There's purple jam
And purple jell
And a purple bruise
Next day will tell
Where you landed
When you fell.
The purple feeling
Is rather put-out
The purple look is a
But the purple sound
Is the loveliest thing
It's a violet opening
In the spring.
Illustration by Leonard Weisgard for,
"What Is Purple?" from, "Hailstones and halibut bones" by Mary O'Neill
(from Davidson Jones' post in "Poets Illustrated" FB group)
From Lullabye-Land by Eugene Field.
Illustrated by Charles Robinson
Lady Button Eyes
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen -
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Through the murk and mist and gloam
To our quiet, cozy home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock's dull monotone
Telleth of the day that's done;
Where the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Where my weary wee one lies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Postcards are welcome from any destination.
They should be addressed to Robin House, 2 Boturich Road, Balloch, West Dunbartonshire, G83 8LX.
(more details in the article)
Note: I recommend putting your postcard inside an envelope; there seems to be a persistent problem with postcard delivery within the UK (anything in an envelope gets delivered just fine, though).
(and yes, I'll be sending one this week)
Complications of “chronic Lyme disease" reported
Cases have reported in which treatment for "chronic Lyme disease" resulted in the development of septic shock, osteomyelitis, Clostridium difficile colitis, or paraspinal abscess. [Marzec NS and others. Serious bacterial infections acquired during treatment of patients given a diagnosis of chronic Lyme disease—United States. MMWR 66:607-609, 2017] "Chronic Lyme disease" is not a valid diagnostic entity. Lyme disease infections are usually cured by 2 to 4 weeks of antibiotic treatment. However, a small network of physicians and their patients have been barraging the public with claims that thousands of people being maimed, killed, and bankrupted each year by chronic Lyme disease. They incorrectly assert that Lyme is a deadly, chronic disease that requires long-term antibiotic therapy even though clinical trial evidence shows no advantage over placebo treatment. [Melia TM, Auwaerter PG. Time for a different approach to Lyme disease and long-term symptoms. New England Journal of Medicine 374:1277-1278, 2016]
(from Dr. Barrett's Quackwatch newsletter)
(Cautionary Tales for Children. Hilaire Belloc. Illustrated by B.T.B.)
The nicest child I ever knew
Was Charles Augustus Fortescue.
He never lost his cap, or tore
His stockings or his pinafore:
In eating Bread he made no Crumbs,
He was extremely fond of sums,
To which, however, he preferred
The Parsing of a Latin Word—
He sought, when it was within his power,
For information twice an hour,
And as for finding Mutton-Fat
Unappetising, far from that!
He often, at his Father’s Board,
Would beg them, of his own accord,
To give him, if they did not mind,
The Greasiest Morsels they could find—
His Later Years did not belie
The Promise of his Infancy.
In Public Life he always tried
To take a judgement Broad and Wide;
In Private, none was more than he
Renowned for quiet courtesy.
He rose at once in his Career,
And long before his Fortieth Year
Had wedded Fifi, Only Child
Of Bunyan, First Lord Aberfylde.
He thus became immensely Rich,
And built the Splendid Mansion which
Is called The Cedars, Muswell Hill,
Where he resides in affluence still,
To show what everybody might
Become by SIMPLY DOING RIGHT.
Этот Коля Сыроежкин,
Это дьявол, а не мальчик!
Все, что видит, все, что слышит,
Он на ус себе мотает.
А потом начнет однажды
Все разматывать обратно,
Да расспрашивать, да мучить
Вот, пристал намедни к маме,-
Так что маме стало жарко:
Объясни ему, хоть тресни,
Чем прославился Петрарка?!
This Kolya Syroezhkin,
He's a little devil, not a boy!
All he sees and all he hears,
He takes note of,
And at one point, he starts
Unraveling all his notes,
And to question, and to badger
Everyone, many times, with many words.
There, yesternight he started in on his mother,
So much that she grew hot in the face:
Explain to him, no matter what,
What was Petrarch famous for?!
Someone's torn the curtain
And I think it must be me.
I climbed up to the window
And the curtain caught my knee.
And then it wrapped my foot up
And I heard a hole, you see.
Someone's sure to notice
'Cos it's bigly as can be.
They're coming, I can hear them
Up the stairs to have their tea.
I wish I was the bigly hole
And bigly hole was me.
(illustration by Margaret Tarrant, verses by Marion St. John Adcock; reposted from The Golden Age of Illustration group on FB)
Tonight, I dressed my son in astronaut pajamas,
kissed his forehead and tucked him in.
I turned on his night-light and looked for you
in the closet and under the bed. I told him
you were nowhere to be found, but I could smell
your breath, your musty fur. I remember
all your tricks: the jagged shadows on the wall,
click of your claws, the hand that hovered
just above my ankles if I left them exposed.
Since I became a parent I see danger everywhere—
unleashed dogs, sudden fevers, cereal
two days out of date. And even worse
than feeling so much fear is keeping it inside,
trying not to let my love become so tangled
with anxiety my son thinks they’re the same.
When he says he’s seen your tail or heard
your heavy step, I insist that you aren’t real.
Soon he’ll feel too old to tell me his bad dreams.
If you get lonely after he’s asleep, you can
always come downstairs. I’ll be sitting
at the kitchen table with the dishes
I should wash, crumbs I should wipe up.
We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.
Originally posted by exceptindreams at Mother Talks Back to the Monster | Carrie Shipers
Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
And pranced and partied all night long
And sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pol?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems swell, and then
The nighttime Whatifs strike again!
The Erasure of Islam from Poetry of Rumi, by Rozina Ali, in The New Yorker
(makes sense...I did wonder why Rumi, unlike his sort-of-contemporary, also Muslim poet Mirza-Shafi, doesn't mention Islam...)
Gestures to Avoid in Cross-Cultural Business: In Other Words, ‘Keep Your Fingers to Yourself!’
11 WTF Items That Kids Ordered Online Without Telling Their Parents--I was especially amused by the mom's clever handling of #9