NASA
occasionally subtle
Origami Around
titsay
EXPECTATIONS
noise dept.
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YOU ARE THE REASON
shark vs the universe
d e v o n
if i look back, i am lost
art blog(derogatory)
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
cherry valley forever
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Kaledo Art
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trying on a metaphor
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Show & Tell
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@lettersbylisa
National Geographic March 1976
This is a picture of my father. While I was searching the internet for this particular issue of National Geographic that my father was in, I found it had been posted on a tumblr site, forages.tumblr.com. I was so happy when I found it. Thank you Forages!
Two Little Old Ladies
Two little old ladies from Berlin, Decided to go out for a spin. Forgetting to brake, They plummeted into a lake, And now they reside therein.
Two Little Old Ladies Written by Lisa Hashem Illustrated by Sara Richard
How Do I Loathe Thee?
How do I loathe thee, let me count the ways. When I see you standing there smiling at me, I regret that I did not run away and flee. When you open your mouth and I hear you speak, It disgusts me so much that I just want to shriek.
When I look at your face it makes me so sick, I get a deep yearning to smash it in with a brick. When you try to get near me it makes me quiver, I long to knock you down and rip out your liver.
When I see you laying there sleeping in our bed, My inner voice tells me to sever your head. I loathe thee immensely I can no longer wait for the day, To see you drop dead and your corpse rot and decay!
With these ill feelings I must now cut out your heart, And into the darkness your soul will depart. I have loathed thee for so long and in so many ways, Good riddance poisonous thorn and a Happy Valentine’s Day!
How Do I Loathe Thee? Written by Lisa Hashem Illustration by John Federis
A Beastly Ballerina
Written by Lisa Hashem
Illustrated by Melissa Stagi
Two Belligerent Brothers
Two belligerent brothers from Salt Lick, Tormented their sister with tricks. Making her shout, And kick all about, She bludgeoned them both with bricks.
Two Belligerent Brothers Written by Lisa Hashem Illustrated by Ken Lamug
Little Jack Killer
Written by Lisa Hashem
Illustrated by Elizabeth Rose Stanton
Little Bo Creep
Written by Lisa Hashem
Illustrated by Luis Pinto
The Talking Head
Written by Lisa Hashem
Illustrated by Daria Hlazatova
Dr. Seuss
"A person's a person, no matter how small!" Theodor Geisel, a.k.a. Dr. Seuss, would say. "Children want the same things we want. To laugh, to be challenged, to be entertained, and delighted."
Brilliant, playful, and always respectful of children, Dr. Seuss charmed his way into the consciousness of four generations of youngsters and parents. In the process, he helped kids learn to read.
Dr. Seuss was born Theodor Geisel in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1904. After attending Dartmouth College and Oxford University, he began a career in advertising. His advertising cartoons, featuring "Quick, Henry, the Flit!," appeared in leading American magazines. His first children's book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, hit the market in 1937, and the world of children's literature was changed forever!
In 1957, Seuss's The Cat in the Hat became the prototype for one of Random House's best-selling series - Beginner Books. This popular series combines engaging stories with outrageous illustrations and playful sounds to teach basic reading skills.
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1984 and three Academy Awards, Seuss was the author and illustrator of 44 childrens books, some of which have been made into audiocassettes, animated television specials, and videos for children of all ages. Even after his death in 1991, Dr. Seuss continues to be the best-selling author of children's books in the world.
Almost everything-all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure-these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.
Steve Jobs
Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of other's opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
Steve Jobs
Little Orphant Annie
by James Whitcomb Riley
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout--
An' the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;
An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
James Whitcomb Riley by IHS staff
Early Life
One of the most popular poets in American history, James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, the second son and third of six children raised by Reuben A. – a Civil War veteran and lawyer – and Elizabeth (Marine) Riley. At an early age, Riley discovered that he disliked the “iron discipline” of school life but enjoyed books. As a child, Riley often accompanied his father (a noted political orator) on trips to the Hancock County courthouse, where he observed the manners and mores of country society, as well as the countrified dialect he later used in his poetry.
Restless Youth
"In my dreamy way I did a little of a number of things fairly well – sang, played the guitar and violin, acted, painted signs and wrote poetry. My father did not encourage my verse-making for he thought it too visionary, and being a visionary himself, he believed he understood the dangers of following the promptings of the poetic temperament. I doubted if anything would come of the verse-writing myself.” - James Whitcomb Riley on his younger days
Leaving school at age 16, Riley first attempted to read law in his father's office. Possessed of a wanderlust, however, Riley turned to another pursuit – art. He and some other youths, which he dubbed “the Graphics,” traveled the Indiana countryside as sign, house and ornamental painters. He later joined a traveling wagon show as an advance agent. In 1873, Riley returned to Greenfield and worked for the town's newspaper. A year earlier, his poetry, under the name “Jay Whit,” had first appeared in the Indianapolis Saturday Mirror.
The Hoax
In April 1877, Riley joined the staff of the Anderson Democrat as associate editor. He continued to write poems, which were printed in other newspapers throughout central Indiana. Frustrated, however, at his poems being rejected by eastern periodicals, Riley concocted a scheme to prove that for a poem to become popular it had to be written by “a genius known to fame.” He wrote a poem, Leonainie, styled after Edgar Allan Poe, and convinced the editor of the Kokomo Dispatch to print it in his newspaper as a long-lost Poe poem. Unmasked as the poem’s true author, Riley was lambasted by rival newspapers and eventually fired from his Anderson job.
Fame and Fortune
Despite the notoriety he earned from the Poe poem hoax, Riley managed to find employment with another newspaper, the Indianapolis Journal. It was while on the Journal staff that he first won acclaim for his work, especially When the Frost Is on the Punkin,' part of a series he signed “Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone.” The series was published in book form in 1883 and met with popular success. Riley's characters – Old Aunt Mary, Little Orphant Annie, The Raggedy Man, Doc Sifers and Uncle Sidney – along with his sentimental style that harkened back to simpler times, struck a chord with a reading public struggling to come to grips with the industrial age. Riley increased his fame as a poet and helped himself financially through his appearances on the lecture circuit with, among others, Edgar W. (Bill) Nye.
The Hoosier Poet
Riley, whose books were regularly published by Indianapolis's Bobbs-Merrill Company, became one of the best-loved poets in America. A lifelong bachelor, Riley spent most of his days of fame as the paying guest in a Lockerbie Street home owned by the Nickum and Holstein families, residing there from 1893 until his death in 1916. The home became a regular visiting place for Indiana schoolchildren and famous figures like perennial Socialist presidential candidate and labor organizer Eugene Debs (who enjoyed raising a glass of spirits with Riley whenever possible). Riley's fame grew so great that his birthday was celebrated by students across the country. Upon his death on July 22, 1916, more than 35,000 people filed past his casket as it lay in state under the dome at the Indiana State Capitol
'Twas the Fright Before Christmas
‘Twas the fright before Christmas, when all through the house Every creature was stirring right down to the louse. The stockings were strung by the chimney like a snare, Ready to hang St. Nicholas by his hair.
The devils were hiding underneath their beds, While visions of blood-drippings danced in their heads. And Mama full of fear, I grabbed my strap, Upon the rattling of chains, and a rap tap, tap, tap.
When out in the living room there was a loud shatter, I jumped out of bed to a horrible splatter. I ran to the window and got quite a gash, The ghoul that was standing there gave me a slash.
The monstrous beast on the blood-splattered snow Cast a spooky shadow on the objects below. When what to my horrified eyes did appear, But eight tiny demons creeping quietly near.
With an evil old leader, carrying a pick, I knew right away this wasn’t St. Nick. More rapid than ghosts his evil ones they came And he bellowed and growled, and called them by name!
“Now, Slasher! Now, Slayer! Now, Killer and Mutilator! On, Gutter! On, Mangler! On Strangler and Obliterator! To the center of this house! Right down the hall! Now snatch away! Snatch away! Snatch away all!”
As rotting flesh slowly decomposes and returns to the earth, When it meets with insects, it becomes rather dearth. So down to the basement the evil ones descended, With the trunk full of rotting corpses, their journey ended.
And then, in such horror, I heard from below, Scratching and gnawing, and then a loud blow. As I looked down the basement stairs, I was rather confound, I saw in the corner a huge grave mound.
The evil old leader’s hands dripping with blood, His clothes they were torn and covered in crud. A bundle of bones he had flung on his back, Then he suddenly opened it and began to snack.
His eyes-how they were so black, his dimples large holes! His cheeks were so pale, his nose like massive moles! His huge cracked mouth was oozing green slime, The beard on his chin was overtaken with grime.
The stump of a bone, he clenched in his teeth, The stench was so strong it encased him like a sheath. He had a monstrous face and a massively large gut That hung past his knees with a large gaping cut.
He was grossly distorted, a frighteningly evil being, And I cringed when I saw him, I wanted to run fleeing! A piercing look from his eyes, that began glowing red, My heart began to pound and I knew I was dead.
He spoke not a word, as he began digging up the ground, And he piled the corpses right in a huge mound. And sticking his finger inside of his nose, He peered straight through me while I stood there froze.
He trudged up the stairs, with his demons all in a row, Right out the front door they went, ever so slow. But I heard him growl as he disappeared out of sight, Good riddance to all, on this wonderful fright night!
‘Twas the Fright Before Christmas Written by Lisa Hashem Illustrated by Evan Heasman
Gorgeous Christmas Tree
Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered world, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never-nevermore’.”
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or friend!” I shrieked upstarting –
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
Thomas Kinkade's Home For The Holidays