Archive for February 2018


Ahem, are there items in your closed hand that might bring happiness to me if said hand was opened and lowered to within reach of my tongue? If that might be the case, I would appreciate it if you might place the items in a quincunx for, you see, that arrangement allows me to achieve both maximum taste and maximum texture pleasures as items are taken into the flavour factory. Also, I saw a squirrel today and I barked at it, but it would not acquiesce to my request for a massage by its bushy tail. After the millesimal plea, I gave up and left for an acceptable alternative: rolling around on your freshly laundered hand towels. Your roommate had a bit of a breakdown today; I think she broke up with her boyfriend–some guy named Jesus. She was glued to her laptop all afternoon and there were these books laid out all over the couch. I saw this crazy, white, skinny snake crawling up near her, so I attacked it before it could bite her. Luckily, the computer fell on the snake during the struggle and helped me eliminate the threat. That’s when she screamed, “My exegesis!” I do not know about her; I saved her life and all she can think about is this ex. Let us focus on the issue at hand: a pat of gratitude would have been nice. She needs to move on. I felt like playing catch today, but I could not find that plastic disc and your roomie locked herself in the boudoir after the ‘incident’, so I would have had nobody with whom to play anyway. I do not have a degree in ufology, but would those floral discs you keep in the cabinet and off which you eat food only during the snowy months be acceptable for catch until I find the other one? In fact, let us go play now; I see pretty flashes in the sky and the trees are dancing, so those flower discs should get decent lift. Let’s go! ; )


This chapter is particularly tenebrous, so it is time for a break.

With morning grass a bit mesic, placing it for too long could be a mistake.

Goldilocks weather should be in by ten; glasses are ready if sun turns bright.

With roar and growl, Nemean lion could turn these pages into sense and light.

Daisies as bookmarks are practical and purposeful and charming and friendly.

Reading by sunshine instead of lamp: a setting both more lively and lovely. : )


The sea breezes request paints to be brought to the shore and a canvas and easel are requested, too.

Horizons and building scapes will add texture, but the irenic mood will be set in those hues of blue.

Hyetal weather would establish blues of another kind if it occurred with brushes still brushing.

Painting what exists outside is fine and dandy, but letting outside paint itself could be quite crushing.

An original seaside piece is validated by a red sig with trace salt blown into the ess.

Creations from both Melbourne and Sydney fetch fair prices, but those from Reykjavik sell for a bit less.

A money spider across hand’s back during final embellishment would certainly bring selling luck.

But, the best plaudit of all would be quacks of approval from an artfully-aware-passing-through duck. ; )


Fishy wishy in a dish, you are bright in orange and white, but, also, clearly blue.

If there may be a way to inspire your fins to wag, please tell me what I can do.

No stones below for counting and building? Really? Wow. That does seem a bit amiss.

Well, I know a fundi who hobbies petrography and it happens she’s my sis.

Hiring her ad hoc will fill bowl with gems of rainbows and sparks–any kind desired.

She even knows of rocks that match your scales–to build camo-nest for when you feel tired.

Piscine mores require remuneration for kindnesses rendered? Really, it’s free.

Oh! Bubble kisses and guppies named after us? We hope new home brings as much glee! ; )


When cookies burned, you were the first to note the oozle and, so, warned us with a yip.

As second batch cooled, sad eyes asked to share while untrimmed paw-claws dug into the hip.

Sometimes, life seems eristic and loud, leaving both the head and heart twisted and stressed.

But, licks of face and fingers by smelly tongue finds any joy that had been repressed.

Trips to park where friends do bark leads to play and catch and run, my blue-shirted doxie.

Home is no caravansary–they can’t come over–regardless of your moxie.

Radio sounds that it is time to rise and pour kibble into your empty dish.

With your whines, music is tutti, and a better start to the day I could not wish. ; )

J. P. D. T.

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