Ben Grib

A dedication, and a promise...

Ben Grib is a spirit of optimism. A light, nocturnal breeze of hope that caresses our face, reassuring us when we think of others who deserve justice and respect. A promise of life and history.

His smile and sweet music tell us that everything will be fine, no matter how things have been, are still, and no matter how long it will take.

He reminds us like history itself, that the future never belongs to those who hate, who abuse the people they pretend to represent. It's never reserved for those whose objectives are obsessional, ignoble and therefore impossible. It's not for those who try to realise vain dreams or even ephemeral nightmares. The future is never the inheritance of those who defy and abuse the God they pretend to worship, in their obsessive pursuit of personal power.

This is a small but timeless dedication to those who hope for a better tomorrow and have been cruelly deprived of today, of what they have every right to. Naturally their efforts and sacrifices are not in vain. Each one is a paving stone that contributes to form the path leading to a better future and a better world.

We share this still magnificent world, and we see the same moon that sends us its promises.

Everything will be fine, eventually.


He sweetly plays
His violin
And taps his feet
And grins his grin

He points to stars
And bows to trees
And plays duets
With summer's breeze

He talks to birds
And smiles at skies
Where rainbows form
Through half-closed eyes.

At dusk, just like a gentle rain
He softly taps the window-pane
And melts into the velvet night,
A silver cloud veiled in moonlight.

Text and Illustrations © Mirino (PW) July, 2009

An ode to summer

'Sumer is icumen in Lhude sing cuccu!'

Let us try for a moment to break away, if not from human folly, certainly from the turgid considerations of planetary turmoil, from treachery to tragedy, cupidity to crisis and catastrophe. Let us try to aspire to greater heights, to look up and admire the cumulous clouds of summer gloriously billow against the azure skies. Let us then gently close our eyes, the lids of which are warmed and lit up red light district madder against the sunlight, and be transported by the wings of art.

Summer indeed has come in, despite the lack of loud cuckoos in this neck of the woods, so let us continue to pause and ponder a moment on how best nature's warmest gift should be celebrated, particularly in the north.

One casts one's mind in abandon allowing thoughts to fly about and pose as briefly as if they were delicate butterflies resting an instant upon dewy toadmerdwort before disenchantedly fluttering off once more.
And thus with ease the mind flits over the rich, dung hills of our venerable forefathers, to inevitably perch itself upon the great, noble and wiggéd head of Kashereapes himself. And needless to add, this is one of his finest nonsets of them all.

Shall I compare thee to a London fog?
Thou art more misty and more troublesome.
Rough winds do shake the starlings out of trees,
And England's summers are too cool to ripen dates.
Sometime too hot I soak in steaming bath,
And then often seems my addled mind more dim,
And every hair that's left would gladly grow,
If 'twas my nature it to never trim;
But thy eternal strands will never freeze
Nor should you loose possession of your mind,
Nor need I brag about my shapely knees
When eternal lines to prose thou would'st here find.
So long as men can score and win one's heart,
So long lives this which isn't worth a fart.


With apologies to Shakespeare

 Image from the 13th century manuscript of the 'Cuckoo Song' (Summer has arrived). With thanks to Wikipedia. Parody and text © Mirino (PW) July, 2009