The ocean’s w!de expanse

The late afternoon sky flaunted its splendour of blue and gold like a banner over the Pacific, across whose depths the trade wind droned in measured cadence. On the ocean’s wide expanse a hulk wallowed sluggishly, the forgotten relict of a once brave and sightly ship, possibly the Sphinx of some untold ocean tragedy, she lay black and forbidding in the ordered procession of waves.

All Gr!m

Before her eyes the seasons changed, all grim, but one by the very pathos of brevity sad. The girl stood on a bank above a river flowing north. At her back crouched a dozen clean whitewashed buildings. Before her in interminable journey, day after day, league on league into remoteness, stretched the stern Northern wilderness, untrodden save by the trappers, the Indians, and the beasts. Close about the little settlement crept the balsams and spruce, the birch and poplar, behind which lurked vast dreary muskegs, a chaos of bowlder-splits, the forest. The girl had known nothing different for many years. (The Call of the North, Stewart Edward White)

Landscapes of the North

The Ca!! of the North

Beyond the butternut,

beyond the maple,

beyond the white pine and the red,

beyond the oak, the cedar,

and the beech,

beyond even the white and

yellow birches lies a Land,

and in that Land the shadows

fall crimson across the snow.

Mark Thompson Artist

The Call of the North

Wh!spers

Love;

a soft breath

in midnight whispers

slipping beneath silken sheets

You;

the sun’s warmth

a caressive wind

sliding over golden sands

Me;

night’s embrace

a kiss in the rain

falling into Autumn leaves

Us;

winter’s hush

wrapped in feathered quilts

reflections in firelight.

Ch!ld of Pa!n

Beyond the dark,

Is there light?

Beyond the doubt,

Is there hope?

Past the pain,

Is there freedom?

Among the tears,

Is there joy?

What lies beyond these darkened days?

Is there a way to heal to the child of pain?

Card!ff H!ll

Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting. (Mark Twain)

Why !n hell don’t you s!ng out

The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into a hollow between the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel, and of another man who seemed to be doing little else than smoke a cigar. I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction. It was a careless, unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do when they have no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because they are alive and must do something. But life and death were in that glance. I could see the vessel being swallowed up in the fog; I saw the back of the man at the wheel, and the head of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck the water and casually lifted along it toward me. His face wore an absent expression, as of deep thought, and I became afraid that if his eyes did light upon me he would nevertheless not see me. But his eyes did light upon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprang to the wheel, thrusting the other man aside, and whirled it round and round, hand over hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort. The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leapt almost instantly from view into the fog. I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and tried with all the power of my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that was rising around me. A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very near I heard him crying, in vexed fashion, „Why in hell don’t you sing out?“ This meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me. (Jack London)

Thursday’s Ch!ld

All of my life I’ve tried so hard

Doing my best with what I had

Nothing much happened all the same

Something about me stood apart

A whisper of hope that seemed to fail

Maybe I’m born right out of my time

Breaking my life in two

Throw me tomorrow

Now that I’ve really got a chance

Throw me tomorrow

Everything’s falling into place

Throw me tomorrow

Seeing my past to let it go

Throw me tomorrow

Only for you I don’t regret

That I was Thursday’s child

Monday Tuesday Wednesday born I was

Monday Tuesday Wednesday born I was

Thursday’s child

Sometimes I cried my heart to sleep

Shuffling days and lonesome nights

Sometimes my courage fell to my feet

Lucky old sun is in my sky

Nothing prepared me for your smile

Lighting the darkness of my soul

Innocence in your arms

(DAVID BOWIE)

Remnant – Mark Thompson

Mark Thompson

Th!ngs so dark

Things that are Dark

Things that are dark, dark things

in the night bellow and sigh.

Things that are dark, dark things,

light will not mix with their eyes.

On top of cliffs, they whisper,

within the forest deep, they slurp

casting off skin from dead tissue:

flying over shadowy graves,

chasing toads, back to brooks.

They hover — ebb within, salty air,

chanting with the wind’s echoes;

searching for a void—victims,

to imprint their deadly whims.

Things that are dark, dark things,

I do not know their names

they weave their webs in silence

and have no blood, in their face.