Members of the message board wrote to a picture this week and these are the results.

Cobwebs and Dust

By Tom (

Cobwebs, dust not used in a long time
clean brushes, dull pencils must be summer time
things to do, flowers to tend
oh, maybe in the fall

empty cans and containers
holding stuff, look just fine
utile is the word
just another hobby when not busy
wonder where the spider is?

Idle Tools

By Sharon (

Idle tools await
For someone to put them to use
Spider does

Emery Boards and Pencils for Eyebrows

By susi (

Emery boards and pencils for eyebrows
Paint brushes washed and left to dry
She tried her hand at water colors
Not too well, but she gave it a try

Doesn't everyone have these places
To put odds and ends they sometimes use?
Or perhaps they think, "I'll use that again
It's something I don't want to lose"

Holders for this and that and other things
At least I'll know where they are
Whatchimacallits and thingamabobs
End up in odd boxes or a Mason jar

Spider Webs in a Cup

By Amy (

silky threads starting to form
oh a baby spider is born
sending out threads to start a web
do spiders ever go to bed

they weave and bob all the time
the webs they weave can be so sublime
Ive been hooked for a long while
everytime i see a web it brings to me a smile

I dont know why this is so
but thats the way i am as on my walks i go.

Pencils on a Window Sill

By Marilyn-Lara (

She kept a journal and wrote in it every day,
scrawls on some of the pages,
words that only she could decipher
as her head bent low
'neath the soft glow of lamplight
that lit up the table
where she sat each evening
after she'd had her meal,
where she sat with her thoughts,
sometimes gazing for long spells
out the window until
the darkness made it so she
could no longer see
the crooked apple tree that
grew next to the house,
the home of robins and sparrows,
and an occasiona chickadee
whose shrill little voice
would cause her to reach
for a pencil and jot
a few words in her book.

Although she has been gone
for many years,
her pencils still sit on the windowsill.

By Norma (

Just Two

In an empty old flaking garage
On a lonely, dusty shelf
A dreaming new Picasso’s tools,
Told another side to Grandpa’s self.

He thought one day when he could quit,
He’d explore the remembrances in his heart,
And put them down to be found,
Leaving his family his mental “art.”

He never learned to read and write,
A calloused hands man was he,
But he had an eye and feelings, too,
Longing to say what he’d seen.

He painted one of a covered wagon
He recalled when he was a child,
With pansies growing around its wheels,
Along with bluebonnets wild.

He painted a peachtree from golden fall,
And a mound of yellowing grass,
Where ran a boy, his firstborn son,
Gone now with his own pretty lass.

Two pictures in his personal trunk,
Then winter came and claimed him,
Dusty and silent are his brushes,
He wears now a jeweled diadem.

By Dee (

Just Old Cans

Just old cans there
brushes that are bare
Spiders spun webs around
They ceep but there is no sound
How long have they stood there

By Mercedes (

Just Old Cans

The light from the north window arrives every day as usual. Narrow stairs that rise to the third story and his attic studio are seldom used now. An unfinished painting, the one of his granddaughter ends abruptly in the same way his life ended on that rain slick highway.

His retreat from a world not only spinning away from him but spinning out of control, has surrendered to the cold and foggy dampness of Monterey. Squatters who, in the absence of the radiating oil heater that kept him warm and cozy all year, have taken over every corner.

His canvas and his brushes wait for his return.

By Cottage Lady (


With the brush he had painted her face,
so full of serenity and grace,
with the pens he had written her love letters,
journaled his thoughts of love and loss.
His hands now crippled with arthritis
can neither paint nor write,
but nothing can erase his memories
of his beloved wife.
The cups and mugs with brushes,
pens and pencils, wrapped with spider webs,
sit silently, knowing their time is past,
usefulness done, his work finished at last.


For Any Human to Read

Head of the Class


Begin the Beguine

Mystery of Life

Spring at the Greenhouse (Slideshow)

Dear Spring

Spring Flowers

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Graphics by Marilyn