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.

What Happened During My Walk

 One day I felt so crammed, the words so forced between my ears,
It felt like my head was in a whir; my vision felt a-blur, a-stir with thoughts that did not come out onto the page, how-ever much I tried, the words stayed inside my head and there they laid, biding in my mind.
I peeked out the window. It was a nice spring day. It was without wind or rain: so I went outside and walked along the lane, taking any further attempts of writing to be in vain.
I looked for the words in the clouds. But they gave me none. The sky was filled with those clouds, and with a slight warm breeze. But they gave me no words that day, so I continued on my way, taking in nature’s display.
I looked across the meadow, though which my path had led, and saw this little red cottage out by the farmstead.
‘My! What a cute little house.’ I thought, and continued walking, knowing little what would happen next.
The words had left my mind. I enjoyed instead the feeling of being outside.
Until I turned and saw the house. The winding path lined and signed with grass and flower had left the farm and barn far behind, neither of which I could find.
What? Did it have an identical neighbour? I mused, and I laughed, and I continued on.
My steps they traced up a hill; and going down the other side, I looked back again, I gave a cry, my eyes grew wide, for there the house did now bide, on that very hill-side.
My steps grew faster. My heart began to fail. My face grew pale, my nerves frail. And I wondered what I had done to gain such a giant tail.
When I had the courage I looked back again, and saw it still nearby, and then I cried and ran, but the house followed faster!
faster! faster than any house could or possibly can! And the whole time it thought to itself, ‘My! What a cute little man.’

 

House & Home

 As I sat there, taking the photos below, there was no sound; just complete silence, except when a crow called from somewhere in the trees and took off into the sky, only heard by the flutter of its wings and the branches that then threw snow to the ground. It was wonderful to hear absolutely nothing, and watch the forest slowly grow dark around me and the snowflakes softly and peacefully fall over it. It was like stepping through a door and into Narnia.

    If I listened very closely, I could hear the candle sizzle when a tiny snowflake was caught by the flame.

 

The neighbours of the house in the drawing could not tell you much about the old man lives who there. He has very few visitors, but the few who come are dressed nicely, in suits, ties, dresses-- and they come in limos and black cars. Sometimes they hear music drift from the house, the faintest notes played lovingly by a pianist at his piano, and the young children, outside past their bedtime, can hear it long into the darkening night, experimenting and changing like a thought. 

Sometimes the old man will leave the house for weeks, and return without anyone noticing, his arrival only marked by a few lit windows at night. He doesn't take much care of the house- the lawn is overgrown with grass and forest ferns, and the trees begin to claim back his yard-- but the children can tell you about all the times he had climbed to the roof, to the distress of every adult watching, on a ladder to carefully fix his weathervane after every storm. 

 

 

Sometimes he throws birdseed around the yard, and the crows come and gather on the roof and on the lawn. Eventually they learn from his mild manners that he means no harm, and will gather right up to his feet, moving only so that he can return to his door. The children start to call him a wizard after that. 

He even took in a stray cat; it was tattered and brown, and it wouldn't let anyone but the old man touch it. The only thing that changes about the house is the crows migrating for the winter, and the cat that would spend those colder days sitting at one of the windows of the house. As seasons go by, the house becomes surrounded by the forest, so that it gets harder to see through the trees, and the crows gather in the branches and the cat lurks underneath them, and the important people still come to visit, though they never stay long. The music still drifts through the forest on some evenings, though the glow of the windows is hard to see through the trees.

And that is all the neighbours could tell you about the old man who lives in that house.

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.

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.

Tim's Favourite Pass-time

     Sometime ago, I began to write a story about a boy named Edward who found himself in the clutches of a constant and unending boredom. I began scribbling down the first words into the pages of my notebook, taking the arbitrary thoughts as they came and putting them into sentences and paragraphs. Some pages into the story, I began to peer out of the windows of the house and away from the doings of Edward. I instead looked across the street, where an old man played croquet on his front lawn. I found that, though the discovery of this old man had been an accident, he and his doings were far more interesting than the rest of the story.

His name was Tim, and as I continued to write and rewrite the story, I found that Tim remained unchanged in every draft. 

 

With the story almost complete, I wanted to share the drawing that finally took the character I had written about and put him into a picture, just as I saw him in my mind when I first looked across the street on that dreary day.

 

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.

A Booksdragon's Hoard

It is common knowledge that dragons are hoarders. They collect what they hold most valuable, guarding their treasure for as long as they live. For most dragons, it is gold and gems. But for others, it is books and knowledge which they seek. They are called Bookdragons; they hibernate in their librarian lairs by reading every book and tome from underneath them. These 'Bookswyrms' are rarely seen without a book at hand.

This drawing was inspired by my brother, and I hope that it, in turn, will inspire him.

Heartbreak

A Poem About Heartbreak

There once was a mother,

who went yon suther,

and bought her son some shoes.

She then went back,

with these shoes that were black,

and gave them to her son.

"Your shoes are so old,

those shoes are so bad," she jittered.

"So full of holes, it makes me sad."

"But mother," he said,

"Why must I throw them away?"

She said: "'They make you look like a hobo,'

they'd say."

So the very next day,

her son went to school,

convinced by his mother that these shoes were actually cool.

But he'd been played for a fool, as these had been lies,

and now he walked around with shoes twice his size.

 

Neighbour to a Dragon

This dragon tries on his new pair of shoes, a gift given from his thoughtful neighbours. Though the shoes themselves don't fit him, he is thrilled that at last his new found friends have reached out to him with a token of neighbourship and acceptance. After trying the shoes on and examining his happy self in the mirror, he returns them to their door with a note politely stating that the shoes are slightly too small for him, but he is thankful for their consideration and he really hopes they have a good afternoon.

There is Much To Read

"You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads."

        ~Ray Bradbury                           

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.

Between the Spaces

 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 Leaning Tree

"Do not be hasty, that is my motto. But if I had seen you, before I heard your voices - I liked them: nice little voices; they reminded me of something I cannot remember - if I had seen you before I heard you, I should have just trodden on you, taking you for little Orcs, and found out my mistake afterwards. Very odd you are, indeed. Root and twig, very odd!" (The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, Chapter 4: Treebeard, pg. 604.)

Depicted here is Fangorn, who somberly inspects an uprooted flower, holding it close to his hooked nose. He carefully keeps it between two gentle gnarled fingers, and watches as it's petals slowly fall to the forest floor.

Autumn at Bag End

"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle." (The Hobbit, Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party, pg.1.)

The autumn leaves blow by Bilbo Baggins' front door, swept away with the wind, beyond the little lawn of the well-respected Hobbit. Only all too soon will the owner of this well-kept home find himself like so.

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.

Misty Valley

Smoke and dust rise in the valley. The angry dragon bursts its flames onto the rocky terrain. A soldier walks along the mountains and watches the chaos. The sky becomes dark with smouldering flames that ignite the mist. So does this land gains its name; Misty Valley, the land of awoken dragons.

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.