Poetry Spotted In Passing . . .

.
.
.
What's not to love about a window like this one ?
.
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
Or a door like this ?
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
Or a hand-painted wall ?
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
Or a sign like this ?
.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
Seems to be a lot of visual poetry out there yet.
.
.

Dream Houses to Ponder . . . Over Yonder . . .

.
.
.
One or two of you, perhaps three or four
Said you had enjoyed the dream house in the post before
That you had admired the broken down door
The failing shutters crumbling stones peeling paint galore
So I thought if this is what you like
Then perhaps you should have some more
That you may know this is no passing fling
This love for houses in various states of abandoning
This is not puppy love this is a serious thing
The flame burns deep in my heart smolders in my bones
I think of them late at night while sitting up alone
These houses in every degree of disrepair
Once full of warmth now feel only despair
As water and wind and frost colder than they can bear
Perform the slow work of demolition without care
Stone by stone, frame by frame
Once you fall in love with such a place
Then who is to blame
That you will never, ever again be the same
So I dream that one day I will find one for sale
Where I can live out my days
Quietly sitting down to finish this tale
.
.
(Maison à Vendre = House for Sale)
.
.





































.
Maybe it will have shutters like these
All boarded up against the cold breeze
.
.

.
.
.
The back yard may be a bottlefield where piles of glass have grown
Perhaps I'll manage to add a few of my own
.
.






































.
.
.
Some people call an empty bottle a dead soldier
If such was the case then this was a massacre
.
.

.
.
.
Nevertheless I would put out pots of flowers in a crumbling alcove
To proclaim loud and clear a message of love
.
.

.
.
.
I think such places must be inhabited by men
Who go out each day to feed birds again and again
For what else is left in life when one is sixty plus ten ?
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Lace curtains allow the light to come in
But hide the room within from passing glances
.
.






































.
Yes, I'd like to come home to an auld place like this
Throw open the shutters, give the missus a kiss
Sit by the window for a while with a drink and reminisce
About all the dream houses there are in the world to miss
.
.

.
.
.

Out Rambling Around . . .

.
.
.
This afternoon I was given orders by my daughter that her immediate happiness depended on being driven quite some distance to a friend's house, so despite the rising gasoline prices of late, I obliged her, as it also gave me a good reason to get out and get some fresh, if somewhat freezing, air visiting some places that I hadn't seen before. Like the church in the village of Versigny.
.
.






































.
.
.
Where there was an odd sort of gargoyle with a jester's cap and a pointed nose . . .
.
.






































.
.
.
Stepping up close to the base of the tower gave another perspective, and a view of the dark underbelly of another gargoyle.
.
.






































.
.
.
The Chateau of Versigny was built back in the 1600's.
.
.

.
.
.
A plaque at the entrance announced the role that it had played in World War One. I wasn't particularly looking for more WWI history sites today, but they were looking for me I guess.
.
.

.
.
.
For the past few weeks I've been remiss, I'm guilty, I've missed a few episodes of Weekend Reflections over at James' place, so am diving back in with a little splash with this scene from the moat around the entrance to a lovely property at Droizelles, just up the road from Versigny.
.
.






































.
.
.
Looking the other way along the same stretch of water, another reflection. Weekend Reflections rocks !
.
.






































.
.
.
Though I searched the web I could not find any mention of what transpired at or near Droizelles on 9 September, 1914, at the start of the war, though one site had a list of the names 49 men of the 317th Infantery Regiment who died at Droizelles that day very early in the war. Ten of those men and their Captain are buried in the graveyard around the church.
.
.






































.
.
.
The broken plaque on Captain Paradis' tomb spoke in eloquent silence of how paradise was lost and "France" was cut in two. He was awarded the Legion of Honor.
.
.

.
.
.
The church in Droizelles has one of the loveliest crucifixion sculptures I've ever come across.
.
.






































.
.
.
The textures of aging stone and lichens multiplied the character of the original carving toward the realm of the infinite. Rarely has a religiously oriented work of art moved me like this did.
.
.


.
.
.
Passing through an out of the way and obscure village which we had no good reason to visit, other than that it was visible on the map, we were rewarded by a dream house just waiting for a lover of dream houses to drive by and notice her. What is not to love about this place ? The window pane on the left side of the door was missing, the gauze curtain was blowing in the wind.
.
.

.
.
.
On the way home the sky caught fire . . .
.
.

.
.
.

A Little of This, A Little of That . . .

.
.
To continue with the theme thread in red from the last post, while out in the wilds of western Pennsylvania the other day, this lovely red property caught my eye. That red truck would've looked just fine parked in front of this place. Maybe if I was good enough with photoshop I could make that happen, but for now you'll have to see it in your mind's eye. I can just imagine a lady in a red dress leaning up against one of these porch pillars, watching the traffic go by. This is most certainly one for the growing catalog of dream houses which can be found in these pages. If you'd like to see more of my dream houses, just click here. For a little music to go along with this old red house, there's a video at the bottom of this post for your pleasure.
.
.
.

.
Even in the pouring rain I thought this place was beautiful. Would've loved to see the inside, and whatever traces past lives might have left there, but it was posted "Private Property", so I decided to leave well enough alone. Looked like the roof was about ready to collapse anyway.
.
.
.
.
So, yes, memories, red souvenirs. Red houses, red trucks, ladies in red, red flowers on a tombstone. Last Sunday I had the very good fortune to be able to meet James who is the mind and fine photographer behind Newtown Area Photo and the Weekend Reflections series. The agreed meeting place was at one corner of Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris where we spent a couple of hours strolling, chatting, and photographing, before taking off on a hike through Belleville and up to the Buttes Chaumont park. A fine day, with many photographs from Paris recorded from two different perspectives. He has a second blog called Something Sighted where he said he'll be posting some photos from Paris when he gets back home in a couple of weeks time. These red flowers, ceramic and natural, are just one tiny souvenir from that most enjoyable afternoon. Thanks James for taking a day to spend with me !
.
.
.





































.
.
.
While we were walking through Belleville we got to talking about the book and movie "The Red Balloon", which we had both enjoyed as children. I wondered out loud if that story could have contributed in some small way to my wanting to return to Paris later in life, and James desire to spend time in Paris on vacation. Just a little while later I saw some kids playing with a red ball.
.
.
.
.
.
Not actually a balloon, but close enough to have me reminiscing about that story.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Nearby there were red posters glued on walls, remnants of the protests that shook France up fairly well over the past couple of weeks, over retirement reform questions. This one says, "Our Republic, Same ground, same rights !" Pasted over the poster was a request for any information about a young man named Nicolas who disappeared after 20 October. Did he run away ? Foul play ? Mysteries . . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Tax the profits ! Retirement is at age 60 !" When you look at retirement age or life expectancy in some other countries, these folks don't know how good they have it, imho.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Right by the entrance to Père Lachaise cemetery, these two red squirrels were caught with their arms crossed, keeping an eye on passers-by. Suspicious if you ask me. I couldn't help think of our blogging squirrel friend, the one and only Lone Grey Squirrel himself, out in Malaysia.
.
.
.





































.
.
.
.
.
.
And to top it all off, Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock doing Red House . . . Wishing you rosy red dreams.
.
.

.
.
.

Economic Crisis : Cars of Our Times . . .

.
.
I had read a certain amount over the past couple of years about the economic crisis which has been hitting the United States fairly hard, but it wasn't until I got there, and got out on the streets that I started seeing real examples of where the crisis has driven many folks. People are driving older cars, waiting much longer before trading in their old cars for a new one. I saw many fairly ancient cars still in service. Perhaps a few of them had been resurrected from the dead even. Nevertheless, some of them were not without a certain charm . . .
.
.






















To quote the title of a favorite book of mine, Another Roadside Attraction, it looks like trash removal services have been cut back in many places, no doubt also a result of the crisis. Piles of car parts by the roadside were a common sight.
.
.






















I knew the housing sector had been particularly hard hit, and even today on CNN I read where foreclosure sales are booming in the USA, but some of the housing people were living in really surprised me . . .
.
.






















Yes, some cars parked by the roadside had definitely seen better days . . . this one is in the fixer-upper category. And I can't imagine things are going to get much better as long as the total US debt (as depicted on the Debt Clock site ) is at 54 trillion dollars and growing. As long as international finance continues to be conducted by major financial institutions as though they are playing in a casino. Crisis ? What crisis ?
.
.






















.
.

Fibber's Tavern . . .

.

.

Without further ado, am going to get into some of the photos from the trip. For some reason this place really amused me, and had me chuckling while rambling down the road for days afterwards. Fibber's Tavern, ok, but Fibber's Motel ??? You really have to wonder what kind of place this was. Before it went out of business. I don't actually recall seeing many combination tavern, restaurant, motel type establishments in all my travels over the years. Eat, drink, and be merry, ay ? And it still has me laughing here now . . . Guess I'm just easily amused. But what I really loved about this place are the two chairs by the motel room door. They just bowled me over. A lovely couple, telling little white lies to each other there for all eternity.

.

And as a funny PS to this, I just did a Google search on Fibber's Tavern, and it comes up with a site named smokinghotwaitress.com ; will wonders never cease !
.

.

.
.

.
.

.
.

.

.

Still Searching For My Dream House . . .

.
.
Long ago, in another life,
While out exploring back roads
In the state of Pennsylvania... Penn's woods
I found this house standing abandoned
By a small river
Waiting quietly for whatever
Fate might have been holding in store for her
.
Tomorrow I am going back to Pennsylvania
And will be out again on the back roads
The forgotten roads
Looking for my dream house
Looking for something I know is there
Though I don't know what or where it is
I am still searching
Will know it when I see it
But it haunts my dreams
And no doubt will do so forever . . .
There are worse burdens to bear . . .
.
So, yes, for the next three weeks I will be travelling. A heavy week of selling straightjackets, followed by two weeks of vacation. I may be somewhat absent from the blogosphere, depending on where wifi is free, depending on the imponderable variables of roadhouse lodgings, depending on the gods of serendipity and travel. The camera is coming with me, and I hope to bring home a little material for many future blog posts . . . for your pleasure. And mine. (and as Steve at Bloggertropolis would certainly add... for Alice Roberts pleasure also... whoever she is... according to Steve by including her name in a blog post, traffic on the blog has been known to go through the roof !)(and if you're wondering what that was all about, do drop by Steve's place, there is a link in my sidebar)
.
Anyway, this house was photographed on a backwoods road in Pennsylvania a little over 20 years ago. When I was still shooting black and white film... I hope to see it again. Or something like it . . .
.
.





































.
.





































.
.






















.
.

Writing on the Wall . . .

.
.
If you were to travel to the small town of Arras in northern France, and managed to find this facade of one of my dream houses, you would be very close to the stretch of wall where the following photos were taken. Mysteries abound in this life, and messages left on walls, then torn off, leaving enigmatic traces, have always caught my eye, and can easily tempt me to stop and tarry, trying to gain some insight . . .
.
.





































.
.






















.

.

It was on the tip of my tongue

But I couldn't quite remember

A message I'd seen long ago

Perhaps in the pages of a book

From the library

Checked out in childhood

Perhaps from a bathroom stall

Where messages of vital importance

Were scrawled that we saw

While on the road across a continent

Stopping where we could for sustenance

And for relief in squalid roadside restrooms

In campgrounds where all walks of life

Rubbed shoulders and left messages

On walls or scribbled on napkins

In a chrome covered diner

I just can't quite bring it into focus

There was something that seemed

Momentous, inspiring, nearly infinite

Yet the more I try to hear the words again

The further they recede through a mirage

In the morass of clamoring words

All vying for attention

All claiming to be the true word the one word

A cacophonous howling of wolves

And yet the essence of the message

Hovers just out of sight

On the fringe of the forest

Just in the shadow beyond the edge of the trees

Refusing to emerge into the daylight

Coy, teasing, infuriating, maddening

I want to yell myself hoarse

I heard the message long ago

But didn't think to write it down

Now it has gone on to hidden realms

Leaving just the faintest memory

Which I wish I could share with you

But I wouldn't know how to begin

To describe it

So I search for it always

On walls

Hoping against hope

That the writing on a wall somewhere

Will serve as the key

To unlock this memory

For now only the walls remain

And their mysteries
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Exile is not a material thing, it is a moral entity.

All corners of the Earth are worthy.

All places where dreaming happens are ... ???

As long as the place is ... ???

And the horizon is ... ???

.

.

.