Life is a game of Chutes and Ladders
At every step you roll the dice
What you think really doesn't matter
Each day you'll either climb or slide

With every move you take your chances
You will either rise or plunge
Don't ask me, I have no answers
You'll never know until you're done

Where every step along the way
Is a case of do or die
It makes no difference in how you play
With every day a roll of dice

In this game of Chutes and Ladders
That some out there fondly call life
Where your next move at any given moment
You will either climb or slide

Consider the genders as separate
each with a mask set by fate
this would be the funny if it were not
for the horrors set loose once more
roles ascribed to a ***
bending a knee to do their part
though supplication will destroy
when power shunts the outcome’s goal

to save the weak from themselves
monstrous babies without resolve
unable to slake appetites
instead the other must find a way
sacrifice to this goal
placed on an altar with all around
bending heads in a fervent chant
the blood will let to the man

reject these offers of suicide
a living death while alive
saving those who are misled
by the group’s droning lies
while traditional may show bias
ascribing tasks by outward look
this is hardly carved in stone
though society would like it so

consider genders are divorced
from slaughter chutes that serve discord
when both genders are abused
by the dogma of past rules
sacrifice will have its place
alongside love and clayed feed
each *** with pursuing the very best
while being flawed in life’s eyes.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181202.

speaking only
through moves;
we are playing games
of chosen mad-libs
and retracing Uno steps
to find ourselves,
to return back looking
for multiple axes
so you or maybe I can
call bingo!

but I move, without you seeing
you return to reprise tension
lessening these enveloped expectations

rolling single digits
i'll fall behind, though you follow
this trend we seem to allow

hoping to land
on the same space
so that piece of you
may continue

day long meaningless
the monday machine rolls
i like the way the sun is
and it’s cold out and it’s raining

something assails the daybreak
fluttering in the chutes
abstraction in the boring monotony

wispy, hazy and ambivalent
by you, wondering what you’ll do next
while i wait for the mystery
to open up in the swirled world

A whole new spiral,
Trees upon a coil,
Ink from leagues,
Written feathers,
Drizzled down as oil,
Evermore,
Nevermore,
Less is more,
All.
Reverse inside-out,
Springs before fall,
Trojan powered horses,
Mother Nature's fickle,
In life we really are all,
Trapped within a pickle...
Steal the base,
Capture the flag,
Always run the risk,
Chess played on a checker board,
Hands turned into fists...
The endless stairs,
Rise & fall,
Chutes & ladders,
Poles,
Elevated,
Reciprocated,
Orbital magnetic pull...
This way,
That way,
Three rights make a left,
Two of either,
Horizontal shift,
Four times,
Stuck in circles...
Full Moon,
Half Moon,
Crescent Moon,
**** cheeks...
Face cheeks,
Two lips,
Uranus,
**** facts...
The Owl asks "Who?"
Not how many licks,
Cracked.
Tongue twister,
Riddle fister,
******* fcking dcks...
Creation.
Destruction.
Under construction,
Living life,
Chasing death,
Don't forget to function...
Playing hooky,
Hooked on phonics,
Telephone,
Hello?
Lose the "O",
Cheerios,
Rolled away,
Hell.
Pacific Bell,
Pack Bell,
Liberty Bell,
Cracked.
Xs,
Os,
Hugs,
Kisses,
Followed crumbs,
Smacked...
Cacophony of words,
Magnified to deaf,
Pantomime,
Mr. Mime,
Jynx,
Hypnotic crest...
Abra,
Kadabra,
Apply directly to the forehead...
Water your brain,
Fertilize,
Extra fries,
Exercise...
A to Z,
1, 2, 3...
F*cking A,
We say...
Today is here,
The end is near,
All come here to stay...
Escape rope untethered,
Weather altered sky day.
Gaze at stars,
Hollywood floor,
Rich,
Poor,
More...
Life is great,
Life is crap,
You decide,
Not me...
Cause all I see,
Is cacophony...
No sense inside of "we"...
Here we are,
We've come so far,
RELAX...
Have fun at last...
Half full,
Half empty,
Shattered...
At least we have the glass......

You look better
When you're smiling
Doors of ivory hide unease

Your smile looks better
When your spiraling
Down down chutes of self appease

And I look better
When you're defiling
All the things that live to please.

I, naive

I believed that the break in the clouds
Was the end of rain

Thought those rays of sun weren't burning

I was lying
Myself in the grass,
Asking if the tulip chutes in Anatolia
Were the same sinking green I feel now

Where were we?
Love for a thousand spaces and bottling them into skins
Wanted to touch and know deeply all beautiful things

No you're not allowed, they don't want to let you in
That way, it's a distant place and means too much to understand
The biological and irrational
Crazed, sweeps gregarity above and within an aether-- like milky foam upon the waves

When I return home from excursions
I will be Ipanema
The soft locale, unabashed and known to no soul
Except empty elevators--

The lowly philosopher-king

Maybe then you'll think highly of me
Through the mixed feelings
Unable to handle
Straight through the socket
Ring of fire
Then and only then will you realize
That real life

Is more than just a zone or some local
Brewery on a Friday night

And every other Friday night

Ever thereafter--
You'll unlock the box of atomic intention
And listen deeply to her on the station
"Sade and Other Like Hits"

Slowed down for full potential

Letting your cochlea stroke themselves off to the tune of the universe
And the sound of air moving indiscriminately
Will give you
All this


Somewhere
almost fractal, imbibed
Decimated repetitively
There is a fragment of my voice,
Calling

"Love, how much I'd love to be. "

~-English-~

The Beauty Of Flowers (Multiple Tankas II)

The garden trellis
Climbing Salêt Moss rose blooms
Perfume light and sweet.
Light lavender-pink blossoms—
Nice outside or in a vase.

English bluebells dance
On either side of the path
In the cool forest
They nod and sway in sunlight
Lifting their heads to the dawn

Meadows full of blooms
Larkspurs, Daisies, and Poppies
All create beauty.
So splendid a sight to see
In the Spring and Summertime.

Near the Dutch windmill
Daffodils and iris bloom
In the warm sunshine
During the sweet summer day
They look towards the blue sky

Waterfalls o'er stones,
Mossy and slick though they be
My eyes do behold;
Trillium of white and mauve,
All amid Running Cedar.

~Timothy & Marian~


~-French-~
La beauté des fleurs (plusieurs Tankas II)


Le treillis de jardin
Escalade Salêt Moss rose fleurs
Parfum léger et doux.
Lumière des fleurs de lavande-rose —
Nice à l'extérieur ou dans un vase.

Danse de jacinthes des bois français
De chaque côté du chemin
Dans la forêt cool
Il hoche la tête et se balancent en plein soleil
Soulever la tête à l'aube

Prés de fleurs
Larkspurs, marguerites et coquelicots
Tous créent de la beauté.
Tellement splendide un spectacle à voir
Au printemps et en été.

Près du moulin à vent hollandais
Les jonquilles et les fleurs de l'iris
Dans la chaleur du soleil
Pendant la journée été doux
Ils regardent vers le ciel bleu

Chutes d'eau sur les pierres,
Moussu et luisante, bien qu'ils
Mes yeux Voici ;
Trille blanc et mauve,
Tout au milieu des Cèdres en cours d'exécution.

*~ Timothy et Marian ~

I know what a skydiver feels like,
though I've never actually jumped from a plane
because with you I feel I'm skydiving.
Free falling, chutes failed
Crashing into your arms, into my world-
Yearning for the touch that grounds me
better than this planet ever has or could or will.
And in your eyes I see an ocean
One I plan to swim forever, trusting that
the water will be warm and the waves never too rough.
But it's in your soul that I find home,
in a space made just for me,
the one that waited, patiently waited-
Knowing only I would fit.

Life is like a childhood game of
Chutes and ladders
One minute you’ll climb to the top
The next minute you’ll slide back down

The difference is whether you try again
Climb back towards the top
                        Or
Stay dormant at the bottom because you didn’t succeed the first time
              Never give up
                 Even when you fall

I am in love with an invisible string
as it moves around in motive motions
swinging my heart to extreme lengths
singing a song in definitive heights
tounging it's mouth in unknown breadths

I am in love with something peculiar
it moves in people and street pendulums
in cities it drives a longing restless soul
it's inside the trees and soaked in barks
It's paradise taste is an eternity paste

I am in love in a dream that will settle
as we chase to the end of broken seas
where we wrestle, crest in chutes we rest
as we make love soul to soul, word on word
on the cross of pens and canvassed fends

Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***,
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.

WAGON WHEEL GAP is a place I never saw
And Red Horse Gulch and the chutes of ******* Creek.

Red-shirted miners picking in the sluices,
Gamblers with red neckties in the night streets,
The fly-by-night towns of Bull Frog and Skiddoo,
The night-cool limestone white of Death Valley,
The straight drop of eight hundred feet
From a shelf road in the Hasiampa Valley:
Men and places they are I never saw.

I have seen three White Horse taverns,
One in Illinois, one in Pennsylvania,
One in a timber-hid road of Wisconsin.

I bought cheese and crackers
Between sun showers in a place called White Pigeon
Nestling with a blacksmith shop, a post-office,
And a berry-crate factory, where four roads cross.

On the Pecatonica River near Freeport
I have seen boys run barefoot in the leaves
Throwing clubs at the walnut trees
In the yellow-and-gold of autumn,
And there was a brown mash dry on the inside of their hands.
On the Cedar Fork Creek of Knox County
I know how the fingers of late October
Loosen the hazel nuts.
I know the brown eyes of half-open hulls.
I know boys named Lindquist, Swanson, Hildebrand.
I remember their cries when the nuts were ripe.
And some are in machine shops; some are in the navy;
And some are not on payrolls anywhere.
Their mothers are through waiting for them to come home.

from the void
the mountain speaks
the beat goes on
in these desolate peaks

moss covered stacks
of sea floor and mantle
embrace and fold
in metamorphic tangle

stunted fir clings
graying roots exposed
a rocky, barren life
is all this sapling knows

snowcapped elderberry
scale the crevice
where bear and wind
make raucous passage

avalanche chutes
gracefully recline
in verdant shades
to the waterline

lie in the meadow
to calm the chatter
make still the noise
to blunt the clatter

upon the coming
of soft night
undress this silence
angel mine



*I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of 'thinking' and 'enjoying' what they call 'living,' I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.

-Jack Kerouac

Paratroopers free fall,
'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl
reaching down perplexed ****** frames.
Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day.
A right brained boy with a head full of clout
miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north
to the south.
Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences
through blown speakers and an overheated circuit -
Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless
without a reason there isn't a purpose.
Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time
overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes
Open those whale blubber caked eyes
to the other side.
It's not what this has done to you
but what this has done to us.
The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus.
Never was he lost, but given more than one chance.
He, no, she, no we
were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack.
Will we cross this road again?
And pick up from where we began?
Or never turn back?
Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance
But was it worth it?
Upholding the "right and proper" stance?

When I was sent up
on an escalator made of neon lights
I was rapidly unaware of the plunge.
Cut from the bottom of this cup that,
sometimes,
when filled to the brim,
resembles Christmas in Tokyo.
If ever I looked up for plasma Christ
and only felt envy
I will go on to comb the earth
for all the unspun sugar that has settled
down here with me.
Explosive notions teetering on the precipice of my palate
over the edge of the antarctic,
the south pole.
Like a trampoline built over hypothermia and bad vibes
or playing chutes and ladders alone
with limited intermissions for drugs
and the dead.

I have declared a detente
After negotiating a truce.
My head is a no-fly zone;
The bombadier chutes stay shut.
I sat at the table
With my privy council,
And we have signed an accord.
Peace in my time.
Peace in my mind.
Forget, to forgive;
Forgive, to forget.
It seeps unmeasurable,
Infectious,
Air borne as a nucleur summer.

chutes of straw lean
in the wind, the way they tap
gently on my knee,
or on the table.
they extend, slender,
and pop when they bend
back to a point
at the goodyear blimp

"I saw you eyeing this"
       I wasn't.
"It's my writing journal. I'm a poet, In case you were wondering"
       I wasn't.
"I don't know if I'm any good. I mean, people say I am"
       Probably not.
Finally, I handed him the question he was fishing for:
       "So what do you write?"
"Oh, well, I did recently complete a poem
 comparing life to a game of chess"
        He had the smuggest most punchable face ever.

                      ...seriously?
You and every other 8th grader who got that prompt in Language Arts.
                        *******.
                                           Is what I should have said to him.

I don't know why he ****** me off so much
Maybe because he reminded me of a younger version of myself
       Always pushing my writing in people's faces
       demanding they have an opinion on it.
Hell, I still do that from time to time.
       Who was I to judge this poor guy?
                 but I did.

After a few years, I forgot about him entirely.
I couldn't recall his face even at gunpoint,
and all that is left in my memory of him
       is that stupid comment about life and chess...
                                         Chess takes strategy, and skill.

If you're gonna compare life to a board game,
It's more like chutes and ladders,
         pure chance
Like Battleship,
         dumb luck
Like Solitaire,
         all too often you're playing with yourself.
But when you aren't it's Charades,
         you're always trying to guess
         What the other really means
         and it's always simpler than we're making it.
It's Clue
         In that no one has all the pieces to the puzzles
         But if we work together,
         maybe we can solve the mysteries.
Scrabble
         It's a bag of incoherent consonants and vowels
        Having no inherent purpose,
        Developing all meaning through your design.

And yes, a little like Chess,
          In that I never learned how to play it.

look at this kid
named khalid tryna put in little bids
ya weight too small
you aint got enough *****
punch  ya in ya jaw
naw ya gotta permenant awe
muted ya maw
*******
how could this boy yosef slam
ya with the grammer
got ya vocals locked like a slamma
cocked the hammer
say ya prayers
here comes deaths anthem
so many couldnt phantom
my rhymes
i got got more styles
than the stylistics full of mystics
when ya hear my ****
emcees  go ballastic
bullets dumpin' in yo chest
lets be realistic
ya meet ya maker real quick
maggots devour ya body like triscuits
never been checked toe to toe
down from the gitty go
got you chopped up
like u in slow mo
htowns dont ya know
love them pretty hoes
cant stand ***** *** foes
keep snow white on my nose
got ya stiff n froze
like ya in a penitentiary pose
ya know what it is
how get around like tupac
or better birdie
stay above the rims
rock 90s fashions
a machete long tshirt overalls
and black timbs
i dont need to fight back
i go youngin to sick em
this lil kid named khalid
is a ******* child with ***** ****
and no dad
i keep fresh braid stocked by du rags
fool!! i could trade in my rhymes
in return it will
amount to about
the price of four jags

already three up on you
so what ya wanna do?
i got my gs thugs and damu
ridahs with me
dangerous i be you a newbie
wipe that sticky goey
off ya face i beat any case
turn tough guys into cherry pies
blow out ya head then nods
rollin' with tha trillest hogs
swing on swag jackers
like wade boggs
take a whiff of the smog
i can still through the fog
im iz God
none surpasin ask ya mama
im probably daddy???
rock her with a tko call me teddy
****** through emcees nightmares
like freddie
***** u sweet whoopi
on Eddie toasters steady ready
hold ya heart steady
i can hear ya beats jumpin
from all of ya adrenaline rushin'
u just a nut bush a ***** n diguise
i know yous trick
i see the string between ya thighs
period get it nothings followed
behind it like a sentence
thedots ends ****
like when my guns lite
get ya whole body
and soul split
makin death biz a number one
profit
in cash goes to my pockets
then ya mama i knock quick
pull out my snake from the pits
she loves me more than raymond
u just a botti man while i gotta audi man
18 inches of wheels hoppin in mud rubs
put wings on death cherubs
hit the curb to the get the scoup
we broke out the loot
transfered the boot
murdered body thrown in the trash chutes
dug out the evil roots
whippin' yo *** with a lash
of lyrics til it sparks fire
makin' galore soots

Thèmes

Choix d'un thème pour un album ou une carte vous aidera à affiner votre choix de materials.Who est le public visé? Est la carte ou un album lié à une fête ou un événement important? S'il n'y a pas une personne en particulier ou un événement associé au projet, l'adoption d'une couleur ou un motif régime prévoit unité et balance.Examples de thèmes populaires incluent: vacances, bébé premier, anniversaires, obtention du diplôme, animaux, années scolaires, les anniversaires, les mariages, roman, prix, favoris (cadeaux, livres, films, émissions de télévision, des jouets ou des modes), le



jardinage, les vacances, les partis, les sports, souvenirs et mementos.After choisissant une conception unifiée, trouver des documents qui illustrent votre message. Matériaux
Les matériaux les plus indispensables sont cartonné, papier, colle, outils, stylos, et des embellissements de coupe ou photos.Cardstock robe soirè peuvent être achetés individuellement ou en packs de valeur; packs de valeur sont utiles si vous créez plusieurs albums et cards.Cardstock et du papier ordinaire est disponible dans des couleurs unies ou du papier patterns.Patterned peut être utilisé comme arrière-plans, des bordures, ou du papier de coupe embellishments.When, sauver les restes pour des projets ultérieurs, vous pouvez embellir d'autres projets ou utiliser de plus grandes chutes en photo mounts.For une aspect texturé, papier de déformation;. carton est plus facile de se froisser si vous appliquez quelques gouttes d'eau adhésif, des outils et des stylos coupe sont très variées. Les types de base comprennent liquide et le bâton de colle, du ruban, des ciseaux, tondeuses, des marqueurs et des albums de pens.For de pigments, toujours utiliser des matériaux sans acide qui ne traverse pas le pages.To créer bords bordée sur les pages de scrapbook ou des cartes, utiliser des ciseaux spéciaux, comme puncheurs. ondulées et de la vallée de pointe, ou en forme embellissements

améliorent le thème choisi albums et cards.Cutouts, des autocollants, des rubans, papyrus, vélin, les timbres et les citations sont des choix populaires, citations peuvent être employées par achetées quote-livres, manuscrites ou tenue mere de la mariee imprimées à partir d'un ordinateur Photos personnaliser n'importe quel projet de robe soirè métier;. ils peuvent être imprimés à la maison, ou développés par des boutiques et drugstores.Photos d'impression en ligne sont généralement organisés par ordre chronologique, en collages ou categorically.Categories incluent, mais ne sont pas limités à: des événements, des activités, des familles, des couleurs, des particuliers ou actions.Although ce sont des techniques de mise en forme les plus populaires, vous devriez Étalez vos photos seront cependant mieux s'adapter au thème de l'album ou carte.

http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-de-soir%C3%A9e-c-5

Le long bois de sapins se tord jusqu'au rivage,

L'étroit bois de sapins, de lauriers et de pins,

Avec la ville autour déguisée en village :

Chalets éparpillés rouges dans le feuillage

Et les blanches villas des stations de bains.


Le bois sombre descend d'un plateau de bruyère,

Va, vient, creuse un vallon, puis monte vert et noir

Et redescend en fins bosquets où la lumière

Filtre et dore l'obscur sommeil du cimetière

Qui s'étage bercé d'un vague nonchaloir.


À gauche la tour lourde (elle attend une flèche)

Se dresse d'une église invisible d'ici,

L'estacade très **** ; haute, la tour, et sèche :

C'est bien l'anglicanisme impérieux et rêche

À qui l'essor du cœur vers le ciel manque aussi.


Il fait un de ces temps ainsi que je les aime,

Ni brume ni soleil ! le soleil deviné,

Pressenti, du brouillard mourant dansant à même

Le ciel très haut qui tourne et fuit, rose de crème ;

L'atmosphère est de perle et la mer d'or fané.


De la tour protestante il part un chant de cloche,

Puis deux et trois et quatre, et puis huit à la fois,

Instinctive harmonie allant de proche en proche,

Enthousiasme, joie, appel, douleur, reproche,

Avec de l'or, du bronze et du feu dans la voix ;


Bruit immense et bien doux que le long bois écoute !

La musique n'est pas plus belle. Cela vient

Lentement sur la mer qui chante et frémit toute,

Comme sous une armée au pas sonne une route

Dans l'écho qu'un combat d'avant-garde retient.


La sonnerie est morte. Une rouge traînée

De grands sanglots palpite et s'éteint sur la mer.

L'éclair froid d'un couchant de la nouvelle année

Ensanglante là-bas la ville couronnée

De nuit tombante, et vibre à l'ouest encore clair.


Le soir se fonce. Il fait glacial. L'estacade

Frissonne et le ressac a gémi dans son bois

Chanteur, puis est tombé lourdement en cascade

Sur un rythme brutal comme l'ennui maussade

Qui martelait mes jours coupables d'autrefois :


Solitude du cœur dans le vide de l'âme,

Le combat de la mer et des vents de l'hiver,

L'orgueil vaincu, navré, qui râle et qui déclame,

Et cette nuit où rampe un guet-apens infâme,

Catastrophe flairée, avant-goût de l'Enfer !...


Voici trois tintements comme trois coups de flûtes,

Trois encor, trois encor ! l'Angelus oublié

Se souvient, le voici qui dit : Paix à ces luttes !

Le Verbe s'est fait chair pour relever tes chutes,

Une vierge a conçu, le monde est délié !


Ainsi Dieu parle par la voix de sa chapelle

Sise à mi-côte à droite et sur le bord du bois...

Ô Rome, ô Mère ! Cri, geste qui nous rappelle

Sans cesse au bonheur seul et donne au cœur rebelle

Et triste le conseil pratique de la Croix.


- La nuit est de velours. L'estacade laissée

Tait par degrés son bruit sous l'eau qui refluait,

Une route assez droite heureusement tracée

Guide jusque chez moi ma retraite pressée

Dans ce noir absolu sous le long bois muet.

It’s about my husband Alex,
He’s a truly wonderful man
But I fear Alex has gone
For a trip to Wonderland.
He works hard, and long
But lost some of his grip
On reality as it really is
And seems to be on a trip.

Ice trays that fill themselves,
Self-closing cupboard doors,
And magic laundry chutes
That puts clothes back in drawers
Ketchup bottles with 1/10th ounce
And leftovers never consumed.
And of course automobiles
Driven but never get tuned.

In Alex’s fantasyland
He lives across a chasm
Where only he gets hungry
Or gets to have an ******.
He doesn’t answer doorbells
Or incoming calls on the phone.
And, when he’s watching games
He is demands to be left alone.

Presents given out by him
In his fairy tale existence
Are often gift certificates
After a round of insistence.
And, don’t ask my husband
For the date of our anniversary
Or the dates our children
Showed up in the nursery.

I am only mentioning all this
Because I totally understand.
I have read quite a few books.
I have been to Disneyland.
But what I don’t understand
And can’t get into my head
Is why he hasn’t heard me yet,
Or a ****** word I have said.

It isn’t like I haven’t complained
Or told him what I wanted.
But he looks around like maybe
He thinks the house is haunted,
Because he is hearing voices
That he can’t quite understand.
See? What did I tell you?
Alex lives in Wonderland!

Ambassadors of peace- practitioners of terror,
Alas, the fighting never will be done!
Their parachutes deployed- the cargo was destroyed,
Too bad there won't be chutes for everyone!

One eye lined a rippling void in our favor
Two lights aimed to dither coherence astray
A spark may be one
A pyre, another
Two methods by which we may aptly narrate
These volumes which artifice rendered impassive
Some lifetimes ago
As if carved out of stone
Upon faces that masons could not replicate

We taxed ourselves harsh by indulging old spirits
But graver the crime was to give them a name
The deepest transgression of all, incorporeal
Our memories in the end gave us away
Yes, nostalgia seeps in through the gaps in our logic
To shepherd the currents beneath those blue waves
As if tides could be altered by such visitation
And oceans stood frozen with forces concealed by
Some gravities borne of celestial weight

Reluctant to wake and depart Colorado
My surrogate mother
Our canvas to paint
Expressions whipped dry by the skirt of her leather
And eardrums wrung pierced by the crags and the scree
If I leave now this portal may vanish forever
I could leave my sins here in the chill of the Springs
Release them down mineshaft chutes long since abandoned
In futile attempts to abscond the unclean
And rise to leave haunts of offenses unstated
To come crawling back from the dead
Southbound with me

Hold out, I was told
With arms to receive
You'll make sure to keep your hands steady for me
I'm soaked to the core with my soul and voice breaking
With eyes for your heart and its formless cascade
And my pail with dozens of holes to redeem
An abundance of squalls brewed behind both those seams
The light crosses your path
And you won't look away
When I question by which laws such mirrors are made

And it all seems so cruel that we're drawn here to suffer
To be teased and transfixed by what glimmers remain
I can drum up what strengths I have left to ignite you
I'll shout even louder when you forget your name
I'll relearn every way that I've known how to love you
But we're taught to process what we cannot maintain
Yes, our hearts are irreparably torn in this way

Fay can see Baruch
from the window
of the living room
down on the area

of grass below
he is alone
sitting on one
of the bomb shelters

left over
from the war
she peers down at him
taking in

the cowboy hat
the silver looking
6 shooter toy gun
he seems

to be cleaning
she wishes
she was there
with him

but her father
says she is to stay in
and learn about the saints
and said he will

quiz her later
when he gets home
from work
about them to see

what she has learnt
the book
is on the chair
unopened

a bookmark
of St Benedict
lies on top
her mother

is in the kitchen
preparing soup
she knows her mother
would turn a blind eye

if she wanted
to go out
but they both know
that her father

would punish her
if he caught her out
especially
with Baruch

the Jew Boy
as her father calls him
the killer of Our Lord
he often says

although Baruch
denies being involved
in any way
she hopes Baruch

will look up
at her window
and see her
he has put his gun

in the holster hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
and holds a rifle

bought for him
for his birthday
he aims at the sky
and twirls around

pretending to shoot
pigeons flying
over head
she watches him

as he aims
at the coal wharf
where the coal carts
are being loaded

with coal
from chutes above
her father doesn't like
Baruch even though

Baruch always smiles
and says shalom
to him if he passing
her father on the stairs

of the flats
Baruch says
her father is a schmuck
but she doesn't know

what that means
but if Baruch said it  
it must be a nice term
she thinks wiping away

the steamed up glass
where she has
breathed on it
she blows him a kiss

from the palm
of her thin hand
he doesn't know
but he'll get it

any how she knows
he aims at
the steam train
passing over

the bridge
by the Duke of Wellington pub
she smiles as he does
the kickback

from his rifle
the train passes
unharmed
the driver unaware

he has been fired upon
by a cowboy
from the grass
she eyes him

determinedly
wants him to look up
at her window
he lifts the rifle

to the sky again
and fires
then he pauses  
lowers his rifle

and stares at her window
she waves
he looks
she waves frantically

he looks away
she bites a lip
he stares up
at her window

and beckons her down
with a wave
of his hand
she waves

crossing her hands
as if to say
can't come
he gazes

and then waves
and blows a kiss
from his hand
upwards

then he climbs down
from the bomb shelter
and disappears
the grass is empty

he has gone
the book of saints
lies on the chair
unopened

she goes
from the window
and picks it up
and opens

and begins to read
sensing
a good portion
of her 11 year old

girl's heart
bleeds.

You may say I remembered you only when I got free off my chores
May be, you are also right, I did not wish you blissful mornings in all years, me making a life
May be, you are also right, I reached out to you, but for a common friend and an incident
But as I did, it was not remembering, but not forgetting you all these years
You cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

Albeit the bitter fights we fought
In the confines of our bedroom and the courtroom
Was it parting two ways with the  lightness of freeing from the heaviness of those six long years?
And when I wrote to you in just a few days that I want you back as you are my first and the best
You cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

As I walked into your new abode, I knew I was sinning
It was my weakness that I could not take you along before you tied the knot
Even in that dark, cold ambience I could feel his eyes piercing my soul
Wasn’t it for love; to win you back that sinfully I shared the niceties of our togetherness
Hence, you cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

It may be the humming of your favorite song or that poetry of longing
May be inundated snaps I took on the beach or the pathways
A late night re run of the movie we watched together
Or that free fall from ten thousand feet on the chutes
Memories do not fade, hence; you cannot, not love the Premise of Love, my love!

Information is weight that holds
down and holds back like a jungle
like so many vines and chutes
mud and rain that keeps
you struggling and straining
towards that place on a map
the high point that once atop
promises an unambiguous view,
the place that looks so close
there's no need to carry a pack
but nine hours later, hacking
through underbrush, pulling
at leeches and swatting mosquitos
finds you crippled by heat
cursing the map that so
grossly misrepresented the
relationship between yourself
and the place you wished to reach,
the map that never mentions, never,
that should you ever achieve
that keystone ridge, that high and
illuminating view, you will look out
to see the impeding silhouette of the
next ridgeline blocking your way.

As we await the arrival of our concrete truck,
jovial, trivial, almost painful small talk is being made.

But then we hear and can visually see our concrete
truck largely coming down the road.

The uncomfortable, insignificant chatter has ceased.

A more serious tone has overcome the crew.
I point to my bottom (my ****) to signal to the driver that I want him to back in.

Truck has been backed in..

  
Now the driver steps from his cab with the loud roar of the mixer mixing, almost similar to the sound of a jet preparing to take off.

The driver asks, "how many chutes" ?
I reply, "all of them please, and then lets look at your slump".

My crew now begin an almost involuntary impatient pacing.

Its what we do when concrete arrives.

Some light cigarettes.

Some tap their floats or brick trowels on steel pins to clean them.
Some like me begin to stretch.

As I see the concrete come out of the back of the mixer I say to the driver " 9 gallons of water please ".

As the mixer mixes the pacing almost becomes an annoyance but has to be done to expend the nervous energy.

The driver now back in the cab of his truck,
I say to him "okay, back her up".

We begin our pour.

The concrete slides down its 4 chutes.
I say to my crew "pull up that wire mesh,
raise that expansion joint,
knock that concrete down, please".

The crew,
although friends always talk about me,
the foreman,
its part of concrete life.

They utter to each other "why is he dumping so fast,
why is he dumping so high" ?

"I'll make him shovel this concrete back if he keeps dumping this way".

Mind you, they all think they know more than you apparently,
but they don't have,
want,
nor can they do
your job.

Organized,
respected,
money making foreman
do not grow on trees.
They are unique and
hard to find.

Half way done with our pour I gesture to the driver in a drinking motion ,
"more water please driver, 4 more gallons please".

The mixer roars once again.

My crew catches their breath during this final chance of doing so.

I say to the driver, "okay, lets go, pull up and begin discharging".

We finally get to the end of our pour.

Sweat pouring off of every brow...
every chin.

T-shirts saturated in sweat, we gather ourselves to now provide the finish product, "the finishing process".

After the finishing is done we all stand in the street at the foot of the driveway and commend one another on a job well done.

I say "looks good men , a job well done" !

That uncomfortable trivial painful chatter begins once again till we depart for home.

Till tomorrow when we do it all ,
all over again but only this time with a new ...story for
annoying chatter,
a few more aches and pains....
a few pounds lighter....
and a few more blisters and callouses.



written by yours and everyone's "concrete poet"

A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.

Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.

Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.

Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.

So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.

A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"

An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.

"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.

I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.

Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.

We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.

She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.

In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.

Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.


The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....