From: Twittering One on
"Light the candle for our taper
Madness, off we sail for a madcap
Caper ~ Sport your nightcap,

Garner spirits, from your vessel,
If crystal or of paper,
Distill effervescence, body solid, of vapor.

Quintessence, our stars, with Phantom's Light,
We must gather for supper under candles bright.

Mark your points, adjust your astrolabe,
Your map to navigate each tossing wave.
Calculate X & Y, data point's constant, please save.

For Z, figure out your target,
Chart's dead reckoning. If land sighted, mark it.

Craft your vessel, if crystal or paper ~
Distill effervescence into solid body,
>From Ether's airy vapor.
~ The Annotator

From: Twittering One on
~ * In the year 1770 the first volume of one of the masterpieces in the
'book of birds' genre was published.

Its colour plates were made by Christiaan Sepp, draughtsman, engraver
and cartographer in Amsterdam, who also engaged in biological studies.

The text was written by Cornelis Nozeman, a minister of the Remonstrant
church, with an interest in natural science and biology. The book was
published by Sepp's son, Jan Christiaan, a bookseller by profession,
but, like his father, well at home in the art of engraving and biology.

Koninklijke Bibliotheek ~
National Library of the Netherlands * ~

~ * ~

From: Twittering One on
"There is an element of the minstrel in every graphic artist,
In each print he makes from one particular woodblock,
Copperplate or lithographic stone,
He always sings and repeats the same song."
~ M.C. Escher

~ * ~

From: Twittering One on

Don't. Give us time to get beyond
~ We whom at each turn sheer walls of text
Sweep from one staggering vista to the next ~
That listener's Oh. Discriminate, respond,

Use our heads? What part? Not the reptilian
Inmost brain ~ seat of an unblinking
Coil of hieratic coldness to mere 'thinking.'
Yet it branched off, says fable, a quarter billion

Years ago. A small, tree-loving snake's
Olfactory lobes developed. Limbs occurred
To it, and mammal warmth, music and word

And horror of its old smelled-out mistakes
~ Whose scent still fills the universal air?
~ James Merrill,
"Scripts for the Pageant"
[p. 332]

From: Twittering One on
"I like a Ship in Storms, was lost,
Folly and I, her wing in my hand,
Boldly we go, if slightly out of sorts,

Unafraid to sail without a plan ~ !
In my other hand, a splash of Port,

Savored, a swallow back I toss.
If run aground, our Vessel's lost,
Whose Pleasure swills as contraband.

O, the Waves are plaid,
My map is checkered ~

Woe. My compass points its needle
In search of safer shore,
I ask no more,

But for my Vessel's answered riddle.
O woe. My map's fallen off the record."
~ Twittering

"A creature, I see, sports checkered plaid,
Argyle, his name, Tartan clad."
~ Folly

"Come, sweet Souls,
Let's banish Sorrow ~
Come. Tag after me and follow,
Tales for you, never told.

The Corridors of Bereavement
For you sprout Beaver's Mint

If mourning, yours,
Number back the years,

Backwards, from the morrow ~
Swim boldly though The Poole of Tears.

Come, sweet Souls,
Let's banish Sorrow ~
The Corridors of Bereavement
Sprout Beaver's Mint in the grass.
Let's swill a chirping glass.

Bereavement's Song can clear
The Vapors of Despair
And make us light as Air ~ !

Add a sprig of Beaver's Mint,
Shake vigorously, splash over rocks,
And pour ~
Toss back, swill, and swallow.
A swallow's song will banish care.

Swill and swallow. Your socks,
Are they pink, purple, or Argyle ~ ?

The Corridors of Bereavement
For you sprout Beaver's Mint,
My job, to guide you there.

Hopscotch each checkered red square,
Until you land squarely on Square Noir ~

A square, half-lit under a star,
'Tis very close, not too far.

O, but your socks must be Argyle,
Or you'll not get through The Turnstile."
~ Argyle