BelongingMy older sister's blog
Blibby's BlogMy little sister's blog
Gixxer For ChristMy brother's blog
Grantian FlorilegiumDr. Grant: literary, bibliophile, wordsmithy, and professor
Blog and MablogPastor and professor in Moscow, Idaho
A Proverb A DayShort daily expositions and applications of a Proverb
The Evantine AbbeyMy former landlord, self-proclaimed futilitarian
Roots by the RiverThe elder Wilson, providing practical encouragement to Christian living
Christus RexHe's masculine during the week and feminine on Sundays
Trozzort's TalesGot married, cut travel time to church by 75%
Blog of NashThe Nashes like football and their kids
Joy in the Journey
Has cute kids.
Pointyshoes87Those funny stories aren't made up
Filled With TruthAdventures and thoughts of a Christian country girl
Danger BlogSeeing the glory of God in the ordinary
Sacra DoctrinaTheology and family of Joel Garver
A MinorCommunity-oriented blogger
This Classical LifeYoung family living the classical life
A Cup of RichFellow Celto-phile
Sir JakeHe's happily taken
UnrivenThe writer, student, and Chicago style pizza lover
Gulf CoastalBeside the sea
The High PostClever Christian chaps, triumvirate of family men
Wittenberg HallDiscussing Christianity and beer
Weighing GlorySomewhere chasing his hat
Down To A Sunless SeaWhen Florida and Minnesota collide
Crash Into MeNo problems with authority
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The Judgment of Night
Alas, tonight my heart is weak, and my spirit fitful trembles
For if the mighty encharioted Sun doth flee, and unfathomed oceans
Are tugged and tossed by that solitary cold suspended eye
And in submission are govern'd by it, how much more I.
Dread lords do shut their spired gates to it, the wild men
Of countryside enclosed within their walls do gather, spears at hand.
Tall fires banked as a defense against cold fingers and biting, still,
Silent air, and stalking shrieking monsters told by near, now distant, wail.
By day the shadow is gentle and well-known, by night
Tis mystery, shifting, fleeting, dancing; for now they have no body
To which they must enshackled follow. They roam and haunt
The sleepless watchful eye, who watches lest foul shapes resolve and overcome.
The leafless trees, tall stately lords, stand outlined dark against the sky,
But do not move or twitch stretched limbs; while underneath their forest domains
Do stir, and hunters spring to snatch their prey: grey howling wolf
And ranging bear, and creatures no child's dream would dare.
The sleepless leering owl sees all and floats to frosted windowsill
He spies the sleeping body there and wills his wisdom of the air
To vulnerable unemployed minds: wild dreams of fright and care.
All the while he watches there, in lidless golden solemn stare.
Pale fires they dance the marshes treacherous, flickering torches
Wild dance the wooded copse and grove, their robed bearers
Do revel and shriek in their delight; the wine flows red, the blood
Flows crimson: they feel the gods, they are the gods now.
Bloodthirsty winged bats, souls riven from restless tortured body
Flit and gather, descending low to feed black hearts with treacherous foul deeds.
They swoop and seize what they would want and disappear: for nothing better
Conceals the darkness of their hearts than their prince, darkness himself.
Yet I lay alone in bed and meditate the peace and mercy of my Lord
Entreat his protection with noble commissioned guardian's sword
And then I sleep: For darkness the light doth fear and chase,
But Night fears, lest called to fall before the Light-Giver's face:
And cast into everlasting darkness accursed and imprisoned,
Night will be consumed by that on which it once did live.
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 E l s e w h e r e
Scientists find bugs that eat waste and excrete petrol (link added 06.16.08)
Crude oil is being created from genetically modified bug excretions.
Read it
Pringles can designer buried in his work (link added 06.03.08)
Designer of the Pringles can was cremated and his remains kept in a Pringles can.
Read it
P o e t r y
Contented Wi' Little, And Cantie Wi' Mair - Robert Burns
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;
But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the Deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae!
Come Ease or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:- ' Welcome, and welcome again!'
S t o r y
R e a d i n g / R e a d
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