This page first opened July 6th 1997

James Drinard was born in Virginia (USA of course- well I don't know any other) in 1934. This makes him 3 or so years younger than me. Nowadays most people are younger than me.

He graduated in '58 with literature as one of his subjects, but has worked mostly in the field of conveyor system engineering.

His interests include jazz guitar (he plays) and classic and folk music from around the world.He also enjoys poetry (obviously), painting and reading about science and religion and (again obviously I think) jokes.

We may also assume he has a garden since he insists that he sits in it and forgives the weeds.

He reckons on having a patient wife and three grown up (well they would be at his age wouldn't they) children, all three being artists 'of various kinds'.

None of the above is inconsistent with James' verses and cartoons which are witty and clever and I trust you'll get as much enjoyment from them as I did.

First take this chance if you will and have a quick look at a few of Jame's limericks right here. A link there will bring you back when you have finished.

To those who have eaten what Mother said was good for them...........
with regrets.

If bees could thrive on beandip, and pigs flew South in fall; If toothy smiles on crocodiles meant you could trust them all; I'd comb my hair and part it; I'd stand to cheer and shout, Each time I found upon my plate a nasty brussels sprout. Chorus: Brussels sprouts are good for you; they're low fat and they're nifty. If you eat a dozen every day, you'll grow up strong and thrifty. They have the stuff your body needs, to keep you fit and loose. So eat up all your brussels sprouts; their taste is no excuse. If crabs could cook spaghetti, and ducks played volley ball; If every time you lost your hat, you found it in the hall; I'd don a pair of socks that matched, and put my cap on straight, I'd yell and sing and everything for sprouts each night at eight. When I am rich and famous, I'll stay my humble self. I'll buy up all the brussels sprouts, and keep them on a shelf. I'll wise up everybody; I'll eradicate their doubts. Then we'll all roar and beg for more disgusting brussels sprouts.

Surrealists have claimed him; the prudes have defamed him;
Quack theorists have libeled his brain,
Some find him depressing or reveal a distressing
Compulsion his art to explain.
Yards of words have been written by scholars so smitten
With their theories they flee from good sense.
When the truth's plain and simple, like a nose with a pimple
Here it is - so you'll know better hence.

Hieronymus Bosch was Flemish, by gosh,
And like most Flems was fond of his cheese.
When he just couldn't sleep, to the larder he'd creep,
Where he'd eat every rind he could seize.
Then our lactose baracuda, most besotted with Gouda
Would work through the long northern nights;
From time to time napping, while lovingly mapping
Black Hell and its various delights.

When he nodded awake, a fresh brush he would take,
And strategically place a new blob,
Then this blob he'd embellish, with painterly relish,
Until he'd completed the job.
Thus grew demons with noses like vacuum hoses
And pigs sucking siphons of rum,
Or that chump on his knees with his arms made of trees,
And a finch flying out of his bum.

When the cheese colic seized, there was little that pleased,
His dark side then would govern his mood.
Plagued thus he felt too sick to care much for music,
Painting instruments frightfully crude.
He limned things in this state that art critics debate:
Flying lovers who stand on their heads;
Frog legged barrels of beer, rat-like soldiers most queer,
And bored ladies with snakes in their beds.

Bosch drew dreamy nude sinners, the Judgement's non-winners,
Who seem strangely content with their fate.
They look off into space with a puzzling blank face,
An expression I've seen on my mate.
It's not really so creepy; they just look a bit sleepy;
As was Bosch when the dark turned to dawn;
For he'd toiled through the night, to our endless delight,
Leaving wonders behind when he'd gone.

There are no hidden schemes in Hieronymus' dreams;
The source of his symbols is clear.
Psychopompic suggestion, and severe indigestion
Spawned the pictures Bosch lovers revere.
No deep dark message lurks in these exquisite works,
At the lot of that rot you may sneeze.
For you now know, sans doubt, how his art came about;
'Twas the great master's fondness for cheese.