This site is dedicated to the memory of Granby.   The marriage of the two arts  for an online exhibition was his brainchild. He had a great appreciation for Fine and Classic art and a boundless enthusiasm for learning.  He was a loving husband and father and a fine artist in his own right.

This painting is one he chose to share; inspired by the adventures of a father and son enjoying a day of exploration and fun in the desert.

Title:  A  BOY  IN  THE  DESERT

......amidst tall grasses and dead  weeds.....the main mood is one of contrast between a happy oblivious little boy carefully watching his step, juxtaposed with a scary desert wilderness

FUN  IN  THE  DESERT SUN

Dad brought him here where there's sand and sun,

A place where a boy is free to play and run,

To watch a lizard scamper away,

Shade for a toad; to hot to play,

Strange things to find, make a boy's day fun.

By the rocks, what's left of a desert fox den,

Under a bush, feathers of a roadrunner hen,

A cactus plant that pricked his thumb,

A flower petal made his lip numb.

A day to recall, and ask Dad to come again.

The desert to some is but dull and brown,

But cactus has beauty when they crown,

Small things amuse small boys,

Desert shares with all it's joys,

When the painted desert puts on her shawl,

She shares with the rainbow, the colors all.

                                              .......ffacer......

DOWN  THE  LINE

  Martin Clarke   http://www.martinclarke-art.com

ANTICIPATION

A sea breeze  carried the scent of expectation,

There was magic here, a feeling of elation,

Sky and water were the bluest of blues,

Pulsing vibes; but only elusive clues,

I hurried to the beach in great anticipation.

Few surfers were about that morning, in all only five,

I watched them ride the swells; topping every rise,

Mermen on decorated boards,

Plying skills; lith sea gods,

Waiting, ever hoping for that most elusive prize.

They seek the grail of surfing, one perfect wave,

Grown men cry, defy death, are willing slaves,

To conquer that formidable force,

That is birthed by a distant  source,

Surfers wait; will this be the day of the wave....

Suddenly it's there, dwarfing the surfing pawns,

Swelling to heights, curling and rushing on,

One lucky fellow rides on top as it rolls in,

Four scramble ahead; a race they need win,

Shame if I'd overslept; missed this magic dawn.

And it broke perfect all the way,

What more to ask of a single day,

I leave both elated and let down,

Wishing it were I who rode it home.

                              ........ffacer........

HONEY  HUNTER     Amanda Jones   

                             http://www.wetcanvas.com/forums/member.php?u=97519

SWEET  MORNING  QUEST

He comes just before dawn, the coldest part of the night,

Follow the blazed trail, must arrive before daylight,

Light the fire, then build the smudge,

Wind and distance, carefully judged,

For success, everything must be planned just right.

Swirling, rising smoke, surrounds and enters the hive,

The buzzing rises and  fades as less bees remain alive,

Time to climb, up, up near the top,

Shave the  cones, harvest the crop,

Bannick tonight, covered with the sweet honey prize.

                                                                .......ffacer.......

THE   CORNFIELD     John Constable

    Constable referred to the painting as the 'Sleeping Boy' who shirking from his duties, left the herding of the flock to the dog.

ODE  TO  SOLITUDE

I

How happy he, who free from care

The rage of courts, and noise of towns;

Contented breathes his native air

In his own grounds.

II

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer, yield him shade,

In winter fire.

III

Blest! Who can unconcern'dly find,

Hours, days and years slide swift away,

In health of body , peace of mind,

Quiet by day.

IV

Sound sleep by night; study and case

Together mix'd; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

V

Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

                 .......Alexander Pope.......

ACE  -  Top Dog Saanich Canine Division, BC Canada

            Three times Champion of Qualifying Field Trials

            Has over 700 arrests to his credit.

ODE  TO  ACE

A canine soldier, RCMP member,  at the top,

He fights for right, active in regular crime stop.

His nose a weapon no felon can think to surpass,

This four footed law will hunt out their trespass.

Through thick and thin he stands with his partner man,

Fearless and loyal, never ever from his duty has ran,

Occassions arise, he's smart enough to think on his own,

Takes time to relax at home and chew on his bone.

A salute to the Aces who share our human world,

New techniques develop, methods and laws unfurl,

But at work, on land, in water or buried and froze,

Felons cannot compete with his superior nose.

He asks for nought save time spent with his friend,

If canines have morals, he sets a very high trend,

Devoted partner, brave warrior who stands tall,

The Aces make our world, better, safer, a benifit to all

                                                           .......ffacer.......

IS  THAT  YOU  MOLLY       Michelle Jefferies

                                         www.mjefferies.myexpose.com 

THE  HOUSE  NEXT  DOOR

The gate was old and crooked, half open with vines wrapped around,

The rocky path was uneven and packed with leaves that make a crunchy sound,

The old frame house was withered, without paint and shutters lay on the ground,

The porch was a home for cats of many colors and sizes that skittered around.

I knocked on the windowless door and after a while there was a faint stirring from inside,

"Who is it? Is that you Molly?" and the door opened only a few inches wide,

"Hello," I said. "We just moved next door," and handed her the pie with the ribbon of red.

She was old and unkempt, and glanced down at the sight of a stranger, she sighed,

"I thought it was my daughter, Molly. She's coming home today," glowing with pride.

She took the box in her frail hands. "Thank you," she said as her eyes filled with tears,

She pushed the door closed, and I stood by the gate as the mail man appears,

I told him the story and hope I had said nothing wrong to  cause her fears.

He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "It's okay, her daughter has ben missing for forty years."

The old woman died that year, and we never forget the very date,

For on that same day evry year, a red rose is placed by the old wooden gate.

                                                                               .......Robert Stagemyer.......

BUT  THAT'S  NOT  THE  END  OF  THIS  STORY

Now when the weather turns and the storm has run it's race,

The rainbow that follows lays it's arc over that very place,

And into the silence at dusk, a meadowlark sings his evening song,

That seems to say, "The things that were not right are no longer wrong."

And the rose that yearly and mysteriously did religously appear,

With no given rhyme or reason, did suddenly just disappear,

Sometimes we hear a tinkle of laughter that floats from above,

And we wonder if fate once more unites a family in love.

The old house is gone now and according to the old woman's will,

There is a small park where children play and their laughter's trill,

There are swings and slides, a sand box and all play is but a lark,

And the sign at the entrance reads, "Molly's Rainboe Park."

                                                                          .......ffacer......

THE  BRIDGE  HOME       Faye Facer

                                     www.facerartstudio.com

ROOTS     Michelle Snively Jefferies

               www.jefferies.myexpose.com

A  PLACE  TO  STAND

Everything, be it fauna, flora or human,

Needs a solid base, a place to stand,

No matter how far you roam,

You need a place to call home,

Where all know your name and brand.

You may have traveled to places rare,

Still remembered by those that care,

They'll put out the welcome sign,

You feel the pull of ties that bind.

Want your final resting place to be here.

                                           .....ffacer.....

THE  ART  OF  JAZZ       Karen Day  Vath

                                    http://sitekreator.com/karenvath

JAMMING

The music is bluezzz

notes dancing from heaven's dome

tinkling of keys

vibrations of strings

sing, heart, sing

let it all out

the tears of joy

sound, horns,'phones.

...(c)Darlene Moore Berg

 DUPLO   [The Twins]      Patti Vas Dias

              http://www.vazdiasart.com

LADIES  IN  WAITING

We ladies of the dairy pool know our wants and needs,

Know it's milking time and a tasty morsel of supliment feeds,

We appreciate a day in pastures green,

Most time we're content as can be seen,

But to be late for milking, hard to overlook that forgetful deed.

When udders are full it is difficult and hard to walk,

That's why we bawl so long and loud; that's bovine talk,

We're calling you to come open the gate,

Morning and night we've a milking date,

You'd hurt in the pocket book if we decided to up and balk.

So hurry here now, open the gate and take us home,

Milking time; each squirt relief as it build up foam,

We give you milk, you give us grain,

This routine we must retain,

As you  sell the cream; your bankroll has grown.

                                                        .....ffacer.....

THE  LITTLE  BRIDGE      Valentina Gatewood

                                     www.artwanted.com/valentinagatewood

BEYOND  THE  ARC  BRIDGE

If I walk across this little bridge

Will it take me on a tour

Will I walk along a lofty ridge

Lead me across a grassy moor

Are there man-made flower beds

With yellow roses, some red

Are there fish in the little stream

Slippery rocks in mossy green.

Or will it lead me to a swamp

Where beaver kits play and romp

A pair of geese may have a nest

An eagle spies from lofty crest.

I walk where the air is clean

A place where one can dream

My tour pleasant to endure

The bridge, a way to adventure.

                               .....ffacer.....

                                          AFTER  THE  HUNT    by   Cheryl  Allan

                                       http.www.wetcanvas.com/forums/hunt 

THE  CANINE  POINT  OF  VIEW

This was an extra long day in the field,

Yet in spite of effort, was not a big yield,

Two grouse and one mallard duck,

Not what I call a day with luck,

Enough to give birth to  a bragging spiel.

Club buddies will never really know,

And pay rapt attention, blow-by-blow,

As exploits of the hunt are given;

Such is how tales are driven.

'Tis the hunter's privilage to crow.

We dogs get head pat or kind word,

Miss retrieving thrill, we can't afford,

Good thing our nose so fine,

All dogs, no matter the kind,

To be part of the hunt, is our reward.

                                    .....ffacer.....