Whimsel

affirms to children the value of good cheer


click for author's reading
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Whimsel Brousel—Philosopher—
you've likely never heard of him.
Relatively figs to Newton
he was Light
and loved Impossible.

Late one lack of starry night
Whimsel rolled about
in one of his fate's shorter sleeps.

Whimsel's appetite for light
woke up Whimsel gnawing
—jawing him to state aloud
"I'm famished for a snack of light."

So Whimsel Brousel
(wrapped in a towsel)
shumbled to his humble kitchen
where there stood—
a cupboard.

Is it yet clear his story dates
near as old as Mother Hubbard?

In the cupboard Brousel bared
"Why—not a speck of light's left here."

Whereupon our Whimsel Brousel
laid his towel in the cupboard
and waxed a candle on it there.
"I'll restore my stock of light
by Natural Regenesis."



Hear the children of today
shouting warning
Beware Whimsel oh oh noooo!



We're so sorry...

Whimsel Brousel cannot hear.
He was deaf you see. Besides
this was all so long ago
a cuckoo clock could never count
nor cuckoo Whimsel ears.

Return there now
now with our Whimsel—
he's glided back to Nodder'Z eezzz.

Thank goodness for inventions—his
nosealarm has just set off:

Ka-choo! Ka-Koff!
rewakes our Whimsel whooping whalping
"Oh my stars! The house! On fire!"

Recall please our Whimsel Brousel
lived on loosened light?
This was to be
and how it was
one very well-fed night.

Not to worry
not a whit—
Whimsel Brousel healed just fine

and later could be found a'snooze
in our stumped Alder's living-time
lying on a bed—right here
of towels given him by—

children—Whimsel is a well-liked man.

"Joy! My new cupboard's never bare.
All the world is in it here above and near
my stars—the days—all lights
delight for me
that I may live for Ever now
to mind the young—as real as Life

no-one should be hungered in the Light!"


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A silly day--Hartford Tommy is born.
Tommy is based on a real-life former inlaw
who lives again through my whimsied, adlib
Advices to the Broken Hearted.

A series of crude recordings introduces
a new unpopular pundit who has no clue.

You may share these Hartford Tommys
with friends
or enemies. Garbage pick-
ups here are on alternate Twensdays.

I don't know how long Hartford Tommy may live.
You may vote to save his life
or send him to the dumps.

The first Hartford Tommys:

http://img348.imageshack.us/my.php?image=brokenhearted7vw.swf
"regarding the broken heart"

http://img289.imageshack.us/my.php?image=flashmp39lu.swf
"ode to arkansas"

http://img436.imageshack.us/my.php?image=flashmp38ld.swf
"chastity"

http://img437.imageshack.us/my.php?image=flashmp31xq.swf
"beyond three-ways"

http://img428.imageshack.us/my.php?image=flashmp34dg.swf
"the general insincerity of love offerings"



=this blog accepts anonymous comments from anyone=

"Farewell, my Lovely"
1922-2004

Our birthdays are one day apart
plus forty years.
Ray was born May 23rd, in 1914
in rural North Dakota
near yellow corn—near lamplight.

He learned to drive in 1924.
Ray taught me to drive my old car:
the 1922 Model T Ford coupe above,
for many years my sole transportation
here in Miami until it met with accident.

Safety First:

thereafter, last April, I purchased
a preposterously yellow car.
But that's not -it-, not in the picture;
see,

Ray made a test drive of my yellow Scion xB.
After some minor cogitation Ray said

"Why the hell not?"

I bought my yellow box on Saturday.
Ray bought its twin on the following Monday.

We'd just pulled in
—the first drive home;
posed Ray's new car on the lawn,
and stepped out for a portrait of
two fellows born to different Saturdays.