HIS THIS THE WORLDS TALLEST SNOWMAN

The world’s tallest snowman — 113 feet, 7 inches — was built in this western Maine town back in 1999. In the photo below the tallest snowman, “Angus, King of the Mountain”, stands tall over a crowd of people gathered to attend a ceremony in Bethel, Maine, in February, 19 1999.

Now the Bethel Area Chamber of Commerce will attempt to build the world’s tallest snowman (snowwoman) again. It is told that the work will start on Jan. 22 and take up to 20 days to complete, said Executive Director Robin Zinchuk.

“We definitely learned a lot the first time around and that’s helping us know what we need to do. We really didn’t know what we were doing last time,” Zinchuk said. The giant snowman was named “Angus, King of the Mountain” in honor of former Gov. Angus King. Angus was so big that his nose was 8 feet long, his hat was 20 feet in diameter and the scarf around his neck was 120 feet long. His eyes were 4-foot wreaths, and his smile was made from automobile tires.

There was also a raffle as to when Angus would melt, which with our Maine weather, was anyone’s guess. The official melt date was June 10, 1999. The raffle was divided by 22 winners. Fashion ideas being tossed around for a giant snowwoman include making a skirt out of snow, adding a pink scarf and painting tires lipstick red for her mouth.

Jim Sysko, the chief architect and engineer nine years ago, will again lead the construction team. He’ll be assisted by an engineer and a longtime snowmaker from the nearby Sunday River ski resort, which has a new snowmaking gun that could help ease the effort.

For a name, the chamber is considering holding a naming contest. The giant snowman was named by a radio station disc jockey. “I haven’t heard from Angus (King) yet, but I’m sure he will be thrilled that we’re doing it again. He’s all about doing fun things,” Zinchuk said.

Detail of the to-be-dethroned tallest snowman are:

• Height 113 ft. & 7 inches tall
• 9,000,000 lbs
• 200,000 cubic feet of snow
• 4 ft. wreathes as eyes
• 6 ft. of chicken wire & muslin for the carrot nose
• 6 automobile tires as the mouth
• 20 ft. fleece hat
• 120 ft. fleece scarf
• 3 skidder tires for the buttons
• 2 – 10 ft. trees for arms

The snowman’s hat was made by seventh graders at Telstar Middle School. His six-foot nose was made by local elementary school students and as a special touch, has the imprints of the student’s hands.

Maine’s governor, Angus King, whom “Angus, King of the Mountain” was named after, came to participate in the ceremony to honor the citizens of Bethel who achieved their goal and “made it” into the Guiness World Book of Records for the World’s Largest Snowman. He stated he felt honored to have had the snowman named after him, but wondered if “Willie Melt” might not have been a more appropriate name! (source )

The snowman is listed in Guinness Book of Records 2002, page123.

CAN THIS BE THE TALLEST SNOWMAN

To My Valentine

My love for you is deeper than the deepest ocean known

My love for you is higher than the astronauts have flown

My love for you is wider than the widest sea

My love for you is sweeter than the honey from the bees

My love for you grows stronger every passing day

And in these simple words I am trying to say

That my love for you will past till time is through

For there is a love in my heart for no-one but you

And so I am sending you this Valentine

In the hope that one day you will be mine

Ron Martin

 

Lest we forget

Have we forgotten their ultimate sacrifice?
Of these men and women who died in their millions?
Brave and true, without question,
proud to be British, not ashamed to be Christian.

So many years have passed,
it seems our memory doesn’t last.
Forgetting these courageous people, to our shame.
Why can’t we remember their names?

How short is our memory?
That we have forgotten them already?
Died in their millions fighting for our freedom,
believing in our free democratic ideology.

What does it take to wake up this country,
to rise once again from its complacency?
How much more do we take, before we decide to fight,
for our beliefs, our traditions and our liberty?

by Simon Icke UK

 

HAPPY DIWALI

WHO IS THIS GUY CHECK HIM OUT ON NOVEMBER 5TH

WHO’S KNOCKING AT YOUR DOOR THIS HALLOWEEN

Mother

 

A sweet enchanting smile

Warm and tender charms

The things I remember

While safe in mother’s arms

 

Protected from all troubles

Comforted when in pain

Kissed gently on the cheek

To make all better again

 

Guided through my infant life

Of things I should not do

Taught me right from wrong

And shown things old and new

 

I want to thank you mother

I cherished all the years

Even when I was punished

And cried so many tears

 

And now that I am older

My love for you is strong

Although you are no longer with me

To the Spirit world you have gone

 

I know you will always be near me

For your love will never die

At times when I need you

I will always feel you nigh

 

I should like to say thank you

For all that you have done

For I will always cherish you

From your grateful Son.

 

Malcolm Bradshaw

Many Voices

~
I am in this room. A place where

People gather often alone. There are

Separate moments taking place

Everywhere. Yet it all seems close

~

In each interaction a choice is made

To say hello with our eyes or just

Toss our glance back to a computer

Screen …

~

We all have a façade that we

Work really hard to contain

Now if we can let go the negative

Connotation – façade, fake, pretend

~

We might recognize value in each individual

~

Interaction

Table crossing

Physical adjustment

Spilled coffee

Unmuted favorite song

– and now listen –

~

We don’t have to be different

We can all love and laugh

We can avoid the insecure scrutiny

That makes pretend our reality

~

By being present, we do exist

Long enough for the person nearby

To recognize a feature of your identity

So, that isolation might be in vain

~

Unless, of course

If we take a long walk in the forest

Continue going forward over brush and tree root and rocks

Come upon the edge of a cliff after miles of hiking

Without looking back

We then do find ourselves alone without anyone seemingly …

… Watching

~

Nature’s grasp upon our soul

Allows our physicality to interact

As human beings God’s peace exists

What happens when listening walks away?

 

Thom Amundsen 2013

Promote yourself

Before Summer Rain by Rainer Maria Rilke – Famous poets

Rainer Maria Rilke

1875–1926 

Rainer Maria Rilke was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language.. Bohemian-Austrian poetRilke was the only child of a German-speaking family in Prague, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. His father was a retired officer in the Austrian army who worked as a railroad official; his mother, a socially ambitious and possessive woman. At age eleven Rilke began his formal schooling at a military boarding academy, and in 1891, less than a year after transferring to a secondary military school, he was discharged due to health problems, from which he would suffer throughout his life. He immediately returned to Prague, to find that his parents had divorced in his absence. Shortly thereafter he began receiving private instruction toward passing the entrance exams for Prague’s Charles-Ferdinand University. In 1894 his first book of verse,Leben und Lieder: Bilder und Tagebuchblatter, was published.

Before Summer Rain

something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls with their ancient portraits glide
away from us cautiously as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now:
the chill uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid

 by: Rainer Maria Rilke

 YOUR FAVOURITE POEM sent in by you, what's yours ?

The Month of April

 

 The Month of April

“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.”
–  Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time, 1926 

 

“And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.”
–  Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sensitive Plant 

 

“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly–and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
–  Omar Khayyám

 

“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
–  Mark Twain

 

Note:  This webpage is now updated and maintained at a new location. 

 

“Spring would not be spring without bird songs.”
–  Francis M. Chapman

 

“That God once loved a garden we learn in Holy writ.
And seeing gardens in the Spring I well can credit it.”
–  Winifred Mary Letts

 

“O Day after day we can’t help growing older.
Year after year spring can’t help seeming younger.
Come let’s enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen.”
–  Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring  

 

“The April rain, the April rain,
Comes slanting down in fitful showers,
Then from the furrow shoots the grain,
And banks are fledged with nestling flowers;
And in grey shawl and woodland bowers
The cuckoo through the April rain
Calls once again.”
–  Mathilde Blind, April Rain    

 

“Keep your faith in all beautiful things; in the sun when it is hidden, in the Spring when it is gone.”
–  Roy R. Gilson

 

“Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, 
Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, 
Through all the moaning chimneys, and ‘thwart all the hollows and angles 
Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. 

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow 
Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibers that lift 
Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, 
Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift. 

Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire 
(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes– 
Rapture of life ineffable, perfect–as if in the brier, 
Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.”
–  William Dean Howell, Earliest Spring 

 

“When the time is ripe for certain things,
these things appear in different places in the manner
of violets coming to light in the early spring.”
–  Farkas Bolyai 

 

“April’s rare capricious loveliness.”
–  Julia Dorr

 

“You start in April and cross to the time of May
One has you as it leaves, one as it comes
Since the edges of these months are yours and defer
To you, either of them suits your praises.
The Circus continues and the theatre’s lauded palm,
Let this song, too, join the Circus spectacle.”
–  Ovid, Fasti (V.185-190, CE)

 

“Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sellp-song on our roof at night–
And I love the rain.”
–  Langston Hughes, 1902-1967, April Rain Song

 

“Sweet April showers
Do spring May flowers.”
–  Thomas Tusser, A Hundred Good Points of Husbandry, 1557  

 

“Every spring is the only spring – a perpetual astonishment.”  
–  Ellis Peters

 

“I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, or June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of the bridal cakes.”
–  Robert Herrick, Hesperides, 1648 

 

“Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful spring.”
–  Thomas Carew, The Spring, 1630    

 

 

“This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.”
–  D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring 

 

“When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring.”
–  Dallas Lore Sharp, 1870-1929 

 

“If Spring came but once in a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with the sound of an earthquake, and not in silence, what wonder and expectation there would be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!  But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity.  To most men only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous and the perpetual exercise of God’s power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be.”
–  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow   

 

“Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!”
–  Wallace Stevens

 

“Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south! 
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth. 

In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist, 
And the river’s orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst. 

Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days; 
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays. 

Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils, 
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.”
–  Lucy Maud Montgomery, Spring Song

Thank you for the flowers

Thank you for the flowers,

Their fragrance smelt so sweet,

Your kindness I will treasure,

Until once more we meet.

 

The sorrow you have shown,

The tears that you have shed,

No words need be spoken,

For in those tears all was said.

 

Try to understand,

That life will carry on,

My spirit has entered a better place,

Although my bodies gone.

 

My life must continue,

To achieve the very best,

But first I must compose myself,

And take a well earned rest.

 

Such a lot to do,

Of that I am sure,

For time does not stand still,

But carries on for ever more.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

Where?

I woke with a start, I’m not sure why
Reaching to reassuringly touch your hair
Even that light pressure I seek to find
But as I come awake, you weren’t there.

 

The smile that was brought by good news
A surprise gesture coming out of thin air
I start to reach for the phone to explain
Brought back to reality, you aren’t there.

 

How many things have caused thoughts
That become second nature to just share
Excitement, anticipation, maybe a worry
Thinking of you, yet you just aren’t there.

 

The mind gives us so much to keep close
We have so many ways to show that we care
Even with changes brought beyond our control
A touch of the heart, yes you are still there.

by Gray Poet

Charles Townsend

 

 

 

 

The Taste of Sleep – Promote Yourself

 

I awaken with a start from sleep that should be restful; repose and recuperation.

And yet my slumber brings no peace. I admit, no demons stalk the empty corridors of my sleep. No, they are not nocturnal. Every waking hour they roost upon my shoulder, nuzzle at my ear, and whisper torments of nothing and everything.

No monsters lurk in the empty rooms under dusty, unused beds, or in dark cupboards that creak under the weight of childish things. Of memories, of good times.

What pursue me in my dreams are lies. False memories. Reflections of what I fear and love the most, but what simply cannot hurt me now. Abandonment, and constant censure of my failures, mistakes and negligence.

But was this ever so ? I was never thus discouraged, and absence prevents them doing so now. Why then does it hurt ?

Larkin was right. “They f**k you up, your mum and dad, They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had. And add some extra, just for you.”

But knowing “This be the Verse” to be so redolently true, why do I still succumb to somnolent torment? When I close my eyes, to rest my body, soul, my brain, why does a battle rage in my subconscious. The dead and walking wounded loiter on the field to shape and influence my waking hours.

This taste of sleep that lingers like garlic or raw onion sets forth my outlook on the day. A Duvet shrouded, solitary indolence of reading and books. A manic striving to create what is ultimately, pointless and irreverent.

Or simply being a good dad, ignoring those whispers, entertaining the only truly ‘good’ thing I have ever achieved.

“Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself” he concludes. But even the after-taste of night terror will never see me acquiesce. Surely I cannot be all bad, what I leave behind will be greater than the sum of my parts.

No, on days like this I rinse away the unpleasant tang and prefer to savour more pleasant dishes. Infused with hope and enriched with the zest of my child, who reminds me, who proves “our almost – instinct almost – true: What will survive of us is love.”

Copyright © John Bullock, 2013. All Rights Reserved

SHED NO TEARS

 

When I leave this mortal earth,

No tears for me please shed,

For I am very much alive,

Think not of me as dead.

 

Like a butterfly and a chrysalis,

A transformation in form,

For I have moved from this world,

And into another world are born.

 

I will stand by you in sorrow,

I will stand by you in pain,

I will prepare a place for you,

When we are together again.

 

Wish me well on my journey,

And turn your tears to laughter,

For we shall all meet again?

In the spirit world hereafter.

 

Malcolm G Bradshaw

The Snowman

There’s a strange man

In my garden

With top hat and tails

He is looking rather pale

He’s been standing there

For some time now

Just standing and staring

And looking all around

He very often smiles

But doesn’t often frown

The squirrels and the fox’s

All adore him

As they pass by

He lifts his hand

To wave at them

And smiles to say goodnight

Thomas and Gillian Sims

Into the west

When will this toil end?

Must I remain affixed to this mortal coil by silver thread?

I long to climb aboard a golden ship and sail

Into the western sky 

 

Over the rainbow where years of dread

No longer hold power to bow my head

I’ll sail away in my ship of gold

Where sadness is nothing but a story once told

 

Descend once there into fields of green

Laced round and round by lively streams

Land there to till, and good work to do

A pub there is too for a fire and brew

 

No more deadlines to meet or diesel to breathe

No cold winter chill to bite through my sleeves

Just sun, and rain, and the scent of the sea,

Good friends to hold dear whom I’ve long wished to see

 

Beyond the horizon I so long to go

Over the rainbow, far past the snow

I long to leave these dark-lit shores

And sail the western sky

 Paul Martinez

Sent from my iPhone

It’s that time of year Goose Fairs Coming to Town

Nottingham Goose Fair 2013