Thursday, September 29, 2011


Remember folks, the boat has sunk.
President Obama is our raft.
Don't complain about the lack of amenities.
Start paddling.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Hard Rider

Image by Cindy Klettke.

Doug wrote on Facebook today:

Rode 44.69 miles in America the Beautiful today.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Just the Mere Sight

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Just the mere sight
of this emblem stirred
my young blood.

Dynamism of a Cyclist

Painting by Umberto Boccioni.

The perfect compliment to Doug's Splogging data.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Tuesday, September 20, 2011


This kind of sums it all up, enit?

STFU, Ralph Nadir

Shut up Ralph Nader, shut up shut up shutupshutup.
The whole Bush era is your fault.
Even 9-11, as far as I'm concerned.
You know nothing about how the world works,
even less than how cars work
You are a complete idiot.
Seriously, get some psychiatric help.
Go hide in a cave.
Go back to Mars.
And SHUT the f*** UP!

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Two String Quintets

Images for the recent music

Play it here.

"Guitar Quintet"

Martin 00018 I've had since 1966,
Japanese 12 string I got in LA in 1965
Gigantic acoustic bass guitar I built in '08 of thereabouts
A mandora I made a couple years ago six strings and tuned like a guitar
A cheap plywood guitar, the one I use the most because I don't mind leaving it laying around where I can grab it whenever I want. This is the one I got the material for the guitar quintet.

Play it here

"String Quintet"

String quintet;
I made all of these things.
The 'cello the small viola and one of the violins are made out of plywood and are of an experimental rectangular design.
The big viola and the other violin are of conventional design and made of better woods.
Had a quartet performed at Soundbridge with these instruments back in '02 or '03 or sometime or other

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Punk Bitch

image borrowed from bing

Punk Bitch

I just found out that Dante
considers me to be
the "waste and rubbish" of the universe.
If this Dante person would like
to come over and say it to my face,
I'm ready for him.

Doug Palmer

Posted over on his Facebook page.

Off to the Blood Bank

The relationship Doug has with divers blood banks
could fill a novella, or at least a Chapbook.

Hemo Hero

Off to the blood bank today.
Why don't you all join me?
We can all give a pint then head to the Whistlestop and I'll buy us all a pint.
Then we can stand up, get dizzy, and fall down.
It'll be just like the 60's again.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Vicar of dibley (I cant believe its not butter)

Latest work

Managed to re build the guitar version after the great computer fail of 2011
Worked into this version for string quartet.


2 violins
2 violas
1 cello

Been too busy with my music to play with words.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Just the Images Will

image borrowed from bing

Just the images will
suffice, for they lodge
on the inside of our lids

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


Short ride this morn.
Coasted down to Seward park, did a lap around the park, rode up and over the center of the isthmus and back home.
A measly 10 miles.
But, I rode all the way up Waters to Redwing.
Thought I was gonna die.

But I didn't.

Now it's on to the string quintet version of the guitar quintet called "Frustration"

Haven't got time to write anything interesting here

Sunday, September 4, 2011


Thanks to Googgle, I find I do know what it means.
It means Oh the times - Oh the customs.
Or perhaps Oh the times - Oh the manners.

By the way, I deliberately misspelled The G-word as a sign of disrespect.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Bicycle stuff

Did the lower half of Lake Washington, felt awful chased my breath all the way, only now did I catch it.
Renton, otherwise known as "Alzheimer's Junction" has changed it's speed limit on it's puny little
river trail from 15 mph to 10 mph and posted a $101 fine. I'm tempted to go ahead and blast through just to help them out of their financial difficulties, but it is probably futile.
Renton continues to rot away,motorcycle shop's gone, car dealers leaving, even dear old Saint Vincent is abandoning this sinking tugboat of a town.
Ah, well, it's inevitable, the average age there is "deceased".
Look for the ramps for some cheap real estate deals.

Anyway, you are not interested in centuries past.

You're not interested in the following either


24.82 miles
10.7 average speed
30.7 maximum speed
2360.6 on the odometer
2:18:38 road time.

BTW, I found the password for FFTL, so now I've got 2 blog sites.
The pisser is, it was the same as my e-mail password but that is gone forever because of my stupid attempts to try to sign in there.

O tempores!, O mores! (I have no idea what that means)

Friday, September 2, 2011

Monday, Monday

Painting by Rick Mobbs

Monday, Monday

No sleep last night
because of yesterday's
Chamber Music Society luncheon.
Talked to some nice people.
Listened to R.M. Campbell.
He writes for the P.I.
His vocation seems to be
fading away.

Soon all that will be
left for me will be
the cartoons,
the crosswords
and the horoscope,
and you, dearhearts--
which won't be too different
for my usual morning
bowl of Cheerios™ ritual.

Wish I'd actually been there
my minimally animated corpse.
Good food--
strawberry shortcake.
All that seems to have
filtered through the fog
of my diminished awareness
was that the ARTS
seem to be
growing steadily
as they die.

Doug Palmer June 2008

Originally posted over on Feel Free to Laugh.

OMG, I Am A Poet

image borrowed from Lane Savant

OMG, I've written another poem!

I'm not sure I agree with Butch about that.
Poems are supposed to be incomprehensible assemblages of words and phrases that just might as well mean...well, anything.
Seems to me that anything that just says something is merely prose.

Think on it, just what in the heck is E.A.P. yapping about with his silly ass talking Raven?


Most of the other "great" poets read like the OED run through a shredder.

I can understand what Glenn and Janet and Alex are talking about.

It's all very nice and I love it but it's comprehensible, therefore it must be something other than poetry.

Doug Palmer, expounding on his good fortune and hidden assets over on FEEL FREE TO LAUGH.

All Along the Watchtower

image borrowed from yahoo

"All Along The Watchtower"

Recorded by "Jimi Hendrix"
Written by: ©Bob Dylan
Album: "Electric Ladyland" - 1968
There must be some kind of way out of here
Said the joker to the thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief
Business men they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None will level on the wine
Nobody of it is worth

No reason to get exited
The thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us talk falsely now
The hour's getting late

All along the watchtower
The princess kept the view
While all the women came
And went bare feet servants too
Outside in the cold distance
A wild cat did growl
Two riders were aproaching
And the wind began to howl

All along the watchtower
Hear you sing around the watch
Gotta beware gotta beware I will
yeah, Oh baby
All along the watchtower

Bob Dylan

Legend of a Mind

image borrowed from yahoo

"Legend Of A Mind"

Timothy Leary's dead.
No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in.
Timothy Leary's dead.
No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in.
He'll fly his astral plane,
Takes you trips around the bay,
Brings you back the same day,
Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary.

Timothy Leary's dead.
No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in.
Timothy Leary's dead.
No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in.
He'll fly his astral plane,
Takes you trips around the bay,
Brings you back the same day,
Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary.

Along the coast you'll hear them boast
About a light they say that shines so clear.
So raise your glass, we'll drink a toast
To the little man who sells you thrills along the pier.

He'll take you up, he'll bring you down,
He'll plant your feet back firmly on the ground.
He flies so high, he swoops so low,
He knows exactly which way he's gonna go.
Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary.

He'll take you up, he'll bring you down,
He'll plant your feet back on the ground.
He'll fly so high, he'll swoop so low.
Timothy Leary.

He'll fly his astral plane.
He'll take you trips around the bay.
He'll bring you back the same day.
Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary.
Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary.
Timothy Leary.

Moody Blues


image borrowed from bing


In the Emerald City,
before Seattle
was called Jet City,
Seafair started as an annual event
in 1950;
amidships in the Highlands
of Renton
I was six years old,
living in a government
housing project,
left over from WWII,
next door to my grandparents.

Early in August,
we heard a deafening cacophony
of something called
ten miles off
on Lake Washington;
slim racing boats
powered by plane engines;
V-12 Rolls Royce Merlins and Allisons,
roaring lake monsters
fast-flying surface watercraft
called “hydroplanes”—
screaming low over the flat surface,
barely touching the lake
with a tiny fraction of the hull,
planing powerfully
at 160.323mph;
sporting a single tall tail,
shaped like a fighter’s—
their twin sponsons
fully airborne
on both sides of the wide bow,
with the driver, engine
and steering equipment stuffed
into a narrow rectangle
dead center.

For years
as children
we would listen on race days,
and stare adoringly at photographs
wherever we could find them;
at the ladies of the lake;
Miss Thriftway
Miss Bardahl
Miss Budweiser
Miss Pay-N-Pak
Atlas Van Lines.

We could not afford
a television yet;
had to wait
until 1953,
when a gaggle of us gathered
on the floor in front of
a huge blond wooden cabinet
with a 12” round screen,
broadcasting in black and white
those gallant roostertails,
those crowds,
those pits,
those heats—
all the spectacle
we could stand.

Bill Muncey
piloted Miss Thriftway,
and Seattle owned
the Gold Cup
for most of my tweens
and teens,
until Kennedy became President,
and the turbulent 60’s,
pulsating with civil rights,
and the Viet Nam War,
stole our youthful focus,
and we just did not notice
when the Cup was won
by outlanders,
and the race,
and honor
was taken at night
to other bays, rivers, and lakes,
in faraway lands
with names like
Detroit, Madison, and San Diego.

Muncey was fierce,
a son of Neptune,
laughing into the lenses
as he was told he was
“too old to win”,
Continuing to drive
up into his 50’s,
setting unlimited hydro records
that have never been beaten—
until 1981
in Acapulco,
when he died at the wheel
in a blowover crash
traveling at 175mph.

You know
they rebuild and improve
putting cunning canards
where bulky tails resided;
reversing the width,
changing sponsons
into outriggers,
placing horizontal stabilizers
aft and astern,
bestowing aerodynamics upon
planes of the water—
while we Boomers
age hard like cedar posts,
creaking, graying, stoop-shouldered,
sporting big bellies,
blemishes, moles, and flakey skin;
clucking our tongues,
squinting fleshy lids,
pointing arthritic fingers,
and fussing about
how the good old days
will never return,
and today’s
admission prices,
faggy safety measures,
gas prices,
the Bush Wars,
the New Crusades,
and our latest surgeries.

in late summer when
thunderous bellicose churning
of super-charged props
propel hydroplanes
over 200mph,
tossing their proud roostertails
like water stallions,
shooting lake mist
thirty feet in the air,
it never fails
to stir
old blood,
old ears,
and thrill
old hearts.

Glenn A. Buttkus

August 2008

44 Miles in 4 Hours

image borrowed from bing

44 Miles in 4 hours

I took the bike
to Queen Anne Starbucks.
Took the usual route,
Lake Washington trail to the UW
then the Burke Gilman to Fremont,
across the bridge
and up Florentia to 3rd West
and the long pump
to the corner of Queen Anne and Boston,
past the house of the person
who tried to run over me
with a Toyota
in a Seattle Symphony related incident.

You remember last time
I did this trip
I complained that
the trip down
wasn't fast enough.
This time I decided
to take 3rd West down,
long straight ride.
I hit 37 mph
on the portion
that had been resurfaced
in asphalt
and began thinking,
with a petit frisson of terror
about the lower half
that had been only prepared
and not paved.
Prepared as in all dug up
and chewed into rough patches
and meandering ridges.

The trip up
had only been 15.5 miles,
which meant that the trip home
would only be 30.1 miles.
So I started thinking of ways
to add 10 more miles
to the trip
to make it 40.

On down to Lk. Wash,
skirting the Arboretum
(which is a fast trip going north
but a vehiclularly intimidating
slow slog sailing south)
to Madison valley,
where I once got a ticket
for having a turn signal bulb out
on the Alfa,
and back to curvy Ohlmstead legacy
part of the the L.W. trail,
past Bush school
where they've planted the big sea-monster like
"T" square on the lawn
to the wonderful big "S" curve
past the last house Kurt Cobain
ever owned,
and thence on
to Mama Williebelles barbecue stand
and Leschi.

During which I decided
that a cut
across the lake
via the I-90 corridor trail
would be just the thing
to pad the mileage
of the trip.

The trail to the bridge
splits off from LWB at Leschi
and follows more
Ohlmstead legacy
curvy tree lined road,
which is a nice way to travel
even though it is
a bit of a climb
to the head
of the floating bridge;
once there, however,
its a long fast trip
to water level,
giving up
all the potential energy gained
on the climb, but,
that is what it's all about,

The ride through Mercer island
is a park like pastoral run
that is a lot faster west to east
than the other way
because the hills
are long and gentle
going down
and short and steep
going up
so that you can gain
plenty of speed
to coast to the top
of the short steep parts.
East to West is just
the opposite,
long slogs up
and short opportunities
for wind in your hair
on the downward run.

Across the other bridge
and through the Mercer slough wetland trail
and the junction
of the east side
of the Lk. Wash. trail,
otherwise known as
15 miles
of fair to middlin' bike road.

The trail has become
quite undermined by roots
of the trees.
Keeps you awake,
and I like the trees.
The trees are only
on the east side of the trail,
the other side is freeway.
Quite often
it's possible to pass
the freeway traffic,
which sometimes
(more often than not, actually)
moving very slowly.

Now that I was headed south
approaching Renton,
it dawned on me that,
ever since I started
across the bridge,
I seemed to be facing
a headwind.
Also I was approaching
the 40 mile mark
and fatigue began
to intrude
on my otherwise
idyllic peregrination.

I began to look forward
to rounding the south end
of Renton airport
and having the wind
in my corner.
Ah, well,
that didn't work out;
the wind,
being free as a breeze
decided to change direction
just for me,
thanks, God.

It was amusing,
to see a herd of goats
helping with weed control
along the airport periphery road.

Back up to Rainier Ave,
At least the carbs fueled
the climb through
Dead Horse canyon
on Holyoke st.,
and a smooth coast home.

Doug Palmer

August 2008

Lane Savant said... seems so much more significant in that form.

Principia Mathmatica

image borrowed from deviant art

Principia Mathematica

Just because two
And two
Are in separate rooms
Doesn't mean they don't
Add up to four
See what happens when you fall
on the bus?

Doug Palmer

Originally posted over on Free Free to Laugh.

Meredith in May

Image by Miss M.

Doug Palmer's poetry section looks good.
Here is one of his latest.

Road Trip in May

We want on a road trip
we drove long hours.
We saw geological features.
We saw fossils.
We saw mountains.
We saw waterfalls.
We saw gardens.
We stayed in motels.

I read the book
the Gideons left.
The falls were the ones
known as "Silver Falls"
in Oregon near Salem.
The garden is the one
known as "The Oregon Garden",
also near Salem
(follow the signs to either place),
a relatively new place,
relying on volunteer support (Hmm),
but rivalling the fabulous Buchart Gardens
just outside of Victoria B.C.

Doug Palmer

Originally posted over on Feel Free to Laugh

Dog Poets

image borrowed from bing

Here is some email from Doug, and my poem in response:

Doug Palmer wrote:

This blog is about my sister's dog, Layla, who wrote a poem. Layla was of indeterminate parentage but had the coloring, size and personality of a golden lab, as I recall.I think not too many animals write poems, or if they do, it's about food, killing other species, and doing things in the neighbor's yard.Actually, you might consider that analysis when reading your human poets. I mean, the subconscious will out, eh? Know what I'm sayin'?Especially the "warrior poets". Dig it.Anyway, my sister (she's the talented one, wonderful watercolorist), translated it and submitted it to some publication. She told me all about it but, of course, I forget.Perhaps it was a competition of some sort.Anyway, it got published, and for a while thereafter, the dog was getting fan mail.Fortunately, fame went not to the dog's head, so there were no incidents of drug abuse.Here is the poem

by Layla
The Bitch/ ManTook us
to theSoft ground
and big wet

We did stick
and dig
and bird go

Muppet played bark
Many smells were ours
The moving nothing was cool
and the soft ground was warm

There were no NO's
and our tounges laughed

And here is my response, transcribing a poem from my dog Taffy:


The Bitch
Feeds me better nice
Than the Himself.
She heats it warm
Or gravy smothers, and
He scrapes and pours
Wet or dry
Into bowls of chew glass;
But OK,
He is allow tongue many licks
From his dish,
And the Bitch holds out.

My yard is small,
With a steel fence of tall,
And over 13 summers,
I’ve peed on patch all;
Remembering those treasures
In dark garden corners,
Or porch unders—
Those bones and birds
I love to chew

My dog naps
Grow long and many,
Where I can romp
Without that bad pain stiffness
That catches up me
On stairs and leaps.

I pretend
To love my summer cuts,
With red ribbons tied
Behind those ears
That too much do not hear
When am I called
Or recalled.

Call I would be
Lucky dog,
Who loved is,
And my humans
Accept my kisses
And wags,
Fresh each time,
Lifting their spirit,
Widening their grins.

Yes, yes,
Know I too well
One day soon,
Or in the darkness,
I will not able be
To return
From the Spirit Land
I travel to
With lids down.

But in those times,
I will be pure love,
Light as sunray,
Warm and speeding travel.
I know
I will be able to fly
Like a maple leaf
In the wind.
Oh joy,
What adventure awaits!

Glenn Buttkus 2007.

Originally posted on FFTL, and then FFTR.

Palmer: A Living Legacy

image borrowed from bing


I extracted this from one of your postings.

My mother titled me after a famous general and a famous movie star and yet I am not famous."Palmer" is from the french "paumer" which means "pilgrim to the holy land"The name is first recorded in 1176, which happens to be my phone number, coincidence?Legend has it that palmers carried palm leaves to put beneath the feet of Jesus as he was led to the cross so as to make the journey a little more pleasant. I hope that this gibberish makes your painful stroll to the abyss a little less agonizing. Just doin' my job.

Doing some more of my detective work, I have found that PALMER is actually quite a grand old handle. I suppose you should be proud. It is much nicer to wear all your life rather than BUTTKUS.

Palmer, AK: in the striking Matanuska Valley .
Palmer, MA, town of Seven Railroads.
Chateau Palmer Vineyards on Long Island , NY .
Palmer LTER (Long Term Ecological Research) Center in Antarctica .
Palmer Musical Instruments.
Palmer Museum of Art at Penn State University .
Palmer House Hotel on the loop in Chicago , IL .
Emerson, Lake , and Palmer.
Palmer Candy Company; established in 1878.
Palmer’s Restaurant & Tavern in Andover , MI .
The Qur’an, Part I (Sacred Books of the East), the Palmer Edition.
Palmer Theological Seminary in Philadelphia , Pennsylvania .
Palmer College of Chiropractics in San Jose , CA .
Palmer Episcopal Church in Houston , TX .
Palmer, Bill: Magician.
Palmer, Arnold: Golfer.
Palmer, David: World Squash Champion.
Palmer House Inn at Cape Cod .
Palmer House Brewery & Smithy.
Palmer’s Oz Politics: Australia .
Palmer’s List of Merchant Vessels.

And I am sure that this modest list of your notoriety is just the tip of the iceberg. Feel free to post this comment under your own auspices either out of interest or boredom, or both.


Originally posted over on Feel Free to Read.

Palmer, Alaska
Palmer Island, Maine.
Chateau Palmer
The Palmer House, Chicago.
Palmer House Inn, Cape Cod.

I Dream of Emily

image borrowed from bing

I Dream of Emily

I dreamed again of Emily
In a dark hour
of the night
I dreamed we rode a carriage
Along a darkened path
Our souls together
WarmUnder a blanket of soft fur
Wordless we rode

Although we spoke,
our hearts in time,
With a language of our own
That was long ago
An eternity ago

Now it grows light
The dream is gone
Forever gone,
I fear
And yet, and yet, my heart declares
The dream will never go
My heart will always speak to yours
With a language of it's own

Doug Palmer 2006

Originally posted over on Feel Free to Laugh

The Butterfly Incident

image borrowed from bing

The Butterfly incident

A butterfly flashed
into my face
A stopwatch image
of colorful contrasts
Gold as the promise
of love
Black as the trap
of hate
Just an instant,
then away
A slight smudge
on my glasses
Where has it gone
Is it still alive?

Doug Palmer

Originally posted over on Feel Free to Laugh.

Whatever Happened to Al Kistenmacher?

image borrowed from bing


The mystery remains;
Whatever happened to Al Kistenmacher?

Irony sarcasm
Snide and snark
Sincerity weathers the storm.

Ironic metaphor
Outright insult
This kind of thing seems the norm

A sudden twist
To bring out the gist
It's just my humerous form

I do it that way'
Cause it's my way to say
I'm an asshole,
now go away.

I think I will quit
before this gets
any worse.

Love and joy
come to you
and you;
not you.

Doug Palmer 2007

Originally posted over on Feel Free To Laugh.

A Story

image borrowed from deviant art

A Story

Once there was a little girl. A very beautiful little girl. She went walking in the forest. It was a beautiful day. The trees were bright and the sun was green and the flowers smiled at her as she walked by. She was very happy and didn't have a care in the world.

Pretty soon she met a little boy, a very handsome little boy. He told her she was very beautiful and asked to walk with her. He told her he knew of a place where there was a big lake and a waterfall and that the fish all had peoples heads and sang the prettiest songs.

The girl thought this all sounded very nice and decided to walk with him.
But soon, as they were walking, the boy began to walk too fast and the girl couldn't keep up. But, when she asked the boy to slow down, he just laughed at her and said, "What's the matter with you, that you can't keep up?"

Now our dear little girl had never thought that there was any thing wrong with her but she didn't want the boy to get angry with her so she walked a little faster.
Soon she was walking faster than the boy.

"That will show him there's nothing wrong with me" she thought.
But, the boy just said "Now you're going too fast, can't you do anything right, are you stupid?"

The poor girl had never thought of herself as stupid, but she began to get confused. Maybe she didn't know how to walk right. Maybe she was stupid
She began to cry.

This just made the handsome little boy angry. "Why don't you be quiet?" he said. Why do girls have to cry about everything. You are going to spoil everything. Don't you want to see the lake and the waterfall and the singing fish?"

Well, of course she wanted to see all those wonderful things, so she just went along with the handsome boy and kept quiet (he WAS very handsome and had a beautiful voice)

She tried her best to keep up with him, but he kept changing pace so that she couldn't keep up.

After a long, long while, they finally came to a pond, it wasn't a lake, there was no waterfall, and there were no singing fish.

"Here we are" said the handsome boy, as he pointed to the pond.

"But" the girl said, "where is the waterfall, where are the fish?"

"I never said there was a waterfall" the boy yelled at her "and the fish probably ran away because you are so ugly"

When she heard this, the girl began to cry.

"I'm not ugly" she said.

"You are too" the boy yelled "you are stupid and ugly and you are a liar" then he pushed her into the pond where she got all wet and covered with mud.

But the handsome boy...You know? I don't want to call him handsome any more. He may be good looking and have a nice clothes and a sweet voice and everything, but I'm beginning to think that kind of ugly inside, but perhaps I shouldn't judge.

Anyway, when the boy saw our poor girl all covered with mud and dripping wet, he began to laugh at her and that made her cry even more.

Just then the boy spied a small cabin at the edge of the pond and that gave him another ugly idea.

"Oh,come on" he said to the wet girl "can't you take a joke? Here, I'll help you out of the water" and he offered her his hand and pulled her out of the water.

"You really look funny all wet and muddy, it's very funny" He laughed so much that the girl started to laugh too, but just a little bit.

"Let me take you to that cabin, you can get dry and maybe there's some food we can eat. So he took her by the arm and led her to the cabin, but, as soon as they got there, he pushed her inside and slammed the door and locked it. He began to laugh and laugh. "So long, stupid ugly muddy funny girl, this is where you belong, locked up, because you are no good"

The girl listened to his laughter as he walked away and soon she was all alone.
She began to get frightened.
She tried to open the door but the lock was too strong.
she tried to climb out of the window but the window was too small.

All she could do was look out at the window at the pond, so she just sat and tried to think of a way to get out. It seemed impossible and all she could do was cry.
"Maybe I am stupid" she thought "maybe I am ugly. I certainly am wet and muddy, so maybe the other things are true too. Maybe I deserve to be locked up. Maybe I am no good."

(I'm feeling sad too. This poor lovely girl certainly doesn't deserve to be locked up crying in the dark. I hope she finds a way to be beautiful and smart again, not to mention dry and clean.)

Well, after a cold and scary night, the sun came up and the girl looked out of the little window and she began to cry again.

"No" she said to herself "I mustn't cry. At least I have the pond to look at and the pretty trees, maybe that's all I deserve. I will just stay here and do the best I can." But she was still lonely and afraid and she began to cry very softly to herself.

An indeterminate amount of time had passed (she had no watch) when another boy came tripping (literally) along the path that led to the pond. This little boy wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly, either. He was just a nice decent little boy.
There was nothing wrong with him except for a few bruises on his arms and legs and on his head because he was a little bit clumsy. Tripping along usually means a kind of happy, carefree walking, but with him, it meant a lot of happy, carefree falling down, which was the first thing he did when he saw the pond and the cabin. "Gosh" he said to himself "at least I didn't hurt myself this time." As he picked himself up was brushing off the leaves and twigs from his clothes, he thought he heard someone sobbing and it sounded so sad and lonely that it made him sad and lonely too.
So he went toward the sobbing and, sure enough, it was coming from the cabin. He went to the window and looked in. He saw the girl sitting on the floor all covered with dried up mud, but he could see that she was still a very lovely little girl.

"Hello" he said to her "why are you sitting all alone in there when it's such a nice day out here?"

"Go away" she said "I'm ugly and stupid and no good and I am supposed to be locked up in here."

"Oh" the boy said "if it's supposed to be that way, I guess I'd better go away." and he started to walk on.

But then he heard her crying again and it sounded so sad and lonely that he couldn't leave her there so he turned back to the cabin and, as he did so, he tripped on a branch and fell down again. He picked himself up and want to the cabin door and said "I don't care if it's supposed to be, I'm going to let you out" But when he unlocked the door and tried to push it open, the girl shouted "NO" and pushed it closed again.
"Dear little girl" he said "I have unlocked the door and I will go away, but I still think you are too nice not to come out into this sunny day."

So the boy walked away.

But, when he was on the other side of the pond, he stopped where he could still see the cabin and he sat down and watched.

After what seemed like a very long time, he saw the door open a little bit. A little while after that, the girls head appeared in the doorway.

Well, our boy was a bit clumsy in other ways too, and as soon as he saw the girl's head, he jumped up and ran toward the cabin and shouted "Come out, it's a beautiful day."

But the girl didn't come out. No, she slammed the door and want back in. The boy, realizing that he had made a mistake, promptly tripped on a rock and fell down. "No harm done" he said to himself "at least the door is still unlocked." He did feel foolish, however.

He went back to his watchpost and waited.

After another long time, he saw the door open again. This time, he stayed quiet.
Soon the girl looked out again.
The boy stayed where he was.
After a while the girl stood in the doorway.
The boy stood up so the girl could see him.
The girl stopped and looked at the boy.
The boy smiled.
The girl looked back over her shoulder into the cabin.
The boy stayed where he was.
The girl took a step outside.
The boy took a step toward the girl.
Then they each took another.
Soon they were facing each other across the pond.

"Dear pretty girl" the boy said "don't be afraid of me, I will be your friend."

He reached out his hand and took a step toward the girl, tripped on a stone and fell right into the water. This frightened the girl and she turned back toward the cabin,
But the boy said "don't go, look, I'm a fish." and he began swimming around and spurting water out of his mouth.

The girl started to laugh, but then she remembered what it felt like to be laughed at and that made her start to cry.

"Don't cry, sweet girl" said the boy "I'll sing you a song" and he started to sing.
Well, to be perfectly frank, he wasn't a very good singer, but that didn't matter because he looked so funny that the girl couldn't help but laugh, Then she offered her hand and helped him out of the water and they became friends.

Stories used to have morals and I think this one should too.

Life is not always fair or pleasant, but with a little bit of courage and patience, it can be worth the trouble.

Doug Palmer

aka: Lane Savant

Originally posted on Free Free to Laugh,
then reposted on Free Free to Read.

Good King Pencilstub

image borrowed from bing

Good King Pencilstub

Good King Pencilstub
looks out,
spots a poor man,
and send his lawyer
out to sue the sorry bastard
for failing
to have the proper
about this time
of love
and joy;
then passes a law
making it illegal
to be cold
and hungry.

Doug Palmer

Christmas 2007

Originally posted over on FEEL FREE TO LAUGH

Scribe's Sorrow

image by glenn buttkus

Scribe's Sorrow

I have something
to say
about what is
or is not

I may
post it

It involves
else's writing

I am honor bound
to say
no more
at this point
in time.

Make a poem
out of that,

Doug Palmer 2007

Originally posted over on FEEL FREE TO LAUGH.