It was a world without her, until Rene’s birth.
Tough times without her. Sans, Rene – you could say!
Until one day, for hap’ and for mirth.
There she was poppled, all swaddled and gay.
Her parents they sigh, with exhausted relief.
A child, of calm, and cheer – all beauty, no beast.
No need to chide, only coo and cheer.
And she lit up with smiles from ear-to-ear.
The family name was a glorious thing.
‘Sans’ they were called. Like sand with no ‘N’.
Solemn they reflected on lost baby Chance –
Their second and only was Rene. Rene-Sans.
A musing
How is it that you can start a stopwatch but you cannot stop a start watch?
Unless you’re Italian?
To a Bird (1888)
Bright little warbler of the air,
The world to thee, I ween, is fair;
And free thy life from shade of care
So gaily dost thou sing.
While from thy happy throat is sent
That flood of song in ravishment,
Thou shamest me without intent —
Sad mourner that I be.
To one who knows not grief nor care
I doubt me not this world is fair,
And “pretty” “pretty” everywhere
As thou dost iterate.
But birdie dear, didst thou but see
The world as it appears to me,
Then “pretty” “pretty” might not be
The burden of thy song.
But oh! could I like thee arise
And wing my way toward the skies,
Not here, ‘mid human miseries,
One moment would I dwell.
But once released from bonds of clay
I’d upward soar till thy sweet lay
Did in the distance melt away
Amidst an awful space.
I’d pause not till, through shining breach,
I’d catch, in songs that seraphs teach,
Notes only angel voices reach —
Where my loved one is gone.
Ah, birdie! were it thine to know
The grief that makes my sad tears flow
Thou couldst not sweetly warble so,
Thy little heart would break.
— Louisa Lawson
We lost the stars with SBS
Shifting Baseline Syndrome.
It was nice in the 1950’s
It was not so nice in the 1990
It was positively bad in 2020
Here we are…
Care not, respect not.
As a spider will make its web on a crown. Nature will gives no special consideration to you, or your human things.
Toast
For every crumb of toast, there is a star in your eye.
For every grain of sand, there is a star in the sky.
Two Lines
I am Godzilla, you are Japan.
I am the Straight of Hormuz, you are Iran.
His Shirt
I read his T-Shirt, it said ‘Ofcourse I Talk to Myself’. I think I get it. Do you get it? Am I asking you, or am I speaking to myself right now? I reading, just speaking to yourself? Who else are you engaging with, with your shirt. Are you speaking to yourself, when you take your shirt off? What are your pants saying to people. Sometime they are on and down and saying things. Other times, they are off and in the drawer – saying nothing.
That’s what it says. Though, perhaps not to all of us.
Driving Moral
The family were in the car. Her driving, him day dreaming in the passenger seat. They had recently bought a home, but had a holiday booked, up the coast. So they drove, despite the busy time. Their young son was in the back left seat – the boosted didn’t fit in the middle, and they’d broken the belt trying to make it fit. He played with pink ball, with little trinagular bobbles. It was too big for his hand. They drove 107km/h, just a bit over the speed limit. It was a hot day in Tasmania.
Whooosh! Bim…bim.. bim. He’d thrown the ball out the window. She saw it in the back rear view mirror. He should know better. The parents shared a glance. The day dream stopped. The son screamed ‘mum, quick get my ball’. Dad frowned, and shook his head. But she turned the car around at the next intersection doing a ‘big u-bend’ as the father called it. They back tracked, and after two u-turns and 10 minutes of lost time, they were approaching the pink ball which had been dancing and bobbling on the road, dancing out of the way of trucks and cars. The vacuum of passing cars brought the ball into the way of traffic and caused a few dangerous swerves.
Mum slowed down, putting on her hazard lights. Slowly she approached the ball which rolled towards the gutterline. She rolled over the ball, with let out a satisfying pop. The father turned to his wife, surprised. The son let out a scream of alarm. She pulled over bringing the car to a stop. Jumping from the drivers seat, traffic zoomed by – narrowly missing the open door. She walked back, picked up the ball and threw it into the car past their kid who was stunned.
‘We can talk about this lesson later,’ she said to her husband as they took off into the flow of traffic heading North.
Confucius
Today’s Confucianism
A leak on Level 1, is one problem.
A leak on Level 5, is five problems.
thecoffeetable 