Skip to main content

I support gay marriage. I believe they have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us.


Another day, another photograph of rigging. You will note that today, there is no frigging in the rigging, as the navy has just passed a law against such activities.

Henry and I did a little experiment before: poem writing. After a long and arduous explanation of rhyme and metre, we set about writing his first ever poem! Henry supplied the core concept, and the key words that rhyme, I banged it together into something [hopefully] servicable. Without further ado...

Henry's First Ever Poem

If I were a little fish
I would have but just one wish
my one wish would be to fly
doing such would make me cry
Labels:

Comments

Brian Miller said…
cute poem. i hope you and your family have a great new year!
31 December 2009 at 12:24
yamini said…
Luv to dear Henry and I wish that his wish comes true some day so that he can fly all the way to Delhi to meet his fans here. :-))
31 December 2009 at 15:24
Roddy said…
Can a fish cry? You would never see the tears. Perhaps it was faking it. Flying fish I have seen.
31 December 2009 at 19:49
Nathalie H.D. said…
Hilarious title to this post.
I laughed heartily !!!!

Great first poem too. You two have a future together!
31 December 2009 at 20:23
Kris McCracken said…
Brian, fingers crossed!
1 January 2010 at 17:58
Kris McCracken said…
Nathalie, we're poets and we know it!
1 January 2010 at 17:59
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...
62 comments
Read more

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...
50 comments
Read more

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...
5 comments
Read more