April 29, 2008

The farmer put the old nag in pasture to graze,   She could hardly move, at the end of her days. The horse was lonely, she took up with a fly,   Who sat on her ample nose, looked up in the sky. A horse usually doesn't encourage such attention,   But in this case, he did, I forgot to mention. Each morning they'd exchange: "How do you do?"   Or other familiarities like: "Hey, what's new?" There was hardly much said, one day like another,   Yet the horse considered the fly a brother. Once, the nag said: "I ran fast around the track,   Other racers, too, and I was first, there and back." The fly was impressed, preferred wings to running.   He thought the nag's being champ was stunning. The conversation was hardly on a high plane.   Yea, and, at times, as they sang together, inane. But look, Dear Readers, you take what you can get, One day the fly was trapped by a black spider,   A voracious fellow, who sat down beside her. That was the end for the "buzzer," and the "equine."   He was lonely, his head ached, he took quinine. The old horse remembered his tiny friendly fly,   He kicked a nicely rounded stone to the pig-sty, Every day, in memory, he'd recite a brief prayer,   Looked for a new friend, but no one was there...

painting and writing by Earl Mayan I would be delighted to hear from any of you. Mayan's new email address Recent Paintings

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E. Mayan Studio
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Questions on art, something everybody assumed he could handle effectively, were answered by a shrug of the shoulders, a disdainful stare, or they were ignored. When, on rare occasions, he understood the thrust of a statement, he stumbled, unable to put the words together that were in his head. The embarrassment of this turned him suddenly silent: he had decided it was better to get out while the going was good; and he was removed from contact even though he still sat in the same chair, sipping the same glass of wine... from Chapter 11, Child of the Montmartre