The Cricket's Last Concerto

  There was once a cricket

who listened and marvelled

at the music it heard from afar;

it jumped forth from the thicket,

and followed the sound,

like a wise-man and the star.

 

It came to a garage,

and making itself small, it snuck inside.

Was it a dream? Heavens, no! And lo!

there was a boy playing the piano. 

It observed and listened unseen,

serenaded by the music that played;

and the cricket, thus so inspired by song,

jumped forth from hiding and sang along.

 

They harmonized, he played,

the cricket sang; like an opera, 

doomed to end with a bang.

And when the final-notes, they faded, thus departed,

the cricket, ended it's part.

And when the boy saw it at his feet, chirping it's last bit,

he frowned, and stepped on it.

Based off true events.

The Waters of Aslan's Country

    This painting was done by me and my sister at the request of my aunt and uncle. It was a heavy reminder of how much me and my sister have changed artistically since she taught me all those years ago. While I wished to linger on the details of the crest of every wave, my sister splashed the canvas with whatever she felt was right and spread it around with just as much purpose (or so I deemed and hoped).

    This was also my first finished acrylic painting, which means that its value will only increase as more are added to my collection. And one day, I'll see it again in person; it will be hanging on the wall at Viola's and Tobi's house, and I will be holding a cup of tea in one hand and a nice sandwich in the other, looking at it again for the first time since I'd painted it. The sandwich will have a good layer of butter, some nice cheese, with salted cucumbers, and some ham.

 

 For Tobi and Viola, October 2021

At the Gates of Redwall

The Abbey of Redwall is a safe-haven for critters everywhere. It was built from red sandstone long ago, and there is has stood since. Inside lie friends, food, a cozy fire, and tales waiting to be told by any well-travelled visitor or elder.

    Many Redwallers have ventured off to faraway lands, and returned to Redwall after their many adventures. I imagined one such lonely warrior walking down a road, that led through Mossflower wood, and up to the gate. His pack, though empty of any good food since yesterday, lies heavy on his shoulders; his cloak is dusty from all the walking; his sandals are worn, and wet from wading through that stream; but his love for home drives him on. This piece is called 'On the Road to Redwall.'

 

Here are the gates into Redwall, surrounded by Mossflower woods.

 

I imagined the gates being battered and old, after keeping out Redwall's enemies for so long. Many have wished and tried to conquer Redwall and end the peace.

But I also imagined the gates being heavy, sturdy, and impenetrable, always standing to protect the good creatures of Mossflower wood. 

In my opinion, the Redwall Saga are classic tales, and I almost wish I had discovered them sooner, so I could have enjoyed reading them before I turned my attention to larger, much fatter books. But for now, I look forward to going back and reading my favourites from the series.

 

Half-Eared Harold Who Loves to Fly

From time to time again, Harold's airplane breaks. But I always fix it so he can go flying again.

 

 

Yes, Harold loves to fly. In fact, I don't think he's ever left the cockpit. Even when his airplane is broken, he sits there in anticipation of when he can take off once more.

    Yes, Harold is a special rabbit. I've always joked that he only listens half the time; though he does only have one ear when it comes to conversation. I'd imagine his head is always somewhere in the clouds, flying loops and barreling off somewhere into some new horizon.

My sister bought Harold at some store or other so he could grace my shelf with his ever-flying presence, him being the very picture of wanderlust cast into fragile glass.

    And that is why, alas, (while I can fix his airplane) I cannot fix his missing ear. It's the way I got him. But the only voice a rabbit like Harold really wants to listen to is that of the wind.

   I've always meant to draw Harold, and now I have him in my sketchbook as well as on my shelf. Soon, if I find the time, I'll fix his airplane again, so that he can go off and break it once more.

The Great, the Charitable, the Humble, the Genius, Mr. Toad

 As well as adventurous, a wise, a well-dressed, a not-the-shape-of-a-fat-washerwoman, a patriotic and law-abiding citizen, is that Mr. Toad. 

 "The World has held great Heroes,

As history books have showed;

But never a name to go down to fame

Compared with that of Toad!"

(The Wind in the Willows, Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad, pg.180.).

The Professor's Door

 I painted this, once, a long time ago. I felt it did not capture the feeling that I wanted, and so I tried painting it again.

    A hedgehog makes his way to Joe's house in a blizzard, struggling to waddle through the frozen snow and brace himself against a frenzy wind that blows wild in his face, biting his nose and paws. His scarf is wet and he wishes he'd worn gloves. 

    He eventually finds the bright door standing amidst the mixing black of night and white of bitter snow, and hurries forth with renewed spirits. He is expected by Woe, who ushers him inside and hurriedly puts him in a cozy chair in front of a fire to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate at hand. Woe returns from the kitchen with a tray of cookies and a helper.

 

       Here they are, gathered in front of a fire, the cold forgotten.

Hot Chocolate

 

 

 

In the wintertime, the smell of coffee and hot chocolate sifts through every room of the Professor's house, bringing out critters who warm themselves around the temporarily abandoned mugs and stuff themselves with marshmallows.

Dulce Domum

I had seen a painting of huddled buildings caught in a time of wintery wonder. The vividness of which I could imagine Mole and Rat walking down the street that winded between them was so inspiring that I decided I had to put it in my own sketchbook.

 

    In particular, it reminded me of Chapter 5, in which Mole and Rat go on a long stroll out on the countryside and come across a small village just as it begins to get dark. "The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through casements into the dark world without" (The Wind in the Willows, Chapter 5: Dulce Domum, pg.81.).

 It remained unfinished in my sketchbook for some days, during which Christmas and New Years passed me by.

  

 I kept painting on it, though, and slowly it took the form I had first imagined.

 

Night and snow slowly cover the little village. The two friends walk along between the buildings, watching as the light from the windows grows brighter as everything else grows darker around them.

 

 When I first read Wind in the Willows, I found flipping between pages created a feeling I cannot quite explain in words. The sentences wrapped around the artwork was like a window on it's own, letting us, the readers, look into their world much like they look through the glowing windows of every house. Every page feels full and complete. It is a feeling I hope to one day create in readers as they flip through the pages of my own stories.

A Lazy Afternoon at Pete's

I don't remember where the idea came from, or how it began, or the moment I finally signed the drawing at the bottom, but A Lazy Afternoon with Pete has always been a favourite of mine to flip back to.

 

Pete's stranded caravan, surrounded by his many scattered belongings.

 

Woe sometimes spends his afternoon with his dear friend Pete the spider. He is served cup of tea after cup of tea, while Pete excitedly tells the stories about his many adventures in the great big world.

Woe would tell you that the best thing about Pete's house is that there was always a new story to hear with another cup of tea.

Here they are caught in a single glorious and lazy moment in time, simply enjoying each other's company.

Two is Twice as Better

There once was a Mitzu, who lived in Nat’s shoe.

He had white fur, and his feet were covered in poo.

He loved to nap and snore through the entire day;

but then at night he liked to sing and play.

He’d sing concertos and sopranos, for people to hear and rejoice.

For the world to heed and cry at his most marvellous voice.

Crowds would gather to listen, cats would gaze up in stupefaction;

and even the sight of Mitzu would get such a reaction.

Mitzu, you see, was a cat so very white.

His fur coat would shine brighter yet in the spotlight.

Dazing you with his majesty, people have and will,

seen him and cried ‘are you an angel?’

Mitzu was a talented cat. He can be a rabbit, mouse or cat.

Though no matter what he is, he’s always fat. (and in that,

I mean he was stuffed with talent.)

So Mitzu will go down in legend, you see.

As the grandest, greatest, talentesticiest cat, mouse, rabbit in history.

 

Tante Willabee Takes the Cake

 

 

"Tante Willabee, to put it lightly, did not travel light. In fact, even when she was not traveling, she was not very light. Tante Willabee loved frosted cake, especially the extra frosted kind." (Woe's Many Meetings, Professor Joe.)

 

 

Depicted here is Tante Willabee, standing as if in a dream before a slice of tea-time cake. The unfortunate soul who left it unattended will soon return only to find their plate empty.

Midnight Meetings

A few years ago, I began a series called Midnight Meetings. Since then, I have continued to follow this fox in my drawings, and learnt more about him with each piece. I tried putting his story down on a page, but couldn't get it right. After many attempts, I have now completed the poem. Here is the art piece that finally told me what this sly fox was up to.

 Poem of Winter

This scene could begin in many ways;
It could open with a character, or a sunset of purple and pink clouds like flowers;
But rightfully this scene can only begin with the golden evening hours.

Fall crowds the land like a moth to a lamp, and on this particular drear grey eve,
though it had been a dry summer, the ground was rather damp.

It already had been a cloudy day, dark as would suffice, and after a hearty supper, you decide, an evening walk would be rather nice.

You put on your boots and you grab your hat,
and you’ll need an umbrella, so you also nab that.

The muddy path before your walking feet had led,
And you are surrounded by the evening mist, hiding the path ahead.

The mud under your feet squelches,
and when you lift your boots the ground belches.

You continue to wander, with your supper at adjourn,
When suddenly you think, you must have taken a wrong turn.

The countryside is hidden behind a veil so foggy,
and in your boots your socks have begun to get uncomfortably soggy.

The air seems fresher, you think, like breathing in water when ones throat is dry.
And the mist seems to lift around you, revealing a settlement close by.

The houses are built of wood, ridged to the touch;
All different sizes and colours, brown, red, white and such.

There is a rushing and a bustling in the distance, and a scurry of sorts,
These are the Village Folk, always busy, always queer;
And as you get near, they disappear.

Always busy are they, preparing and running,
Because the Winter was coming.

The village takes the seasons quite seriously here.
Decorating every single year.

In the spring, they decorate with blossoms and seeds,
And in the summer they have lots of green and shade from the sun;
in the fall the village is full of red, yellow and brown.
In the winter they cover their homes with a blanket of white;
Yes, the village was always a beautiful sight.

The Village Folk are always busy here, you see-
So unnecessary visitors that come are considered distractions, all would agree.

Trudging along you come, a visitor here,
and the Village Folk look to see, turning their ear;
then they scurry to hide, running off inside.

The visitor stomps on, on through the path,
And onto the ground, you stomp with what seems all your wrath.

But as the sound of your steps grow far away,
and had you stayed behind,
you’d find,
the Village Folk continue on their way, working on their display.

Suddenly, the breeze grows and the clouds blow down with all their might,
And they gave the whole Village a very big fright.
The wind grows to a mighty gust, taking aloft the entire village’s roofs far into the sky;
almost stealing your hat with it, though it surely did try.

The Village Folk run and scurry, into their homes they hurry.
But as the wind slows, with one last sigh, a tiny flake comes flying by,
down from the sky.
It lands tickling on the tip of your nose, melting at your skin,
and you pause and look up, with a happy grin.

The snowflake is joined by more, all flying, gliding, crystals of ice, and as you scurry home,
the land is covered in snow, all flat and nice.

In the morning you’ll find, the neighbourhood covered in a blanket so grand,
piled up and spread right over the land.

Winter has come, snowflakes, hot chocolate, and happiness it does bring;
and the village goes to sleep, awaiting to awake in the spring.

 

 

The Many Signs of Fall

The Many Signs of Fall

As the Autumn begins, and the Fall colors start to glow,

  The fallen leaves from the trees crunch underfoot below.

 

 

 

 

The Age of One

My brother's beloved cat has survived one year! And, to celebrate, I took our favorite picture of him snoozing and drew it. Happy birthday Mitzu!

Between the Pages of a Book

 

 

As the day slowly comes to its end, and the house begins to sleep, the mice prepare for the most pleasant of evening events; story time. They gather around, and listen to tales, stories come alive, bursting from Between the Pages of a Book. 

The Cookie Maneuver

As the sun shines through the kitchen window, mice of a mischievous sort come and perform a series of complicated tricks which they have plotted time and time again. They climb on top of each other to reach the cookie jar and soon manage to topple the lid. This scheme has been named The Cookie Maneuver. Joe, the unfortunate professor who lives in this home, notices the supply of cookies constantly vanishing, leaving in their place only a trail of scattered crumbs, and the smell of mischief in the air.

Midnight Meetings

  I am starting something new. From now on I'll be working on a series of drawings, and this post is the beginning of one I am calling Midnight Meetings. 

It features a fox who hunts a rather sneaky rabbit.  So sneaky in fact, he is barely even visible in this picture. 

I Remember

  Today is the day to remember all the soldiers that fought for our freedom. The main character of my collection Woosly Woe, adjusts his poppy while looking into the mirror. He remembers the soldiers that sacrificed their lives for their country. Do you?