Ub Iwerks (1934)

The village of Sleepy Hollow is getting ready to greet the new schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane, who is coming from New York. Crane has already heard of the village’s legendary ghost, a headless horseman who is said to be searching for the head that he lost in battle. The schoolteacher has barely arrived when he begins to pursue the beautiful young heiress Katrina Van Tassel, angering Abraham Van Brunt, who is courting her. Crane’s harsh, small-minded approach to teaching also turns some of the villagers against him. Soon there many who would like to see him leave the village altogether.

Hobo Moon

The hands that once pointed in every direction
Have failed to move since she gave it away,
And though the band is much to tight,
He still wears it every day.
It helps him to remember that moonless night.
That night he tried to make her stay.
Losing himself in his own reflection,
He remembers the words that she used to say,
The sweet reverberation,
Trembling from her lips in exasperation.
Eyes lost in a distant fading memory,
Like fog dissipating with the arrival of the day,
He stares at his watch,
Waiting,
For those hands
Hoping,
To continue
Stuck in the past,
Their ritualistic dance.
Those hands.
Salvador Dalí’s painting Persistence of Memory, 1931.

Hobo Moon (2020)

I’ve been on the road the last week enjoying the wilderness before the tourists start mucking it all up again so I haven’t been able to post anything in a little bit. This is one of the drawings I did on the road. I hope you enjoy this and the new Looney Tunes Cartoons episode I posted. Thanks for watching HMC!

Hobo Moon

Writing these poems is rather difficult you see. 
Like climbing a mountain or wrestling a shark.
Searching in the dark for the right words to say
just what you are thinking.
Searching for the words to say exactly how you feel
without losing any rhythm or zeal.

What do you do when you cannot think of a rhyme?
What happens when you have not got the time?
Do you sit down and pout? 
Do you ask a boy scout?
I prefer to take the more scenic route.

Howling at the moon,
I know I will find myself soon
written into a poem, and
from this world, I shall be forgotten.