tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83750894135331625242024-03-12T16:27:05.219-07:00Flying Far Beyond The RidgeFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-32848565333469056752012-12-30T15:07:00.000-08:002012-12-30T15:07:23.315-08:00Mary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I used to walk down that old cut road and see her there. That red scarf tied around her raven hair bandana style, like a sixties hippie. Hell, she had a big black peace sign in her window and I guess maybe she was. Her name was Mary and the story went that her young husband went to the Nam and never came back. If there was more, no one ever told me.<br />
It was the kind of road, gravel, with gentle curves and red-winged blackbirds on the wires looking<br />
for mischief. It was a good walk in the summer, only a mile to town.<br />
There were never more than two or three vehicles that would pass me and I could've caught a ride if I wanted one, but I didn't, and they knew.<br />
The first half-mile I would think of her, of her thoughts, of her nights. After rounding the bend I could see her place, the small brown house, the falling apart shed, her garden in the back.<br />
That's almost always where she was, on her knees digging. From a distance she looked small, but when you drew near and she would stand up to stretch, you could see she was quite tall and looked majestic in those torn dirty jeans and T-shirt.<br />
She would barely give me a glance as I came into view, but once in a while I thought I saw a smile<br />
and she would take the bandana off and wipe her hands with it before returning it to her head.<br />
I wanted to talk to her, or rather her to me. But somehow I never was able to<br />
bring it about. I'm not sure if it was my fear, or her aloneness, or my fear of her aloneness.<br />
Maybe it was her stature, maybe her ghosts, or maybe, simply, she was too sacred.<br />
I would pass on her side of the road to be near and slow my pace, hoping she'd say hi or isn't it a lovely day or would you pick up some eggs for me when you're in town, but she only tended her garden while surely feeling my look upon her back.<br />
That's how I remember the summer of '72. <br />
Not the county fair, not my father almost leaving my mother, not my first date at the local theater.<br />
Just Mary and her garden. <br />
And I wonder now if she ever moved, ever remarried, ever had children. I wonder if she believed in God and had a mother who missed her. And I wonder had she invited me in, what she might've said. Would she have made lemonade or fired a joint? Would she have cried because someone was finally there to listen? Or might she have kissed me and seduced me as I imagined on so many of those walks. Just like the movie, she would tender my innocence, gentle my shy, take me by the hand and brush back my hair. Then she would hold me like i hoped lovers must always be held.<br />
But that's the trouble with movies, they're so far from what really happens.<br />
As far as I know, no one in town knew much of her or paid her much mind, and by the summer of '73 she was gone. It was like she never really existed. But the square skeleton of her garden told me she had and the red-winged blackbirds told me I should have.Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-5978844395936187062012-12-18T18:59:00.000-08:002012-12-18T18:59:01.355-08:00The Trap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2bhUxfwDB1UHFl-RFhHRZBusAEpakd6fsz521Dd562j9tjRAZUkqagPR_arrD3IoD4DyIzTkxhD-VfLypdXUVBfV7lytp1HIH5WqzUhAnPd1dUIYIzBrJHKyX2AdlXQx8rKM5gHadJE/s1600/thumbnailCAU3STRZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD2bhUxfwDB1UHFl-RFhHRZBusAEpakd6fsz521Dd562j9tjRAZUkqagPR_arrD3IoD4DyIzTkxhD-VfLypdXUVBfV7lytp1HIH5WqzUhAnPd1dUIYIzBrJHKyX2AdlXQx8rKM5gHadJE/s400/thumbnailCAU3STRZ.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Let's call it Acme, Ohio. T</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">hat's close enough</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I recognized the town as I pulled into it. A railroad and a US highway criss-crossed through it and</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">main street sported several beauty shops, a grocery store that had fed generations, and a bar called the</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hunter's brew.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I had come to deliver and pick up, no more, no less, and I was told I could park at the factory </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">that whizzed out Ford parts to keep America going.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">So that I did.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">First thing I noticed, is that I had no cell service, I smirked to my old friend AT&T, tucked it away and wondered what I'd do in Acme, Ohio at seven PM on a Tuesday night. It was crystal cold, the snow was heaped high on the boulevards, but I decided to take a walk anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I started noticing things. The train whistle howled forlornly but the train never came, and the locals seemed accustomed to this as they crossed the tracks as if they didn't exist.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I noticed that the traffic on the U.S. highway drove through like there was a Rottweiler chewing on its own ass.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And the houses wore thin curtains showing my way to the lamp next to the couch where papers were read, babies bounced, and nights buried. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">There seemed to be a million of these houses; blocks and blocks and blocks of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The nicer ones had cut their swath with a snow blower, the darker porch-tilted ones had shoveled with whatever was available, or not at all. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">There were three pizza places on main street, as there always is in a town like this, and Kayla's B</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">eauty Salon was up for rent. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Kayla had had enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I was cold but only because I hadn't dressed for this.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">See, this is where I grew up, a thousand Kaylas away, and the flood of forgotten broke the dam and </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">washed me over the rapids, driving me to shelter at the Hunter's Brew.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">It was the canker on Acme's ass and I felt uncomfortably at home.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The bar maid was a fifty something we'll call Tina because in another life she had been Tina, but now she just was. There was a guy with too many miles on his dreams and two not-pretty-enoughs singing harmony. There was a girl maybe thirty-five decked out in silver shine and tight jeans trying hard not to look desperate as the guy she was desperate for struggled to make his escape.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And there was me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I ordered a beer which came in a can but only cost a buck and a half as NCIS played on the scratchy TV.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The flood built and breached the banks as I remembered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The guy played a few songs on the jukebox and I watched Tina sway and move to the rhythm on her inside bar stool, as a patriotic song played about some soldiers giving all. I watched her eyes close and her lips were right on time to whatever it was that was plucking her sad heart's g-string..</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">One of the not-pretty-enoughs asked me if i wanted to share their garlic bread and I politely said no.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">See, you have to be careful not to take their bread or they'll butter the night with your soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I stepped out back in the alley for a smoke and a look around.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I saw cars that were gonna run if the friend of that friend ever got out of jail. There was a yard fenced in where some mongrel sensed my presence and barked to let the town know it had been found,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">and there were those apartments; the ones up rickety steps where a person could shack cheap if they had no where else to sleep.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">And also, there was the Dodge Stratus. Tina's ride. Her last hope that had really died years ago and I wondered how she made the payment</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I went back in, finished my beer and walked out, back through the blocks of nowhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Christmas lights were still blinking two months after Christmas and it all might have been serene </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">if not for the flood and the knowing why.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">See, I lived in those apartments. I fucked Tina. I threw sticks at that dog. And that guy never showed up to fix my car.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Forty five percent of graduates of Acme High would find work in one of the local factories. Forty five percent would marry them. At best, they'll have a few kids, join the volunteer fire department, and get one of the better houses on one of the better blocks. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">There'll be softball leagues and parades and family reunions and now and then the guy will show up and the car will get that timing chain it needs. But in my book, they're going no where in three-quarter time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I know, I came from there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I don't know yet where somewhere is but I keep looking down Highway 224 and I keep waiting for that train to catch up to its whistle.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">That's not to say these people aren't happy, just that i can't be one of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">When the girl with the silver trinkets had realized the guy who wasn't her husband wasn't coming back, and the guy who was must be wondering, she said to Tina, "Well, I guess I'll go back to my prison. Fuck, my life sucks." And walked out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I had walked out just a few steps behind like a ghost who had lost his amnesia.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Tomorrow I'll be in another town, maybe a city, maybe a Gulf Coast beach, maybe on a mountain top somewhere in the Rockies.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I haven't found my somewhere yet but I'll keep looking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Tomorrow night Act II will begin where Act I left off at the Hunter's Brew with the same players with the same lines minus a ghost with amnesia. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I don't know which sunrise I'm chasing or which moon is holding my jackpot, but Acme Ohio will have to get along without me just like the Acme Minnesota I left long ago.</span><br />
Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-20821532509480252582012-11-20T11:05:00.000-08:002012-11-20T11:05:05.550-08:00I want to live<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWyhH0AoWtdUI5NU7dI4tSyReo8xmujo9aVsRVcZN6v__vcWhbuLuuLNaaxUSs2z-5P8ckJq18nP9XyPlW8SREh91g5DNEZTKnHl7HWybQTr9YSFbScjMelQvFAXTp2RSRjJpAPxwkJOn/s1600/26891487_69a4625290_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWyhH0AoWtdUI5NU7dI4tSyReo8xmujo9aVsRVcZN6v__vcWhbuLuuLNaaxUSs2z-5P8ckJq18nP9XyPlW8SREh91g5DNEZTKnHl7HWybQTr9YSFbScjMelQvFAXTp2RSRjJpAPxwkJOn/s320/26891487_69a4625290_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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i reach down with cupped hands<br />
large as oak trees upside down, and<br />
dip into the fountain<br />
close my once hopeful eyes <br />
and feel it wash over me<br />
once more<br />
<br />
i smooth my hair back<br />
then dive!<br />
submerge<br />
swim <br />
drink til it and i are one<br />
<br />
i want to stand on a mountain top<br />
hear the eagle cry<br />
<em>like this!</em><br />
blaze through the forest<br />
with will covered passion<br />
as a machete<br />
<br />
i want to long<br />
and ache,<br />
but with hope<br />
and the strength of one renewed<br />
<br />
there is a wind<br />
blowing from the north,<br />
there always must be<br />
it is not a tidal wave<br />
nor even the crystal<br />
of a maddening brook<br />
but it holds life<br />
and to it i close my eyes<br />
letting it wash me<br />
and in it, an olive branch<br />
too solemn for hands<br />
which i take in my teeth<br />
and fly with, <em>like this!</em><br />
offering it to you<br />
and you, and you<br />
that we all might liveFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-24131971542463666212012-11-20T11:03:00.000-08:002012-11-20T11:03:51.738-08:00The Rush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4rTDaYsUQwJlT4FCcIivwNlx2dx-9l5xWXaviS2d2J-1j5gBwbadhOJxI2T89i3_Xxue9sqC0Prh5K_MmJqhpjUrAYS2GXvXa8HY04ESU-Xrv6-1wimRLfokS5ZuAr660HfJia_HCgBO/s1600/il_fullxfull_181800579.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik4rTDaYsUQwJlT4FCcIivwNlx2dx-9l5xWXaviS2d2J-1j5gBwbadhOJxI2T89i3_Xxue9sqC0Prh5K_MmJqhpjUrAYS2GXvXa8HY04ESU-Xrv6-1wimRLfokS5ZuAr660HfJia_HCgBO/s320/il_fullxfull_181800579.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There's that big exam on Monday morning<br />
or the speech on Wednesday night<br />
the first time you meet your girlfriends dad<br />
that job interview a skyscraper above your head<br />
<br />
we've all been there<br />
<br />
those butterflies high on LSD<br />
that won't get laid til they get to Winnipeg<br />
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these orphans of the heart, fed by the frontal lobe<br />
are blended of our fears and doubts<br />
unavoidable<br />
<br />
but this is different<br />
a quaking from without<br />
a trembling that began in a solar storm<br />
and knocked us on our ass without warning<br />
<br />
you don't know where it came from<br />
where it's going<br />
or what it wants<br />
but there it is,<br />
and it's real<br />
beyond the taming of buddha<br />
knocking the wind out of your soul<br />
<br />
ever had it?<br />
did it frighten you?<br />
it does me<br />
because I seem to be the butterflies in its bellyFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-49826116879662471252012-11-20T11:02:00.000-08:002012-11-20T11:02:12.814-08:00The Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBzx6q7A3_R7UYex9PhyphenhyphenPqwKOCuP8w9Z12OhOmBHA9MIPxiMq-NDT06-s-UsP_UIgOZt4DyMuOVPtZ4qQ1Cfk6BTjleVYvV6NA5Xo97YQplzgUxfFkoumMdAC6pBnFdvCumqnI34YCLuR/s1600/door-ajar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBzx6q7A3_R7UYex9PhyphenhyphenPqwKOCuP8w9Z12OhOmBHA9MIPxiMq-NDT06-s-UsP_UIgOZt4DyMuOVPtZ4qQ1Cfk6BTjleVYvV6NA5Xo97YQplzgUxfFkoumMdAC6pBnFdvCumqnI34YCLuR/s320/door-ajar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I used to watch her<br />
she of the second floor<br />
I, of the third<br />
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it was the kind of apartment where if one tenant turned on the water,<br />
the others all knew.<br />
but sounds and numbers were all that were known<br />
as names were secreted behind closed doors<br />
and lowered gazes upon the stairs<br />
<br />
first, as the light seeped my room<br />
I would hear the pipes <em>jangle and creak</em><br />
then the faint echo of a medicine cabinet being plundered<br />
before a door here, a cabinet there<br />
and then the melody of her music would waft up<br />
on the aroma of her coffee<br />
wrapping itself around my bare feet<br />
spiraling up my legs<br />
and taking my loin prisoner without a fight<br />
<br />
I would then open my window because I knew she would open hers<br />
and it was funny, the way my mind froze<br />
navigating only to her unseen steps<br />
<br />
my feet truly found their rhythm when I would hear the heavy door open and close<br />
and I would glance to the clock in association, knowing her moccasined feet<br />
whispered down the stairs.<br />
<br />
in a ritual race my own feet pulled me to my window from where,at the edge of the curtain, <br />
I could watch her emerge onto the sidewalk below.<br />
<br />
I would smile as she threw her auburn locks to the wind<br />
and her hands would dip into that corduroy jacket.<br />
she always crossed the street at an angle with nary a glance <br />
as if she knew the world<br />
would respect her passage.<br />
<br />
she was going to the river, this I knew<br />
where she would scrabble its vacant banks<br />
speak to the current with her soul<br />
the morning with her eyes<br />
and to her heart, with her thoughts.<br />
and she always retrieved a new treasure for her sill<br />
to remind herself who she was.<br />
<br />
this wasn't a lonely walk, it was embryonic<br />
a seed for the evening harvest.<br />
<br />
this too I knew, because at night I would quietly ascend those stairs<br />
pause beside her closed door<br />
and listen to the threshing.<br />
<br />
one day, no more unique than another, as I descended and she ascended,<br />
her bag of groceries shifted, her leathered foot slipped and her grace failed<br />
-but I caught her, and my catch lingered..<br />
things were exchanged<br />
eyes met<br />
silence considered<br />
and a laugh breezed into a smile<br />
<br />
Though no words were spoken that day, when next I paused beside her door<br />
I heard her threshing pause with my steps.<br />
<br />
then one evening her door was left open -just a crack<br />
then half way<br />
then all the way<br />
<br />
this open door led to a name beyond the number<br />
and a chair at her table where we drank her coffee and shared a story<br />
<br />
I remember those days now and where they took me<br />
I remember believing that door knew no limit<br />
<br />
I would have been wise to remember the way she crossed the street<br />
for one night as I climbed those stairs, <br />
I found that door closed once again.<br />
I remember the pain of those two voices rising up through the floorboards<br />
taunting my concrete feet and spinning a new beat to an old routine.<br />
<br />
I think maybe he was the baker who brought her bread<br />
or perhaps a beggar from the park<br />
but I never really cared to know<br />
<br />
my mind now froze only in pale numbness and my curtain stayed closed.<br />
<br />
I could've moved<br />
should've moved<br />
I know it now as I knew it then<br />
and maybe I tried but good sense plays a minor role on such a dark stage.<br />
<br />
the other day as I reached the second floor, I noticed two things;<br />
the door open a crack<br />
and a man's slippers just inside<br />
I didn't pause<br />
doors say more than we hearFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-60771191354300821742012-11-20T10:59:00.000-08:002012-11-20T10:59:18.866-08:00A Tavern In The Woods<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhHfrgrS9TevZcyrf_0vgogteAYxZYGZlzONWvGLsRiw4WuEnBWzgedp0WALxJ_stTEuwOqMvCBeFQ-YDgbz5gVXZojWlOwdsw6GMg2OZK-pEtnDB39M5UyAn_APff9n4mkPd6cXbPCC-/s1600/Tavern1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhHfrgrS9TevZcyrf_0vgogteAYxZYGZlzONWvGLsRiw4WuEnBWzgedp0WALxJ_stTEuwOqMvCBeFQ-YDgbz5gVXZojWlOwdsw6GMg2OZK-pEtnDB39M5UyAn_APff9n4mkPd6cXbPCC-/s320/Tavern1.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
is a place that opens its doors<br />
when Vickie decides she's ready<br />
a place with long narrow floorboards<br />
worn grey by the snow of long winters<br />
<br />
back near the tiny bathrooms<br />
is a pool table with paper thin felt<br />
torn and cigarette scarred<br />
<br />
the roof is shingled<br />
the sign painted<br />
the register antiquated<br />
and no uniformed cuties with name tags<br />
<br />
this is a place where widows, divorcees and veterans<br />
stare out the window beyond the pitted gravel lot<br />
to watch the snow fall upon the highway<br />
<br />
a tavern in the woods has a table in the corner<br />
where those same five guys have been playing<br />
that same deck of cards since Carter picked his first peanut<br />
<br />
there is a battered leather dice box under the bar<br />
that makes up for Vickie's lousy tips<br />
and damp smelly bar rags for the occasional spill<br />
<br />
the jukebox doesn't do digital<br />
but knows every George Jones song ever recorded<br />
<br />
a tavern in the woods has burgers that taste better<br />
for no good reason<br />
and the best beer signs to be found<br />
<br />
there is no happy hour because the beer is only two bucks anyway<br />
and last call is when the stories and keg run out at the same time<br />
<br />
a tavern in the woods cannot be built <br />
but planted and grown from a seedling<br />
until it reaches maturity<br />
<br />
it is a place where strangers gather to become friends<br />
a refuge<br />
a sanctuary<br />
a home for those in search of definitionFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-10288947821840715232012-11-20T10:57:00.000-08:002012-11-20T10:57:48.375-08:00Bus Ride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45psXbBnFUnFVL9Qk1noHYIey0R87mJkrBhc6V8epv55FERSO6_pEyi7rBSM5xpY8azxXudZOfvvqajsk62mVtsw4eDFmc7FIIEAYdD2QUXgWveGK2PnFChGD6y7ukUlXjx5x7CG8fUgX/s1600/50514402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45psXbBnFUnFVL9Qk1noHYIey0R87mJkrBhc6V8epv55FERSO6_pEyi7rBSM5xpY8azxXudZOfvvqajsk62mVtsw4eDFmc7FIIEAYdD2QUXgWveGK2PnFChGD6y7ukUlXjx5x7CG8fUgX/s320/50514402.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
it seems as close to a stage coach as we can get these days<br />
All aboard! next stop Yuma!<br />
<br />
we on the street, look to the faces beyond the glare<br />
they never smile or look down<br />
just out, away and beyond<br />
but (or is it and) it draws us,<br />
takes a little of our soul along<br />
in the wake of that thick black smoke<br />
<br />
for a moment we wish to go along,<br />
-climb those stairs<br />
to that grandma in Billings we've only known through stories<br />
or the recruiting office in Yakima, or<br />
maybe even to that friend in New York with the spare room and connections<br />
<br />
the girl there, in the back row,<br />
with the spiked hair and black lipstick ran away when fourteen burst the seams,<br />
the young man in the middle aisle spent his summer in Yellowstone<br />
grooming trails<br />
and the old man in the green wool uniform<br />
finally made his platoon's reunion<br />
<br />
they all wear an expression bought with a sixty-eight dollar ticket<br />
some find comfort in books<br />
some in ear buds<br />
some in journals<br />
some in quiet contemplation<br />
<br />
they'll stop for fuel<br />
and just to stretch their legs, where<br />
a few will smoke in a huddle while<br />
names and smiles might be exchanged<br />
and once in awhile a story told to a crooked grin<br />
<br />
then they'll board again as we<br />
in McDonald's, or fueling our cars watch<br />
with curious eyes<br />
<br />
they pretty much ignore us,<br />
we're not in the club<br />
-not part of the adventure<br />
<br />
but as long as there's Greyhound<br />
there's hope for exploration,<br />
the human spirit,<br />
and a dream left<br />
for those of us that watchFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-27835864705925906142012-11-20T10:56:00.000-08:002012-11-20T10:56:18.074-08:00Filter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMQP0COjE_fGyF_VpprMxenuGPcHcUJHlDhKeW_a-P5ae9myyGo1OQfmW4rSBfwf5yFL_5_eSxdY9gvEXl1j7Z-LPuLs1-Rz9racwNnmDJdxBMQkZKLP0yWuhai8hnJwoAmRDSXifIbVj/s1600/stock-photo-young-pretty-woman-enjoying-on-the-river-bank-33407527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" i8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibMQP0COjE_fGyF_VpprMxenuGPcHcUJHlDhKeW_a-P5ae9myyGo1OQfmW4rSBfwf5yFL_5_eSxdY9gvEXl1j7Z-LPuLs1-Rz9racwNnmDJdxBMQkZKLP0yWuhai8hnJwoAmRDSXifIbVj/s320/stock-photo-young-pretty-woman-enjoying-on-the-river-bank-33407527.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Filters are important<br />
They purify<br />
And I don't have one<br />
<br />
I'm the muddy mississippi<br />
Churning<br />
Topsy-turvy<br />
ass over tea kettle<br />
Pissing off artists<br />
But making the catfish happy<br />
<br />
So those in my path<br />
Construct filters<br />
Lest i forget my banks<br />
<br />
Some have built them<br />
In series<br />
This for that<br />
-a murderer's row of honeycomb<br />
Til i'm not even a river, but<br />
Merely a trickle<br />
Sad in supress<br />
<br />
Others have built dams<br />
<em>You know,</em><br />
Keep the bastard out all together<br />
<br />
But there's this one,<br />
Pretty, sleepy little town<br />
That has laid some stones<br />
And logs across my flow<br />
Earthy, natural, an easy traverse<br />
<br />
Here, my catfish pool<br />
My heron fish<br />
And my mud slips through<br />
While my eddies swirl<br />
Her feet<br />
At the edge of the bank<br />
<br />
She knows not to drink<br />
Too much of me<br />
Not to belly flop my depths<br />
understanding the danger of my undertow<br />
<br />
But she lets me flow<br />
Lets me sweep her feet<br />
And in this<br />
I have found truce in the current<br />
Harmony in my day<br />
Agreement in peace<br />
And acceptance in my imperfectionFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-78862638466130531962012-10-31T18:04:00.000-07:002012-10-31T18:04:12.306-07:00noise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2jyVG_i-5DUrO-_zPjPXpLxmDHKdkUa-vHTu-BFrjnWhwAnUUhe0Lri9TSCXaydZcmAFKKtHxWr_TrUXG6dfWKWempltV20d2qoIoVDVFjpdm3yOMy6mACgEAW1JlYceXGqr_X4yE_LU/s1600/877814116_34bc722b60_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2jyVG_i-5DUrO-_zPjPXpLxmDHKdkUa-vHTu-BFrjnWhwAnUUhe0Lri9TSCXaydZcmAFKKtHxWr_TrUXG6dfWKWempltV20d2qoIoVDVFjpdm3yOMy6mACgEAW1JlYceXGqr_X4yE_LU/s320/877814116_34bc722b60_z.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
it's there, just now<br />
like thunder in a box car<br />
all around me, deep within me<br />
reverberating<br />
and I feel like a crack mom<br />
who's baby wont stop crying<br />
<br />
is this where head in hands was born?<br />
my bones they rattle<br />
as the wind and hail<br />
beat the windward glass<br />
<br />
my anger whispers a burgeoning threat<br />
JUST BLOW ONE MORE GOD DAMNED TIME<br />
and i swear<br />
i'll spit myself all over you<br />
<br />
chains being stretched<br />
doors being slammed<br />
words growing teeth<br />
<br />
noise<br />
up the river<br />
down the canyon<br />
over the mountain<br />
and around the bend<br />
echoing a waterfall of spoon<br />
<br />
not so much a bass drum high on puberty<br />
or two cymbals breaking treaty<br />
nor even a squadron of howling monkeys<br />
all teeth and screech<br />
drowning out a cause<br />
but more so an attic full of bad memories<br />
crashing the Christmas party<br />
<br />
where is my sargasso sea<br />
where the surf takes its slumber?<br />
or my life raft <br />
on a thousand miles of deaf blue stillness?<br />
<br />
dollars and dames<br />
wars and used cars<br />
tsunamis and cyclones<br />
and my own dragon within<br />
a light-year from slumberFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-85258394256547989122012-10-17T16:16:00.000-07:002012-10-17T16:16:32.974-07:00What If<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-pXpxA9nM0fujJYw09KGqHe7-ygY5ZdNiEjE9ZkexmjwFTnAC8CRwTc1nCTvLz9XpJtnkm8CgN3joLy7eg52fzWBF-M85s6aaN14UBwvxvZqPjGSN9bqHWqUdS5tACE6dIVCkswBD2Xu/s1600/blueprint_floorplan2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip-pXpxA9nM0fujJYw09KGqHe7-ygY5ZdNiEjE9ZkexmjwFTnAC8CRwTc1nCTvLz9XpJtnkm8CgN3joLy7eg52fzWBF-M85s6aaN14UBwvxvZqPjGSN9bqHWqUdS5tACE6dIVCkswBD2Xu/s320/blueprint_floorplan2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Birds had maps<br />
And dragonflies, GPS?<br />
<br />
And whales, lanes<br />
Appointments<br />
And taxes?<br />
<br />
If deer walked the same trail<br />
passing on the right<br />
(Well, American deer)<br />
Checking their watches<br />
For dinner in the corn field?<br />
<br />
What if the hare had safe houses<br />
And bears<br />
Anger management every Thursday<br />
In humphries hollow?<br />
<br />
Perhaps deeds could paper nests<br />
And mailboxes dented<br />
By the hoodlum fox<br />
Could claim a blueberry bush<br />
<br />
What if wildflowers<br />
Were lined in neat rows?<br />
And the honey bee<br />
Assigned tables?<br />
<br />
Clouds could march<br />
As polished soldiers<br />
Bill boarding their intentions<br />
So Barry, the weatherman<br />
Could finally get one right<br />
<br />
Perhaps the red river could pause<br />
So its somersault of roiling boil<br />
Wouldn't ruin<br />
The Emmerschmidts new carpet<br />
<br />
What if, i wonder,<br />
Nature could be civil<br />
Taught manners<br />
And order like us<br />
And have council meetings<br />
The second Tuesday<br />
Of every month?<br />
<br />
Then could man be master!<br />
Then could fear be conquered!<br />
For beauty through Freedom<br />
Would be vanquished<br />
At lastFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-32431951407554071472012-10-17T16:14:00.002-07:002012-10-17T16:14:40.433-07:00The Storm<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHGXLoplwYyuiIY3aAaUUEUHyZlniAtK_ubhYYb3Fd3Qj_tBZIOSGltZyEDWn6KLc_xWmmA7lO6OUu2oWNymz1Vu1jB-pUhlJBIFSecAkElDuSDzDO5D7o6I_anzi5iVanHzzK_r3j-rn/s1600/79157efc-eccd-4981-8336-3c8de6b5427f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 327px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 321px;"><img border="0" height="266" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHGXLoplwYyuiIY3aAaUUEUHyZlniAtK_ubhYYb3Fd3Qj_tBZIOSGltZyEDWn6KLc_xWmmA7lO6OUu2oWNymz1Vu1jB-pUhlJBIFSecAkElDuSDzDO5D7o6I_anzi5iVanHzzK_r3j-rn/s320/79157efc-eccd-4981-8336-3c8de6b5427f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
shoulda bought the beacon</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and left two weeks earlier</div>
funny how in all this chaos<br />
the moon still dances in and out of the fury<br />
<br />
now that keel,<br />
I never did like the way it shook<br />
not that it matters now<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
God, what a blow</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
shadows of death in every trough that plows my grave</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
while my rudder hangs </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
like a tail without a cat</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
my survival suit swings drunken in the closet</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
as useless as a candle in a blizzard</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and I think of those I spoke to last</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and the things I might have said</div>
<br />
Men paint of such scenes<br />
but this isn't a banker's wall<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
or a side-winding tale</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
in a sawdust saloon</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
this is real</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
life, death, alone</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
the final act where indifference</div>
yawns the balcony<br />
and the depths feather my bed<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I could think of angler fish ripping my flesh for supper</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
or the pump that sleeps a drowning sorrow</div>
but strangely I don't<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I think of kisses as I drink the last coffee</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
these lips shall enjoy</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and I laugh maniacally</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
as I slide down one hill</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and toss to the other</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
wondering which wave took my panic</div>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
when all hope is reefed</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
the grand mast of fear falls broken</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and the heavy anchor of regret snaps its chain</div>
while my soul sails an uncharted departing<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
under bare poles and a curious moon</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
tomorrow the seas shall smooth</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and roll like a wheat field in Nebraska</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
a ship may pass unknowing</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
a whale might nurse</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and a long liner may notice clutter</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
on his sonar</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
but that is a tomorrow my coin cannot purchase</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
a calm a tempest too late</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and a sun I shall never see</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
so farewell! all ye lovely ladies</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
so long, my brothers in arms</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
drink to me when the gales come calling</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
drink to the fool who sailed alone</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
and made peace with the night that took him</div>
Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-55467236811620757282012-10-02T19:50:00.002-07:002012-10-02T19:50:53.948-07:00A Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPnansN08XcBwoTS2PglpVxRFTKV8HtnYkksxR8-zE2LwpK6GXox_9_s6xgh0ZzXfaP-gOwL-RwS5AyKiHFe6mhKOyCVjxMim7ZL4_Gi5YYkA_xgd8w73soq7UP67TCLGMQSsIXmGV8Q/s1600/23250073_PCMAROC3006reca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPnansN08XcBwoTS2PglpVxRFTKV8HtnYkksxR8-zE2LwpK6GXox_9_s6xgh0ZzXfaP-gOwL-RwS5AyKiHFe6mhKOyCVjxMim7ZL4_Gi5YYkA_xgd8w73soq7UP67TCLGMQSsIXmGV8Q/s320/23250073_PCMAROC3006reca.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
there was a desert<br />
where all the sands of time<br />
lay heavy in disinterest<br />
I knew it's vastness<br />
hell,<br />
I lived it<br />
<br />
the winds,<br />
when they blew<br />
were a bellow of hoarseness<br />
from parch<br />
and the noon sun<br />
in laser sear<br />
scorched my child's skin<br />
into fissures<br />
of remorse<br />
<br />
I wore them<br />
like a marshal's badge<br />
but my bullets<br />
shot only rust<br />
<br />
the mischief moon<br />
fell cold and heavy<br />
shard like<br />
on my weep laden sleep<br />
while the scorpion<br />
layed his mark<br />
in mourning trails<br />
<br />
and the thirst<br />
that played percussion<br />
knew only one beat<br />
as an echo<br />
in a house of mirrors<br />
<br />
mercifully<br />
as i trod these barren dunes<br />
my tracks hid themselves<br />
in sadden shame<br />
<br />
but one day<br />
in my journey<br />
through this maze<br />
of no relief<br />
I felt a breeze<br />
stir my heart<br />
into tentative hope<br />
<br />
it led to a door<br />
that led to a shore<br />
which opened to forests<br />
and rivers and streams<br />
beyond purple mountains<br />
overlooking deep green seas<br />
<br />
I laughed<br />
as a drunken loon<br />
and drank<br />
til my heart floated free<br />
and my bullets<br />
fired life<br />
as quicksilver<br />
<br />
and love, too<br />
grew neath pines<br />
around this oasis<br />
of crystal quench<br />
<br />
but when again, <br />
and much too soon,<br />
the seas turned to sand<br />
and my drink to dust<br />
when once again, the noon sun<br />
blistered my exposed heart to blacken ash<br />
i turned like a top in a sadists maze<br />
searching for a door I'd known<br />
or even the door's cool breeze<br />
but found nothing<br />
save the barren yesterday<br />
<br />
moments are like that<br />
that's why they're called moments<br />
that's why we keep trodding<br />
because the door<br />
is a mirage<br />
only motion can find<br />
and only once,<br />
maybe twiceFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-10894646441027439222012-10-02T19:47:00.000-07:002012-10-02T19:47:54.038-07:00Today I Am<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxRFcER7Hu2RogegJUqkxwX34JTeDNkyKBbz8hgtfBeHpcpQWlPl392YHmokbmz8k0o6c2FOi64BpwiMrK7ZwnhEEsAZhfoXGuZ5lZqSqDEPPpknlFr2_b1hxtxj2fdeSwcQGUpBXi_Q/s1600/102108_EagleCloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLxRFcER7Hu2RogegJUqkxwX34JTeDNkyKBbz8hgtfBeHpcpQWlPl392YHmokbmz8k0o6c2FOi64BpwiMrK7ZwnhEEsAZhfoXGuZ5lZqSqDEPPpknlFr2_b1hxtxj2fdeSwcQGUpBXi_Q/s400/102108_EagleCloud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have been<br />
A rabbit on the run<br />
Hunched in shallow clover<br />
Fearing the shadows<br />
That hold my sand<br />
<br />
I have been<br />
The mouse<br />
Hunting crumbs<br />
In others cupboards<br />
As my tail<br />
Grazed their traps<br />
<br />
\<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have been<br />
The mongrel<br />
Bare-ribbed and homeless<br />
A tail wagged in vain<br />
To the catcher's disdain<br />
<br />
But today<br />
I am the eagle<br />
Full, spread and high<br />
Gliding thermals<br />
Where only a gaze<br />
Might find my freedom<br />
<br />
Today<br />
I am an eagle<br />
Today<br />
I fly among cloudsFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-58518244689373018462012-09-27T09:53:00.000-07:002012-09-27T09:53:08.889-07:00The Voyage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSYbWOGZWzCgVqaR6tbVVD1gYoSLVSCDdLL1GNhoSv1C0ZqHRpL30QthKFyIRCVLqH0xbNh2y46hhYPTS-SeAK2I91EUEGEnz9nS6rPoQlRbRPnprr88kRRmNQENaengX0A-CFmsif2U/s1600/79157efc-eccd-4981-8336-3c8de6b5427f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSYbWOGZWzCgVqaR6tbVVD1gYoSLVSCDdLL1GNhoSv1C0ZqHRpL30QthKFyIRCVLqH0xbNh2y46hhYPTS-SeAK2I91EUEGEnz9nS6rPoQlRbRPnprr88kRRmNQENaengX0A-CFmsif2U/s400/79157efc-eccd-4981-8336-3c8de6b5427f.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We sailed the shit out of her,<br />
didn't we, hon?<br />
<br />
i remember when we first got her,<br />
what a wreck!<br />
Tommy laughed himself sick,<br />
and said it'll never float<br />
your grandma clung to that rosary like a kid <br />
with the parades last tootsie roll<br />
and your momma, well, she just rolled her eyes,<br />
threw up her arms,<br />
and said, "Lord God, Almighty!"<br />
<br />
but hell, what else did we have to do?<br />
<br />
We scraped her, caulked her, shined her<br />
<strong>-hey!</strong> remember that July day,<br />
when we were sanding the primer?<br />
that cooler of cold beer and wine?<br />
you chased me with that stick<br />
after i tugged your shorts down,<br />
and how you tackled me and<br />
we wrestled in the long grass<br />
til we laughed ourselves to tears?<br />
and then we just lay there<br />
looking into each other's eyes.<br />
<br />
didn't get much done that day,<br />
but the bunk finally got broke in proper<br />
<br />
and then that day we launched her,<br />
ha! we didn't have a clue<br />
ran right into that shrimp boat<br />
and scared those rowers half to death!<br />
but the sun was warm, the breeze gentle<br />
and we learned as we went.<br />
<em>sorry for all that yelling</em><br />
<br />
she kept the water out most the time<br />
and her keel ran true.<br />
there was that summer in St. Thomas<br />
that rough ride to Bermuda<br />
the times we just let her be<br />
and went where she took us<br />
never tiring of each other's smile<br />
<br />
and we knew a storm would come someday,<br />
one we couldn't beat,<br />
they always do<br />
and sure as shit we wrecked her good<br />
and why the fuck don't they make masts stronger anyway?<br />
<br />
but wasn't it something, <br />
watching the clouds off the stern<br />
gather and gain<br />
watching the waves grow<br />
the breath of the deep<br />
like the chest of a champion?<br />
<br />
you went to fix that broken cleat<br />
while i stripped the poles bare<br />
and I swear, all I can remember<br />
is how good your ass looked in them oil skins<br />
I wanted to just let her go<br />
just pick you up and carry you below<br />
and love you once more<br />
while the world crashed around us<br />
<br />
but we had fear<br />
and better sense, and<br />
so we raced the deck<br />
securing this and<br />
tossing that<br />
as the waves overtook the stern<br />
and claimed our bare feet<br />
<br />
I watched you at the stern<br />
checking the rudder<br />
while I held the wheel<br />
and we turned at exactly the same time<br />
and smiled to each other as <br />
the generator died<br />
taking our light<br />
but not our smiles<br />
<br />
you with snot running out of your nose<br />
me in that goofy hat<br />
i traded for in Martinique<br />
when we were drunk on bad rum<br />
<br />
when she started to list bad, <br />
you fell into me,<br />
we fell against the gunwale<br />
and we sank down<br />
holding each other<br />
as the starboard disappeared<br />
<br />
damn, we tried,<br />
didn't we honey?<br />
we saved nothing but ourselves and that<br />
ratty old army coat<br />
as we held hands, locked and laced,<br />
and watched her go under<br />
<br />
the others,<br />
Tommy, your momma<br />
and Grandma<br />
will say<br />
see, I told ya so!<br />
<br />
but they told us nothin<br />
it was never about how long we could keep her afloat<br />
or how many places we could reach<br />
it was just a voyage<br />
for as long as a moment lasts<br />
and that, we did well<br />
to the very end.Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-61670654632002730422012-09-27T09:50:00.000-07:002012-09-27T09:50:19.739-07:00The Day I Fell Off The EarthI've spent a life straddling the edge. It only figures that someday your foot's gonna slip. It's funny though. I never fell off by a lean. I fell off by a push and a pull. I never seen it coming.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_aOrdoik5sua3RcLXrHwYF3fyhDmuw77WZUBEROClR5Gw8XMpNR8pcWE6b9fBkHYJWZZp0OBW9zfnIw7vvsW4b6-XKJhouIuSo9fMCwHSKpjCIKhyphenhyphenxpQossE8aYu2BblIThA-_mcyKA/s1600-h/OF010884.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313074311963727906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_aOrdoik5sua3RcLXrHwYF3fyhDmuw77WZUBEROClR5Gw8XMpNR8pcWE6b9fBkHYJWZZp0OBW9zfnIw7vvsW4b6-XKJhouIuSo9fMCwHSKpjCIKhyphenhyphenxpQossE8aYu2BblIThA-_mcyKA/s400/OF010884.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 266px;" /></a><br />
<div>
the day I fell off the earth,</div>
<div>
I was minding my own business.</div>
<div>
really I was.</div>
<div>
I wasn't looking for the edge</div>
<div>
it just found me</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
I was on a wild ocean</div>
<div>
fishing for flatfish</div>
<div>
in too small a boat.</div>
<div>
we were on fire,</div>
<div>
too fully loaded,</div>
<div>
and Frank was a madman</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
but that's not when I fell off the earth</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
I was on a mountain</div>
<div>
rain turned to snow</div>
<div>
morning to evening</div>
<div>
I was alone and lost</div>
<div>
eighty miles from anywhere.</div>
<div>
I wandered blindly</div>
<div>
as bears kept my trail</div>
<div>
I bargained with God</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
but that's not where I fell off the earth</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
I drove her car</div>
<div>
drunk and asleep</div>
<div>
we hit the ditch at ninety, I suppose,</div>
<div>
flew above the moon and half of jupiter</div>
<div>
and landed in the corn</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
but that's not where I fell off the earth</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
I walked a railroad track</div>
<div>
and counted cadence</div>
<div>
while stepping the ties.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
the rail tempted my balance</div>
<div>
and on it I climbed</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
with arms outstretched.</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
while I felt the touch</div>
<div>
I held my steady</div>
<div>
and knew the smooth.</div>
<div>
a lean here, a pull there</div>
<div>
a soft blow to the wobble</div>
<div>
and a smile to assurance of gentle guidance</div>
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
there was no train</div>
<div>
the earth was flat and wide</div>
<div>
</div>
though I kept to the rail<br />
and floated above the glimmered steel<br />
<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
that is where I fell off the earth</div>
<div>
~Rick</div>
Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-56609728851231280562012-09-19T17:50:00.000-07:002012-09-19T17:50:27.317-07:00The Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXswihRNZnfcXD5TMWrb9IOpqRxYtrwc2Lz7-fxotx3qFHWsgPawGOSXvNRJ_hYHByrAH8W-UUc5tTIXuoYlE4dr1-P6d4Ab7v_WzxPoWMrIC0R3AifDE3MmuUIbbO4TWGYECO6pP-w8/s1600/girl-reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXswihRNZnfcXD5TMWrb9IOpqRxYtrwc2Lz7-fxotx3qFHWsgPawGOSXvNRJ_hYHByrAH8W-UUc5tTIXuoYlE4dr1-P6d4Ab7v_WzxPoWMrIC0R3AifDE3MmuUIbbO4TWGYECO6pP-w8/s320/girl-reading.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She was a strange child, after that, but really just a changed child.<br />
And no one really could put their finger on just what made her so, but cousins and neighbors exchanged glances anytime she was mentioned.<br />
It wasn't that she became bad or unmanageable, her teachers liked her, she always made her bed and ate her vegetables and her manners were impeccable. <br />
She played like all the other children and even stole a cookie now and then when the chance arose.<br />
But there was something just different about her.<br />
It all began with the journal. Maybe she began with the journal<br />
On an autumn afternoon when the leaves fell loose and lazy and her mother baked pies to Perry Como on the AM radio, seven year-old Adia grew restless and entered the storage closet.<br />
Her bored eyes mooned lazy in their sockets as Adia began foraging through boxes that hadn't been touched in years.<br />
Finding one box marked "sewing" on the bottom of a stack, she opened it and began to sift through fabric, zippers and pretty ribbons. Just as she was about to close it up and move on to a new treasure Adia noticed a notebook lying at the very bottom. The sun rose a bit in her eyes as she fished it out and turned it over. It was tied with a lavender ribbon and on the front, the word journal was scrawled.<br />
As Adia undid the ribbon, a collection of old photographs fell out and floated free to the floor like the maple leaves outside the kitchen window.<br />
That's when things changed for Adia, when aunts became strangers and her mother, a delicate flower.<br />
Adia scooped the photographs up, stuck them back in the notebook, and stuffed the notebook under her sweater. She then put the boxes as they had been and went to her room.<br />
Adia still ate her vegetables, still giggled when her daddy tickled her, but when goodnight kisses had been planted and nightlights encouraged sleep, she would reach beneath the book case and go undercover.<br />
Eventually, Adia took the journal to the park where acorns lay dormant. Then to the vacant lot behind the Emerson place, and finally to the river bank where the current became a soundtrack.<br />
And Adia became older, fresh in full bloom even as she watched her mother journey the other way, surrendering to time, gravity and monotony.<br />
Adia's sea green eyes would grow distance as she would close the journal and wonder if her mother<br />
had forgotten or simply chose to ignore. Correctly, she accepted that it was neither and contrary to<br />
what psychologists would tell us, her love for her mother grew only stronger.<br />
When her mother would have those moments when she was drying a dinner plate and her hands would slow, then stop and her eyes would see something far beyond the snow outside the window, Adia would imagine it was a soft wheat field she was seeing. A one time bed for two lovers without need for Perry Como.<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
On Adia's seventeenth birthday, her mother took her shopping to the mall over in Greenville.<br />
As her mother drove, Adia studied her face, recognized a remembrance in the silent lines.<br />
It seemed to Adia that an emptiness was bleeding through the car, out the door and onto the highway.<br />
It was a silent heartache that needed no narration and at the mall, when Adia came back from using the restroom, she found her mother crying uncontrollably at the fountain.<br />
Adia reached for her, took her, held her, rocked her.<br />
But neither spoke a word.<br />
That night, after her parents had gone to bed, Adia tied the pretty ribbon around the notebook for the last time and went back to the box, still where she first found it ten years earlier.<br />
When she reached the bottom, Adia found a single sheet of paper and recognized her mother's handwriting. pulling it free and sitting on her feet as she had done so long ago, Adia read the words.<br />
"Dear Adia, Thank you for being my friend. Love, mom"Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-24436498133550455652012-09-19T17:47:00.000-07:002012-09-19T17:47:32.972-07:00Where I Am<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLosNtyhekRfRTLckcB7O7qWlFVePEQPWy_EpQVaINSqYMNehqxXPc-xhEzMDUeYVyBmASwRpwqDjoS8LKu-Nk9a6pRnZG6NFdSpqRq4PvawtPh8EjwBZjtzUk5FvLv6b-iGhYKKnbXfw/s1600/07210041_dall_sheep_resting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLosNtyhekRfRTLckcB7O7qWlFVePEQPWy_EpQVaINSqYMNehqxXPc-xhEzMDUeYVyBmASwRpwqDjoS8LKu-Nk9a6pRnZG6NFdSpqRq4PvawtPh8EjwBZjtzUk5FvLv6b-iGhYKKnbXfw/s320/07210041_dall_sheep_resting.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
somewhere, among the ruins<br />
I lost myself while questing<br />
for my missing pieces<br />
<br />
guides, they were too many<br />
and friends too silent<br />
while lovers built tomorrow<br />
over me<br />
city to city, <br />
with their foundations<br />
hidden in my mud<br />
<br />
so I drifted<br />
in a pensive loll<br />
<br />
as worlds gathered about me<br />
and ships traded ware<br />
i rolled<br />
to the withered clock<br />
<br />
funny, bout the stars<br />
which borrow light<br />
to magnify the darkness<br />
they dwell in<br />
<br />
the wind gallops past<br />
brushing the Appalachians<br />
like a lovers bangs<br />
<br />
some of me is there<br />
<br />
a sapling shivers<br />
neath the towering redwood<br />
a bit of me there too<br />
<br />
high on a barren ridge<br />
where nameless stones<br />
hold silent mass<br />
the Dall sheep watch <br />
the banner of snow<br />
streak from a peak never claimed<br />
and I am the breath expelled<br />
<br />
but I'm also<br />
the dust in closet nooks<br />
and the letter<br />
never opened<br />
in a box well hidden<br />
<br />
these I can't retrieve<br />
and they keep me<br />
from knowing the others<br />
I miss so dearlyFar Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-6522479673379735832012-09-19T17:45:00.000-07:002012-09-19T17:45:59.670-07:00Bad Luck Nate<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHusxC4whyphenhyphenWwJYIXjjNkfXrrSbL28H2H5C064HnW7JrquQ5791hqZqZrtbuBUcgBop_dW2ChyphenhyphenMkm398VVlQa5RC6STIsGjhuwPEAMUy5y973T6CJqzLPVDIBgObgiVEOJoD2vyjzOjOwI/s1600-h/article-1022465-0167077F00000578-399_468x525_popup.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383354338514384306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHusxC4whyphenhyphenWwJYIXjjNkfXrrSbL28H2H5C064HnW7JrquQ5791hqZqZrtbuBUcgBop_dW2ChyphenhyphenMkm398VVlQa5RC6STIsGjhuwPEAMUy5y973T6CJqzLPVDIBgObgiVEOJoD2vyjzOjOwI/s400/article-1022465-0167077F00000578-399_468x525_popup.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 358px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div>Many years ago, 1993 to be exact, I wrote a poem for a newspaper in a town in Alaska that I once commercial fished from. (Homer) So, in the spirit of Robert Service;<br />
<br />
<br />
Bad Luck Nate<br />
<br />
<br />
three days deep into Kachemak<br />
can leave a man broken and spent<br />
in pursuit of game known as halibut<br />
to pay back the cash that was lent<br />
<br />
silent miles of line work the bottom<br />
while twelve footers on top must be fought<br />
while wading through fish to be gutted<br />
(ya can't sell the things if they rot)<br />
<br />
while sliding back into the harbour<br />
the Salty Dawg beckons and calls<br />
you've done what you should<br />
caught what you could<br />
come in and let me cure all<br />
<br />
inside it's a mass celebration<br />
for those that came in bottom-full<br />
and the one's that played the bad hunches<br />
stare at whiskey with eyes sorrowful<br />
<br />
the telling of two-hundred pounders<br />
and sets that left barrels red hot<br />
stories must grow from whiskey'ed up lips<br />
no matter if true or if not<br />
<br />
sitting alone at the end of the bar<br />
getting bent was Bad Luck Nate<br />
fish somehow know the boat he'll be on<br />
and avoid the hooks with his bait<br />
<br />
never catching a ride on the same boat twice<br />
the tale of a jinx travels fast<br />
again, he'll swear to give it all up<br />
of halibut, he's seen his last<br />
<br />
but he'll catch the fever again next time<br />
when a captain finds himself needing<br />
"be on my crew, I know that you're due<br />
to catch the fish down there feeding"<br />
<br />
but nights like this, we avoid poor Nate<br />
except for a pat on the back<br />
none will dare remind him<br />
bout his luck, or the money he'll lack<br />
<br />
what he lacks in luck<br />
he makes up for in size<br />
six-four going two-fifty five<br />
in a fight to death with a Kodiak<br />
you can bet on Nate to survive<br />
<br />
about this time a gent strolled in<br />
well dressed and of outside descent<br />
a cigar wedged tight in a cocky grin<br />
and a roll that looked to be spent<br />
<br />
bragging like none I'd heard before<br />
of the three hour charter he took<br />
explaining to all of his expertise<br />
in playing the rod and the hook<br />
<br />
"I just weighed him in at three sixty-four<br />
hanging out back if you'd just care to see.<br />
quite sure it will claim the jackpot<br />
though it really don't matter to me"<br />
<br />
"I just went out to have some fun,<br />
had heard it a fine fish to catch.<br />
I found it all rather boring though,<br />
no matter the prize it will fetch"<br />
<br />
through all, Nate never gave so much as a look<br />
the whiskey just burned in his throat<br />
but we all glanced to guess what he thought<br />
of the man who parlayed his gloat<br />
<br />
three or four of the local boys<br />
played his story for the last very cent<br />
then tossed him out like a greasy cod<br />
for all of his roll had been spent<br />
<br />
then Nate rose up to leave the bar<br />
as obligingly, we all stepped aside<br />
impressed by the temper the big man had kept<br />
knowing an anger was welling inside<br />
<br />
at closing time, we walked out back<br />
to get a glimpse of the mighty catch<br />
that just by chance had grabbed the hook<br />
of such a sorry wretch<br />
<br />
we found no fish upon the hook<br />
but feet first there hung a limp man<br />
the scale, it read one sixty-five<br />
and we began to understand<br />
<br />
though the crime was never solved<br />
to our stories, we all held fast<br />
next night he bought the first round<br />
Nate's luck had turned at last<br />
<br />
~rick </div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-25572468496158212972012-09-10T19:35:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:35:21.350-07:00The Wind<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmbfpta772NSUDoSmgIyEByrP3I6kVOZw8PU-Znc5Jixr3Us2RTa69psk700MgMlc9o_jppLrcoSGAYvtWxOBF6A_kS4sqbFEOpme_EA1a2kQ-6TqYxQg6kMp0CkBD1tW29vsNpx6IeI/s1600-h/1430778018_0e62f506e8.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342009384740025378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmbfpta772NSUDoSmgIyEByrP3I6kVOZw8PU-Znc5Jixr3Us2RTa69psk700MgMlc9o_jppLrcoSGAYvtWxOBF6A_kS4sqbFEOpme_EA1a2kQ-6TqYxQg6kMp0CkBD1tW29vsNpx6IeI/s400/1430778018_0e62f506e8.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>My feelings for the wind are ambivalent. It blows my golf ball where I would rather it not go and ruins my fishing. But it also stirs my soul and makes me alive. To me there has always been something in the wind beyond the flush of heat and chill. It calls me, it draws me and sometimes even leads me. It is my friend if not always a kind friend.</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>I feel the wind<br />
inside out<br />
as it tugs<br />
and tears<br />
from the things<br />
I desire<br />
<br />
can you see the wind?<br />
I can<br />
fingers waving<br />
calling<br />
me home,<br />
wherever that is<br />
<br />
the pines<br />
sing to me<br />
hushing,</div><br />
<br />
<div><em>it’s ok</em>like a slow moon waltz<br />
in shadowed<br />
waves<br />
of sleeping war<br />
<br />
the flush<br />
to my cheek<br />
and hair gone awry<br />
tell me of<br />
on and<br />
life in promise<br />
<br />
I tilt my head<br />
to bathing<br />
wash<br />
of sun-bleached beauty<br />
in the gentle rinse<br />
of an ivory moon<br />
<br />
for a moment<br />
I fly<br />
in freedoms<br />
pendulum<br />
stirring<br />
a moon carved cradle<br />
<br />
join me,<br />
there’s moon for two<br />
and breeze<br />
for plenty<br />
while the pines<br />
sing so lovely<br />
a melody<br />
to lances laid<br />
and shields parlayed.<br />
<br />
Rick </div></div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-42391659274759699782012-09-10T19:33:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:33:42.284-07:00I Wonder<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhw32F641_Y3TtMCdswKt1vugBO2379jXGGDXGPKx2RI1DCQk8coU_UTsB3mjZQeFilkbVwLzSt8AFz-ZhXULAmXPXVGgvk3Wtjgl_YZd7kaKtKimomKSN0r-n55PTM5XAycSgWd-lLq4/s1600-h/Yves%20Saint%20Laurent%20-%20Runway%20Fall%202006.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307136741815956450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhw32F641_Y3TtMCdswKt1vugBO2379jXGGDXGPKx2RI1DCQk8coU_UTsB3mjZQeFilkbVwLzSt8AFz-ZhXULAmXPXVGgvk3Wtjgl_YZd7kaKtKimomKSN0r-n55PTM5XAycSgWd-lLq4/s400/Yves%2520Saint%2520Laurent%2520-%2520Runway%2520Fall%25202006.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 267px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div>There are those that live for parties, and noise all nascar and halftime. Laughter that splits the face wide open and spills onto anyone near. I've never been them but I like to keep them within view. I like to watch them, observe them and wonder what makes them tick.<br />
I'm a watcher. A studier. I don't usually get all the details of a conversation but I notice what others miss. The twitch and crooked smile, and the hand gestures that are just a bit too exuberant. I see people in abstract. Beyond what they wish to reveal.<br />
So many pieces to so many puzzles jumbled by movements in rhyme.</div><br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
Her steps, just a bit too quick<br />
her skirt just a bit too high<br />
certainly an effort to conceal<br />
by exposure<br />
that which she doesn't like.</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
with lips welded to the way<br />
and eyes full of warning<br />
she parts the sweated sea<br />
but I wonder...</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
He straightens his tie and crooks his smile<br />
having been told by phony repairmen<br />
how well it all plays.<br />
a master of games and deals delivered<br />
he jets to success on air filled wheels<br />
and never trips on the cracks<br />
but I wonder..</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
She leans in to lock his gaze<br />
with small nibbles and fork extended<br />
he feigns deep interest<br />
secretly brushing the crumbs from his lap<br />
and a second date seems imminent, a kiss contracted.<br />
But I wonder...</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
The boy hits his homer<br />
and high fives the home crowd<br />
as the princess in the stands<br />
squeals her delight<br />
knowing she'll wear his ring someday<br />
but I wonder...</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
They slather and slobber<br />
and rhodes scholar her dreams<br />
as grandpas beam and cousins scowl.<br />
it all comes so easy for her<br />
this monogrammed journey<br />
but I wonder...</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
is the life of the party<br />
life to himself<br />
does the long legged beauty<br />
sleep peaceful dreams<br />
will the second date survive<br />
the slipped gas and broccoli'd teeth</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
can sweet deals trophied in board rooms<br />
campaign his lost soul?<br />
she so eager for a ring<br />
will it flatter her nose,<br />
in a silly effort to prove and disprove</div><div>when by it she's pulled?</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
If what is displayed<br />
on country club linen<br />
is all of perfect.<br />
and if Susies and Bobbies<br />
parfait perfect dress</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
Then I wonder<br />
who cleans the mess?</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
hospitals filled with pain to the brim<br />
large acned girls who never will swim<br />
in the tide of life's sweet perfume and cherry cologne<br />
young boys who miss while mean people hiss<br />
to his clumsy swing and his sweaty fist<br />
and tears fill pillows in nights so alone</div><br />
<br />
<div><br />
The world never allows us to see<br />
the beauty queen sick over filthy toilet bowls<br />
hair matted and ugly<br />
or smell the bathroom<br />
when pampered dukes depart<br />
only the fitted gowns and pressed tuxes<br />
and whitened teeth<br />
but I wonder...</div><br />
<br />
<div>~Rick</div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-24000254205058994182012-09-10T19:30:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:30:46.508-07:00The Golden Boy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_fT_qBvF9823GxU2GYqBwN6Ezaqmq9DFvcWvPJrrPK4eINO3iEyTSAqV7nwEdkVTAe5kN2SQQy1j55NN_VeqwKH-6OzppIUq8MMM7UKC6wMgoO2t97eWn5DJOnzIiohpltIhCzWR8Hw/s1600-h/58228396_Amish_0015X.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365096759052847842" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_fT_qBvF9823GxU2GYqBwN6Ezaqmq9DFvcWvPJrrPK4eINO3iEyTSAqV7nwEdkVTAe5kN2SQQy1j55NN_VeqwKH-6OzppIUq8MMM7UKC6wMgoO2t97eWn5DJOnzIiohpltIhCzWR8Hw/s400/58228396_Amish_0015X.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 376px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div>hooves<br />
upon hard pack gravel<br />
spoke beauty<br />
in time-scape<br />
<br />
the fruit boxes<br />
all in toss and stain worn<br />
coloured the grey<br />
of no match.<br />
<br />
the loveliness<br />
of the Mexican bride,</div><div>of her smile,<br />
in the window of the rusted truck,<br />
asking directions<br />
from the Pennsylvania Dutch<br />
went far beyond<br />
digital ability</div><div>and painted the desert</div><div>of Kentucky gloom.<br />
<br />
a thousand images<br />
in a single frame<br />
and yet-<br />
it was the boy, always the boy,<br />
the boy<br />
with the strawberry-blonde<br />
twist<br />
and the smile<br />
of a thousand golden joys<br />
turned back, looking<br />
over the buckboard<br />
that froze time<br />
and rendered hearts<br />
useless<br />
in the glory<br />
of harvest nuance.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>~rick</div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-40481349520624432722012-09-10T19:28:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:28:41.657-07:00ForebodingDoesn't it suck when you wake up in yawn and swallow a black hole? Sometimes we need to unhitch the burden from our back and let it fall. Someone else will come along needing their day ruined and will be glad for the heaviness their soul craves.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaXJlBOoyUux29pTXK_yXyOMfdH8E3d1Hwpfs5APJSLrDxeIQm24DAvVVInlfn-27cQFHXZdk_OY4hlJ3zd5w5R6AnWQRzAsTxpZaldv3A0IWGpNVwikm4GU0sxpKu2X5PuJWwtmImZk/s1600-h/shadowManViewingMoon.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336787454868542962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLaXJlBOoyUux29pTXK_yXyOMfdH8E3d1Hwpfs5APJSLrDxeIQm24DAvVVInlfn-27cQFHXZdk_OY4hlJ3zd5w5R6AnWQRzAsTxpZaldv3A0IWGpNVwikm4GU0sxpKu2X5PuJWwtmImZk/s400/shadowManViewingMoon.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 261px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div>foreboding<br />
is it your seed<br />
or the planting<br />
of another?<br />
<br />
we walk<br />
the fallow grounds<br />
to the burgeon<br />
of unhindered hope<br />
while storms<br />
of another’s doubts<br />
shag carpet<br />
the trail<br />
in trip and pull down.<br />
<br />
comets<br />
of another’s cast<br />
skip across the heavens<br />
ten-pinning<br />
the dreams of an innocent<br />
as the tail<br />
snaps whip-snipple<br />
in thundered acclaim.<br />
<br />
a child looks<br />
to the stars<br />
in quest fed delight<br />
til we book<br />
learn him silly<br />
and black-hole<br />
his soul<br />
in the fence line<br />
of reason<br />
<br />
and we walk<br />
deep-pockets down<br />
in shadowed valleys<br />
of bruised sun light<br />
and perfect menagerie<br />
<br />
come to me child,<br />
cries the dawn<br />
of new-found hope<br />
before the seeds<br />
of potted plants<br />
find their root<br />
and the nebula<br />
of another’s foreboding<br />
black-holes<br />
your yearning soul. </div><div></div><div>~rick</div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-57569945276541043302012-09-10T19:25:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:25:59.835-07:00Hot July<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBisJBGA1ACxj2DYwDjLZst1fQO-X-WHromjXjXI5YcbtDG67ReWR6cOaY4XiLvhyK1AKRHlBzMoXkvsE7DiJSsXg5Y_qx86DjXnfVdkdJtzbpMVKPB0XSxxh9xk_Bl6j8TbVGTvkXNA/s1600-h/feliz_sudor.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354717471746771298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeBisJBGA1ACxj2DYwDjLZst1fQO-X-WHromjXjXI5YcbtDG67ReWR6cOaY4XiLvhyK1AKRHlBzMoXkvsE7DiJSsXg5Y_qx86DjXnfVdkdJtzbpMVKPB0XSxxh9xk_Bl6j8TbVGTvkXNA/s400/feliz_sudor.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 312px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div>Quite by chance, or so it seems, I find myself these days in a place where July knows no mercy. Damp, heavy and suffocating. It wraps itself around your shoulders like a hundred pound shawl and smiles to your misery. Thank God for fans and lemonade.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
the air falls thick<br />
in layered waves<br />
masturbating the fields<br />
in perfect disorder<br />
<br />
cream coloured strokes<br />
fly the fields<br />
and rise the ridges<br />
in Gettysburg waves<br />
<br />
firmament<br />
as it was before Noah<br />
as it was before love<br />
before emotions were birthed<br />
and ejaculated<br />
down the tendrils<br />
of our uprising<br />
<br />
July bakes<br />
because it can’t spill.<br />
<br />
the heat thrums<br />
up, down and out<br />
while we hanky our brow<br />
and nose drip<br />
the fever that plagues<br />
our stolen comfort<br />
<br />
<br />
by noon,<br />
the feet will grow heavy, dense.<br />
eyes will narrow</div><div>in pleas of mercy<br />
and hair will stray<br />
to pasted surrender<br />
<br />
by late afternoon,<br />
makeshift fans<br />
on shaded porches<br />
keep time to<br />
rockers that cradle<br />
and comfort<br />
in all, <em>there, there</em><br />
<br />
later,<br />
when the dishes are done,<br />
and the sun finally<br />
falls silent,<br />
when a breeze dares again<br />
peek out from<br />
whence it slept,<br />
<br />
windows will again fly open.<br />
box fans will fill them<br />
with a wellspring<br />
of dusk delight<br />
and we’ll lay<br />
one leg out<br />
in wait<br />
for tomorrows heavy dew</div><div>~rick</div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-64370724390355671572012-09-07T11:18:00.000-07:002012-09-07T11:18:52.372-07:00Hope<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrw6UcL1dyDYGPUZ6yumj2X-ZhBaNoohdYjZBeJmlpvhPvimHYROI0bk334eLSLESXnUQpWwMP0hovIKNzF0H1XL6Tq1rmsUOvwL4idGrmeB-rlsqx5Z9g4qC1NkC5IkDw0QycaZjDoc/s1600-h/woman-looking-out-wet-window.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416031324070365826" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKrw6UcL1dyDYGPUZ6yumj2X-ZhBaNoohdYjZBeJmlpvhPvimHYROI0bk334eLSLESXnUQpWwMP0hovIKNzF0H1XL6Tq1rmsUOvwL4idGrmeB-rlsqx5Z9g4qC1NkC5IkDw0QycaZjDoc/s320/woman-looking-out-wet-window.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 184px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iC4O0dbFHL-JmPVwk3FDj5zH3w9b1QfipawEBSKn1k63CK095I7Pv8uWVYqFSsbJ9T8W7rWZlV0dSnGxsPHLriw0fyuJ9z51iByFZF1-5_eCsKi8MCJbI8lmGVwOP0TUiuicBbIwdD8/s1600-h/PCH12474.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416031321904406018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iC4O0dbFHL-JmPVwk3FDj5zH3w9b1QfipawEBSKn1k63CK095I7Pv8uWVYqFSsbJ9T8W7rWZlV0dSnGxsPHLriw0fyuJ9z51iByFZF1-5_eCsKi8MCJbI8lmGVwOP0TUiuicBbIwdD8/s320/PCH12474.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 213px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7cI9cgNkeLHCacuuwHVGqa5fLHRzcLFm2wQRNBCNYySiRVrJerCvZM4flMR5CKULUXWbrjzpHjOgOteA85TrxWXLjSxtTR4BFUkffLsbeVTMU0r42DJOFJ77km7H6DPbWOMzyB7K1hZw/s1600-h/lion+and+lamb+webshots.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416030315867971666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7cI9cgNkeLHCacuuwHVGqa5fLHRzcLFm2wQRNBCNYySiRVrJerCvZM4flMR5CKULUXWbrjzpHjOgOteA85TrxWXLjSxtTR4BFUkffLsbeVTMU0r42DJOFJ77km7H6DPbWOMzyB7K1hZw/s320/lion+and+lamb+webshots.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 241px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMk8PF-siw9Pzy1hhtyExUV5GkofoOpPLAf9Q-luMX0GySEJ5SEmPvsdU-7ngyO9rze558iKwR041f9cZeD78apUm3FGqlUnABSzauYjyYZcjoCxkoLxYbDbyGWoaJgW1ga2NmSR_rw3Q/s1600-h/A-Sioux-Indian-865x914.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416030312039361586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMk8PF-siw9Pzy1hhtyExUV5GkofoOpPLAf9Q-luMX0GySEJ5SEmPvsdU-7ngyO9rze558iKwR041f9cZeD78apUm3FGqlUnABSzauYjyYZcjoCxkoLxYbDbyGWoaJgW1ga2NmSR_rw3Q/s320/A-Sioux-Indian-865x914.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 303px;" /></a><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBcIGeZR-bp30LUYajjOjY6VO5IaElZSDr9Bsd91uV1Rq6U1LViW-gG2KyIzSy5NmDuWgsxBZVLwU_qDTndX-Uzh6Pjqa8vW3YYC2BRHPNCOHfQcZEdl_MBsDD3qfBmXBIP6ucFvaeeU/s1600-h/88093676.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416030305675767666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBcIGeZR-bp30LUYajjOjY6VO5IaElZSDr9Bsd91uV1Rq6U1LViW-gG2KyIzSy5NmDuWgsxBZVLwU_qDTndX-Uzh6Pjqa8vW3YYC2BRHPNCOHfQcZEdl_MBsDD3qfBmXBIP6ucFvaeeU/s320/88093676.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 213px;" /></a><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87o2fFMHfU6uriqXaPVYNa6X0bbL82zq114R71eK-aaeWlW9jHj2JuOgoYL-bLJh9Tbbk7es2ys3QUUUbEwtewazp5lqSlJzh8EtTfjl13BeZa3L_qqm_lpUrzOu6WZQWonYB9mTEjAU/s1600-h/5931337~illustration-of-woman-hanging-up-clothes-to-dry-on-clothes-line-posters1249397789.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416030301918667394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87o2fFMHfU6uriqXaPVYNa6X0bbL82zq114R71eK-aaeWlW9jHj2JuOgoYL-bLJh9Tbbk7es2ys3QUUUbEwtewazp5lqSlJzh8EtTfjl13BeZa3L_qqm_lpUrzOu6WZQWonYB9mTEjAU/s320/5931337~illustration-of-woman-hanging-up-clothes-to-dry-on-clothes-line-posters1249397789.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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<div>The village was nondescript. Except that it lay on the edge of where war had once been. The big one.<br />
He walked the fields that lay dormant for a thousand years. He cried as he walked, remembering what could not be forgotten.<br />
His feet fell heavy and lifted even heavier, as if clay learned roots to better torment the living.<br />
Old women hung laundry in the damp hopelessness and men counted coins in their shops to mark time. But it was he, the conscience of their soul, that could not be ignored. They watched him and dwelt in his misery as children scratched marks in cold stone.<br />
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The snow fell as Christmas snow should. Green chased red in never ending tag. The children lay upon beds of makeshift dreams and colored green trees under orange crayons of sunshine, as December blew through the cracks.<br />
She did the dishes in hopes of his late return. Shame kept her from the children. Fear kept her from the window.<br />
One of the children, the smallest, looked up out the frosted window to the neighbors laughs, racing from window to window. And wondered.<br />
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It was three in the morning. Another hour to go as he looked to the arm of his stiff blue<br />
security uniform of feigned importance. Old women in generic hair pulled greasy handles as if a basket of dimes would really matter now. Grateful husbands; miserable old bastards really- slept in peace dreaming of flat tires on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">buses</span> of glory.<br />
Glory. Yes, what glory for a tribe that once ruled the plains and now hoodwinked and babysat old white women for miserable old bastards. He looked at his watch again and briefly thought of long ago, and seasons out of time.<br />
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In the beginning was light, and the light was good. Then there were seas, and the seas were good. Then were there trees, and grass and green fruit, and it was all good. Then a moon, a Sun and stars beyond measure. And it was good. Then great whales, and beasts and great birds and all that, was good also.<br />
Then there was man, and he was given dominion over all that was good.<br />
<br />
I dream.<br />
<br />
A village of gentle breezes where the air dries perfectly. A place where coins have no place and children roll and laugh in fields of wildflowers as men smoking empty pipes smile in feathered line and lean to friendly trees that have never seen a war.<br />
<br />
I dream.<br />
<br />
A Christmas Morn where every child knows love and laughter in marshmallow hugs and the green catches the red in a new colour. A December that doesn't play favorites.<br />
<br />
I dream.<br />
Of peace and buffalo on a golden plain of simple existence. A field of harmony in a world void of tour <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">buses</span> and slot machines.<br />
<br />
I dream, because I believe. He who called it good says the lion will once more lay down with the wolf. This is my hope. </div><div>~rick</div></div></div></div></div></div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8375089413533162524.post-31577155120010547192012-09-07T11:17:00.000-07:002012-09-07T11:17:06.391-07:00Dan<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3zagmI3m75fdexSVRwi8ChrV54j9Q9cTB8hGyTzrL-saolUqc32iMGluRjkLhkF-2l23iLAXFMeaCyzdDJ35K9v99QcaDByjasDCXCswXuzT-AKaF__PUao0YNlaoE-ovsHMdyQS_-M/s1600/battleship_003.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406245901602260802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3zagmI3m75fdexSVRwi8ChrV54j9Q9cTB8hGyTzrL-saolUqc32iMGluRjkLhkF-2l23iLAXFMeaCyzdDJ35K9v99QcaDByjasDCXCswXuzT-AKaF__PUao0YNlaoE-ovsHMdyQS_-M/s400/battleship_003.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>I have a son. I love him. He's brilliant, and funny when frustrated. Loves to argue. Dabbles in everything. Extremely creative. He always tries to do the right thing-nothing like me. I wonder where it will all take him.</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>a strange one,<br />
this long, lanky<br />
bird.<br />
<br />
a hard thinker<br />
from his roots<br />
of tender lily<br />
<br />
I don’t miss<br />
the times we had<br />
so much<br />
as the times<br />
we never had<br />
and should have.<br />
<br />
a boat builder<br />
of tobacco sticks<br />
he might have seen it float<br />
had I seen it float<br />
<br />
he believes in science<br />
and logic<br />
and modern man<br />
<br />
my belief in such<br />
lies fragmented<br />
in the craters<br />
of a war<br />
beyond this earth.<br />
<br />
he wants,<br />
I think,<br />
to be battleship<br />
but one that swerves<br />
to avoid sea turtles<br />
or stops to rescue<br />
broken birds<br />
<br />
I don’t know how to tell him<br />
why<br />
he can’t be both.<br />
<br />
I just know he can’t.<br />
<br />
he’s stronger than me<br />
he will be battleship<br />
in the name of progress<br />
and logic.<br />
<br />
I wish him well<br />
but I wish him<br />
stars over gps<br />
and enough trouble<br />
to keep him spirit<br />
<br />
me,<br />
I will take the broken bird<br />
and tired turtle<br />
and swim for an island<br />
that knows no<br />
anchorage<br />
<br />
and dream<br />
of tobacco stick boats<br />
and a little boy<br />
who once sailed<br />
a plastic lid<br />
across a lake<br />
with a sister<br />
for crew.<br />
<br />
and miss the times<br />
we never had.<br />
<br />
~rick </div></div>Far Beyond The Ridgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05854741339081490896noreply@blogger.com