Someone is always waiting ?

#Chris Barber: trombone, vocals #John Crocker: clarinet #Pat Halcox: trumpet, vocals #Vic Pitt: upright bass #Paul Sealey: guitar, banjo #John Slaughter: guitar #Alan 'Stickey' Wickett: drums #Ian Wheeler: clarinet, saxophone, harmonica

A comma after "crocodiles" would imply that the writer is addressing crocodiles–telling them to not swim there......😆 Always be cautious, as it is often an awkward warning sign meaning: Danger, crocodiles are here; do not swim.

Poetry In the indigo cloth of night, small lanterns blink heated signals for possible mates. Tumbling from the green-stained shade of willows, sparks stitch the air in zigzag extravagance. Stars burn above with nuclear fire, pulse across unfathomable miles to touch us with another silent presence. Reflections shine from our eyes, shower the lake in gold. In our netted tent, we lie under the bright canopy of constellations, and though we can't find the Big Dipper in our southern view, the red eye of Antarus beams and The Swan flies, wings outstretched, long neck like an arrow. Content, we close our eyes and listen to the unseen sounds—skitter of small creatures, soughing pines, shushhh of katydids. A wolf's wail echoes from the hills. I reach over for your outstretched hand, notice your hair—silvered, as if the moon had run her fingers through it. The fireflies bed down. We, too, zip up our tent as the soft fall of rain recites evening's last poem. by Mary Jo Balistreri

See, the grass is full of stars,  Fallen in their brightness;  Hearts they have of shining gold,  Rays of shining whiteness.  Buttercups have honeyed hearts,  Bees they love the clover,  But I love the daisies’ dance  All the meadow over.  Blow, O blow, you happy winds,  Singing summer’s praises,  Up the field and down the field  A-dancing with the daisies. by Marjorie Pickthall

“Speak to me: I will spend my lifetime trying to understand you.” ― Kamand Kojouri

Around the Corner Around the corner I have a friend,In this great city that has no end;Yet days go by, and weeks rush on,And before I know it, a year is gone,And I never see my old friend's face,For Life is a swift and terrible race.He knows I like him just as wellAs in the days when I rang his bellAnd he rang mine. We were younger then,And now we are busy, tired men:Tired with playing a foolish game,Tired with trying to make a name."Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,Just to show that I'm thinking of him."But tomorrow comes--and tomorrow goes,And the distances between us grows and grows. Around the corner!--yet miles away . . . "Here's a telegram, sir . . ."                                                     "Jim died today."And that's what we get, and deserve in the end: Around the corner, a vanished friend. by Charles Hanson Towne

“I want to write my own eulogy, and I want to write it in Latin. It seems only fitting to read a dead language at my funeral.” ― Jarod Kintz

for his first fishing expedition with Papa and Dad on the shores of Shadow Lake by Carl Palmer

A Lily Light Afternoon A shaft of sunshine streams through magnolia clouds glides over a sleepy village streaks shadows on patchwork meadows and warms textured straw bales wrapped in harvest light.  Milk laden cows  graze clover fields as sheep stud the hillside.  Sprinting brambles  prickle wild hedgerows swollen with purple fleshy fruits. Song birds bolt from beech to sycamore humming melodies blossoming the breeze on a lily light afternoon. by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

“Ocean separates lands, not souls..” ― Munia Khan

“My whole life has been spent walking by the side of a bottomless chasm, jumping from stone to stone. Sometimes I try to leave my narrow path and join the swirling mainstream of life, but I always find myself drawn inexorably back towards the chasm's edge, and there I shall walk until the day I finally fall into the abyss.” ― Edvard Munch

Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through. The dusty attic spider-clad He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles Into the laddered hay-loft smiles. Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook. Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes. by Robert Louis Stevenson