Grilled Cheese

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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-17 14:54:11 EDT

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Animal tracks along a stream on the Castle trail in Badlands National Park, South Dakota.
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A photo taken at the Dee Estuary of old boats living out their days. This area was once a fishing community, but it has now become marshland and the wildlife is now returning.
painting of a stormy sea and sky with a lighthouse and home atop a rocky cliff on the shore
No eyes see her arrive, just the empty slip she leaves behind We whisper of her passage -- a ghostly ship we'll never find resting in a #harbour, just beyond horizon's line. We board her sister ship -- Today. While dry-dock stores the Yesterday. May fair winds guide us on our way as we search for the Tomorrow. ~Beyond the Onions~ Ross McDermott ~
Poem text by Kate LaDew: it took paul mccartney two minutes to write the groove and rhythm, the melody of "get back" mozart composed his last 3 symphonies  in six weeks charlie parker came up with 8 bar melodies  on the spot b.b. king wrote "lucille" in the studio, improvising over ten minutes a spoken word blues track of how he got his gibson back, great things don't always need time but they last, echo and echo and echo a harbor of hopes and schemes and the universe hums whether we hear it or not a needle skip-skip-skipping  as the record spins playing the same story over and over again the same note remember when, remember when BANG BOOM and the world begins
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Freepik of a woman playing the piano in shaded light
Under The Same Sky A silver moon prepares a black canvas for the canopy of day, as memories surface of a life that once was mine. We were birds of a feather, then, congruous our rhythm, and our hearts a harbour for our love. A golden dawn reveals what I already know: Everything that once grounded me is gone. A sunrise, fiery red, reflects the torment of my love's mind, that, one day, he could take no more. When he changed for good, we became foreign birds. A pink blush in the clouds remembers love. But I don't know anymore the troglodytic things he keeps in his malefic scullery. We used to write our story in tandem. Now I write. He erases. The blue morning sky finds me mourning for the doors that will stay closed forever. So much to explore that will never be. And soon, those doors will have vanished, too. This is not autonomy. It is madness' reign. Me? I'm wilting by the window like a forlorn houseplant. © Stefanie Neumann - @KokopelliBFree
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HARBOR reflecting on pools of maritime wrecks a massive mass of putrid brown specks spreads outward corrupting as it projects the reductive force of a singular hypocritical source: tea thrown in the harbor by a modern-day Sons of Liberty LARPer whose red hat sings of his love for tyrant kings —GRF
“The Sirens” oil painting by Wilhelm Kray, 1878, shows sailor being entranced by Sirens.
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