Sexy Celebrity

I guess my vote for sexiest celebrity will go to Claudia Schiffer.

There’s just something about those Deutscherin Frauen that does it for me.

Was kann ich sagen?  *shrug*

Morticia From WordPress

Heather in her previous gig, sans spectacles.

 

 Considering that her previous gig was 40 years ago, don’t you think she’s held her looks remarkably well?  Me too.

Cara Mia!

Pretty. Just “Pretty”

I like pretty women and girls.  I like them a lot.  I like to see them on the street, in the shopping centers and supermarkets, in the library, and at the park.  I can’t help that.  I’m a healthy and lusty man.  I like to watch the young ones (whom I’ll call “girls,” thank you).  I watch and remember that I was once a young one myself (whom I’ll call “boy” thank you again).  and, then I remember that I am a grandfather and so I just have pleasant dreams of my youth and smile.

And then there’s the exciting aspect of the sheer subjectivity of beauty!  Don’t you think?  What is “pretty?”  What is “beautiful?”  Beauty is in the shape and form.  Yes.  But, and, perhaps more importantly, it’s in the eyes.  It’s in the smile.  It’s in the facial expression.  It’s, FACE IT GUYS, it’s in the way she carries herself.  It’s in her confidence and in the fact that she thinks she’s desirable.  You know it, and you better bet that I know it TOO.

And, then I see a mature woman (40 to 60) and think “Hey!  That’s more MY ballpark.” And I’ll smile, but at the female in question, not to myself.  And who knows?  If she smiles back, then I’ll speak.  And if she speaks back . . . Then Who Knows?! 

Thank you dear Lord for pretty women and girls.  I do like pretty women and girls.  I can’t wait until Spring when the bulky coats get left in the closet.

Come on, ladies, smile at a 50 year old bohemian gryphon.  Give me a memory.

gryph

Peyton and the High Plains

Here is something I haven’t done before, but writing the story about the hawks, got me thinking about when I lived in Colorado and the high plains there–with the mountains and the sky so close you could touch them.

I lived on the plains with a mailing address of Peyton, CO.  I was nowhere near and never saw the actual township (Population: a huge 71!.)

I was way out on the plains.  I was ten miles east from another town called Falcon.  Falcon was on a main state highway and was much better populated and with a commercial base.  Falcon itself was ten miles further east from Colorado Springs, which sits directly at the foot of Pikes Peak and Cheyenne Mountain (NORAD)

Here are some pictures of the high plains, Peyton, Pikes Peak, and Cheyenne Mountain.

Enjoy.

Pikes Peak

Cheyenne Mountain (NORAD) *note the attenae

Kubla Khan

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
   Down to a sunless sea.                                             5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,                         10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted                           15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst                             20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion                            25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!                                   30

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,                                    35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,                                 40
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me.
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
That with music loud and long,                                      45
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!                               50
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty

Ode on a Grecian Urn

 

THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,                     

  Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,             

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express                    

  A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:            

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape        

  Of deities or mortals, or of both,                              

    In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?                          

  What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?   

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?             

    What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

                                                                                

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard            

  Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;         

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,                

  Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:                           

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

  Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;             

    Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,               

Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;      

    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,   

  For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!                   

                                                                                

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed               

  Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;              

And, happy melodist, unwearièd,                               

  For ever piping songs for ever new;                         

More happy love! more happy, happy love!              

  For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,                      

    For ever panting, and for ever young;                    

All breathing human passion far above,                      

  That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,          

    A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.           

                                                                                

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?                      

  To what green altar, O mysterious priest,                 

Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,                 

  And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?            

What little town by river or sea-shore,                       

  Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,                    

    Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?                   

And, little town, thy streets for evermore                    

  Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell                         

    Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.                   

                                                                                

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede                      

  Of marble men and maidens overwrought,               

With forest branches and the trodden weed;              

  Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought          

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!                                 

  When old age shall this generation waste,                 

    Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe                

  Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,      

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all                    

    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

 

John Keats