the woods for a bird 
By sleight of wing 
To better its perch for the night, 
Though it still could sing. 

The last of the light of the sun 
That had died in the west 
Still lived for one song more 
In a thrush’s breast. 

Far in the pillared dark 
Thrush music went — 
Almost like a call to come in 
To the dark and lament. 

But no, I was out for stars; 
I would not come in. 
I meant not even if asked; 
And I hadn’t been. 

Robert Frost