This was my first time at the East Benton Fiddler's Convention and had a great time. Good ole family fun. We shall be making a day of this event next year. The last Sunday in July. Good people good fun and great music.
I picked the morning paper off the floor It was full of other people's little wars Wouldn't they like their peace Don't we get bored And we call for the three great stimulants Of the exhausted ones Artifice brutality and innocence Artifice and innocence No tanks have ever rumbled through these streetsand the drone of planes at night has never frightened me I keep the hours and the company that I please And we call for the three great stimulants Of the exhausted ones Artifice brutality and innocence Artifice and innocence Oh and deep in the night Our appetites find us Release us and bind us Deep in the night While madmen sit up building bombs And making laws and bars They'd like to slam free choice behind us I saw a little lawyer on the tube He said "It's so easy now anyone can sue" "Let me show you how your petty aggravations can profit you!" Call for the three great stimulants Of the exhausted ones Artifice brutality and innocence Artifice and innocence Oh and deep in the night Appetites find us Release us and blind usDeep in the night While madmen sit up building bombs And making laws and bars They're gonna slam free choice behind us Last night I dreamed I saw the planet flicker Great forests fell like buffalo Everything got sicker And to the bitter end Big business bickered And they call for the three great stimulants Of the exhausted ones Artifice brutality and innocence Artifice and innocence Oh these times, these times Oh these changing times Change in the heart of all mankind Oh these troubled times
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The Angler's Song
From the river's plashy bank,Where the sedge grows green and rank, And the twisted woodbine springs,Upward speeds the morning larkTo its silver cloud - and hark! On his way the woodman sings.On the dim and misty lakesGloriously the morning breaks, And the eagle's on his cloud: -Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooesTo its arms the chaste cold ooze, And the rustling reeds pipe loud.Where the embracing ivy holdsClose the hoar elm in its folds, In the meadow's fenny land,And the winding river sweepsThrough its shallows and still deeps, - Silent with my rod I stand.But when sultry suns are highUnderneath the oak I lie As it shades the water's edge,And I mark my line, awayIn the wheeling eddy, play, Tangling with the river sedge.When the eye of evening looksOn green woods and winding brooks, And the wind sighs o'er the lea, -Woods and streams, - I leave you then,While the shadow in the glen Lengthens by the greenwood tree.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression,Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded;This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.
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My images are currently displayed at Westons Gallery, Manasquan, New Jersey and The Gallery in Neptune City New Jersey.
Future showings August through September 17th 2011 at The Tides Hotel, Asbury Park New Jersey. At the bottom right of each page you can find the link for "older posting"
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