They put me by the door
And I could see below
800 feet to the ground
A solid green carpet
Looking soft enough to sleep on.
But the limbs underneath
Were sharp and deadly.
It wasn't a good day
For a jump I thought.
Who wants to jump out of a C-47
On their first airplane ride
Into the wild blue yonder--
No one with good sense
As I answered my own question.
I remembered hearing about
The guy who received a parachute
Not knowing it needed repair
But he had faith nothing happened
To a nice guy like him.
So when he jumped out
And didn't feel the jolt slow down
His descent to the ground
He looked up with panicked eyes
And saw the chute fluttering away.
He muttered a few cuss words
When he saw the ground come fast.
He didn't pull his reserve in time
And never heard the deadly thud.
Those were my thoughts
As the T-7 parachute
Opened with the snap of a whip
Just as the parachutist behind me
Started walking on my canopy.
I could see his boots sink in deep
And I hollared, get your sorry *** off
You low life no good *******--
A panic lingo that flowed out
Because I was scared crapless
At the turn of events.
Luckily my chute didn't collapse
And his chute started floating away.
No harm done except my nerves
Were a little frayed.
It only takes about 8-10 seconds
To get to the ground
From the time you leave the plane.
So I looked down and there it was
With the wind blowing about 20 knots.
I could feel myself swaying
Much like a pendulum on a clock.
I wasn't trained to land on my back
As I'd learned the five point landing technique
But then the ground slammed my rear
With a sledge hammer effect
Knocking the light off in my brain.
But I must have awakened shortly
As the wind had opened my canopy
Dragging me across the rocky landing zone
Till I became aware and remembered
To pull the bottom risers on my chute
To empty the air from it
So I could roll on top of it.
Then an instructor came by yelling
Get your *** up soldier
And take your chute back where you got it.
I responded accordingly
Wanting to keep my nose clean
And make the rest of my jumps
So I could get my Parachutist Wings.
It would take 4 more jumps that week.
I had to meet those requirements
Or they would send my derriere oveseas
Where a war was going on.
That was all the incentive I needed
To bust my **** gladly
And claw my way to paratrooper status.
Geronimo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I thought sheepishly to myself
For my not so altruistic bravado.

Clumsy Love

It was clumsy the day they first met

A hot day in New York City, photography at a baseball game, purple hair, and overpriced lemonade. There was a 15 year-old girl and her friend, and there was a slight fangirl moment when meeting a 17 year old boy who was famous school-wide for his singing and acting. There was an exchange of names, a photograph, and a friendship.

It was clumsy the second day, too.

Persistently bought coffee from the little round shop with way too many sugar packets, a misguided museum employee, too much root beer, and pigeons that were startled by the boy yelling “44!”

The third day was no less clumsy.

There was a broadway show in Shubert Alley, an unknown desire, and a sleepless night for the boy, though the girl remained ignorant of his new-found crush. If only the girl knew that a year from now, a promposal would be reenacted, a first kiss would be given and taken, and “I love you” would be said. If only the boy knew that his “immature” desire would be replaced with love, and passion, and, well, her. If only they knew what would happen in the next 365 days.

It was clumsy that one night in the pool.

A sticky, humid heat in the air, string lights hung over head, four friends swimming in the girls pool, stars in the sky, and the boy, throwing the girl into the pool simply because he could. The girl loved him then, though she wouldn’t allow herself to think about it, so they remained as they were: friends.

It was clumsy that day in Hershey Park.

There were sharp turn on the Wild Mouse, a stranger met and then lost again, and the boy, who kept telling the girl of other boys who were staring at her. Maybe it was his secret way of telling her that he thinks she’s beautiful, but she never knew.

It was clumsy in the movie theater.

There was crab rangoon and smuggled sushi, an 11:00 movie about superheroes, and a returned wish to hold a girl’s hand, though the girl, somehow, remained oblivious still.

It was clumsy in September and November.

There was a girl with a broken heart, betrayal from the friends from New York, a different boy who was never meant to be, and the boy who was meant to be, listening to every word, watching every tear, and slowly, unknowingly, fixing her heart. Through three hourlong video calls, text messages, and abandoned lunch periods he loved her still, though he remained the friend that he knew she needed.

It was clumsy in December.

There was a realization of how much he meant to her, a lot of poems, a revelation of jealousy of the girl who was flirting with him, and a lot of tears. There was a still 15 year old girl and a now 18 year old boy, and she allowed herself to fall, in the clumsiest way possible, into him.

If was clumsy on Valentine's day.

There was a singing Valentine, as well as one with a bad pun, there was a comparison to a sister, there was a"Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and there was a hug. A question was asked that day "Does he like her?", But was disregarded with a shrug "He said she was like a sister, so I guess not". It stung her her heart just a little, but she accepted the hit that was unintentionally given. And clumsily, once again, she laughed and smiled, after all, he and to her.

If was clumsy at the cabaret Cafe.

There was some pie and ice cream, a song sung to her, though she only wished he meant it that way, a slippery cafeteria for and tights, a confession, and two questions. The confession being to him, that she was happy to know him, a question to her, does she like him, to which she lied "no", and when the question was returned, the boy avoided an answer when the girl returned a question.

It was clumsy the Monday afterwards.

It was clumsy when he wouldn't meet her eyes. She still can't explain how much that hurt her, it stabbed at her heart and caught in her throat. After all: her best friend didn't even want to look at her. Her heart was slippery and clumsy as it sunk towards her stomach. There were tears during first period, and a text after school from the girl who apologized for lying because she liked him after all, and was too afraid of rejection to tell him before, yet no confirmation came from him.

It was clumsy on March 3rd.

There were poems, missing heart beats, and grammar mistakes. There was relief and there was fear. There was nervousness for the next day, knees shaking, heart racing as she turned every corner, waiting to see his face.

It was clumsy on March 16th.

When she fell to the ground. There are six pink roses, a stuffed turtle named Cleopatra, and a PowerPoint slide with a pun. There was an expectation he had wished to live up to and there was success. She fell to the ground and feel into his arms and they both cried of happiness and shock.

It was clumsy on March 18th.

There were silent cellos, empty risers, a dark room and racing heartbeats. There were seven kisses before saying goodbye, they were her first. There were two definitions of perfect, coincidentally, there were also two names. There was a broken water bottle and a boy in a parking lot. There was a girl, now sixteen, and a boy, now eighteen, and they were talking in love in the dark.

It was clumsy on April 3rd.

There was a stairwell, a thought, a confession, and an "I love you" returned in the same breath of air held between them.

It was clumsy in the hammock.

There was an unbalanced swaying, a list of questions and answers, and a metaphor about falling.

It was clumsy at lunch.

There was an attempted hug, an accidental tackle, and a girl who tripped over her own feet.

It was clumsy yesterday, it is clumsy today, and it will be clumsy tomorrow.

There was New York City, coffee, Broadway in Shubert Alley, root beer, Hershey Park and movie theaters. There was a broken heart, video calls, realizations, poems, songs, and apple pie with ice cream. There were grammar mistakes, pink roses, turtles, teddy bears, silent cellos, risers, absent heartbeats, and stairwells. There was love unreturned from fear of rejection born from the roots of doubt. And then, there was love, and memories, and secrets. And they became them, and "us" was their new favorite word.

The early risers
Are ripped from their sleep
By tinkles and chimes
Of programmed alarms

They tread their cold floorboards
To peer in their mirrors
Observing dark shadows
Beneath their worn eyes

They are the ones
Who meet with bewilderment
The dark of pre-dawn
And ponder its death

They are the ones
Who half-asleep shuffle
Along broken pavements
Avoiding black puddles

They are the wearers
Of gloves and wool hats
Thick scarves and overcoats
And knotted shoe laces

A slumber-some army
Making their pilgrimage
To station and hospitals
Factories and schools

They are the ones
Who catch the first birdsong
The breaking of dawn
The crisp of the air

They are the ones
Who gaze at the moonlight
Wonder at stars
And think of the spring

They are the ones
Who live out the hours
Whilst we comfortable sleepers
Lie warm in our beds

it's you.

i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.

neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.

above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.

infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,

your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.

your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque

your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.

-Anna Blake

Get her out of those buckles, make her wiggle
    Learned fingers tracing her every silky crease
Manually adventuring amidst her supple folds
    Turning her over and over, send the air out of her!
And then an arm across her skirt, fold her lovingly but firmly

Now I can count on her to open next time I jump

My favorite juxtaposition
Is when a city goes totally silent
When the widest streets are empty
And the only sounds are quiet

The bustling stores are still closed
And no one else is walking around
The city looks amazingly different
With only a few men in the ground

The buildings stand tall and silent
While those up late tuck in for the night
And the earliest risers have yet to awake
To meet the ever blinking lights

The signs are as bright as ever
And the lights still work 'round the clock
But not a single bike, car, or man
Can be seen on the city block

I stand on the silent street corner
Feeling the moment rush through me
For stunningly empty cities
Are some of my favorite places to be

Sleepy moon beams kiss the morning sky
Goodbye, as they slip  into the cerulean on
High.

I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Unwinding the curls from my tangled hair.  As I drug
My emotions through potholed streets.

Tires crunching sand the sweepers missed,
Sliver boxes clicking the lights from green to
Red, steam clouds rise in a royal ascension
Bathing passers by in a ghostly hue.

Pulling my coat tightly I slipped though
Their procession unnoticed, ears pressed to phones,
Eyes lowered to ground, hands gripped on purse straps.
I sit watching the wisp of early risers become a
Thunderous herd or late risers walking nowhere.

I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Damp against my face, cool and electric
Condensing on my cheeks, dripping down
My face where my tears should be. If I
Won’t cry for myself most certainly  the morning air
Will do it for me.  

AD

Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.

Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.

"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?

Fix it so.she.never leave you ?

Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.

Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.

The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.

Yonder comes nother fool

I still remember the feeling
Of how heavy my arms weighed
As I curled up to the risers of the stairs
I couldn't pick myself up from
After collapsing from the news.
I remember eyes staring at me,
Unsure of how to respond
To the usually stoic and strong me
Bawling uncontrollably
And heaving sobs wracking my body.
I remember cautious hands
Lifting my shoulders
And dragging me to bed
Where I stayed for three straight days.
I remember haziness setting in
And the following days and weeks
All blending into one.

I remember all that
But I don't remember your face.
Funny, isn't it?
What gets seared into our brains,
And what we lose because for so long
We took its presence for granted
Until it was too late
To remember.

someone has to fill the spot of the worst symptoms
so never worry about your own, compared to some,
you are an Olympian winning gold every time

Summer doldrums,
Morning heat risers
On the sky,
High nubile towers
In the distance,
Freshwater fountains
To slowly refresh,
Washing over
Water and land,
Beating down
The soaking rains,
Their tall images
Standing there,
Thunder sounds
Barely echo there,
All puffed-up
And neatly draped,  
Hung like white
Formal tablecloths
Across the everglades.

"Bing Bing" goes my alarm.
It's 6am, time for my day to start. I let out a groan as I stretch my arms up into the air. I've gotten used to my early mornings. Realisitically, I could get up at 7:30 and still be there on time, but I appreciate the morning hours I have to myself, it's usually the only time I have to myself.

I pull myself up and sit at the end of the bed and run my right hand through my hair while I listen to the sound of semi- occasional cars and buses tour by. The buses probably contained early risers like myself, either trying to get to work or tourists making it back home, wherever their home was. We get a lot of tourists around this time, when the maximium heat goes on it's own vacation and replaced with fleecy clouds and the occasional dance of rain. This then leads me to believe that the tourists must come from colder countries if they opted out of the Summer weather we have to offer.

Then again, I can't exactly say I blame them, I've lived here most of my life and even I have the tendancy to go into a complete vampire-like state and pull over the curtains and stay in the shade and safety of my own home until the sun starts to set.

Cars are usually driven, at this hour anyway, by people that have lengthy jobs, the kind of jobs that if you call in sick more than three times a year your head was soon to be on the chopping block, heaven forbid you should ever have to ask to leave as your signficant other is in labour, you'd be shot there and then.

These people had the kind of jobs that involved working for an average pay, under a boss you'd rather kick between the legs with a pair of steel, cone- shapped studded shoes. The kind of job that meant sacrificing any sort of social life, or family, or relationship because you need the money to pay off the loan on that grotesque little apartment you have in an area where being robbed or being within a five mile radius of drugs or drug users themselves is all but very common.

I feel sorry for these people, I really do. Hence why I know I'm lucky with what I have.

Light ****** through the tall windows and the light breeze sends the satin curtain fluttering. I make the short journey from my bedroom to the bathroom with a light thud with each step, stepping on yesterday's clothes as I do. One day swore to myself that I'd end up being my own death sentence if I didn't start picking the clothes up of the floor. That I'd get my toes caught in the neck of a shirt and down I go, crack my head on the floor and who'd be there to call an ambulance? I literally bring the term 'a trainwreck waiting to happen' to an entire new meaning. I'm not sure if I should be proud, scared, or writing my own will, you know, just in case.

Flicking on the light in the bathroom seemed like a good idea at the time, again, the whole 'trainwreck' attribute didn't need to be made even more apparent by me slipping on something and killing myself. Could you imagine if, morbid, I know, I did in fact slip and die right here. The tax collector would come find me once he realised I hadn't paid my bills in three months, only to then call the police who then find me in a sorry state on the floor in my underwear with a cracked head and a big pool of blood radiating from it. Oh how very attractive.

They'd then call my family and friends and somehow come to the conclusion that I was an early bird and that I was getting ready to start my day when I had the imponderable misfortune of killing myself. Investigators would come in and look futher into the situation, see if there were any signs of 'foul play' or was it really just an 'accident' and then they'd (for whatever reason, I don't know, just go along with it) look up and see that the lights were never turned on. Then they'd take this minuscule but yet all so relevant piece of evidence and merge it with the fact that I was an early bird. Their conclusion would be something along the lines of this:

"It started off like any other Monday morning. This woman was going to the bathroom, perhaps to take a shower, when she slipped and fell, hitting her head off the marble floor which hence caused the fatal concussion on her head. Upon futher investigation we learned that the bathroom lights had, in fact, never been turned on so her vision was not prompted and this was the main factor in this death."

"Upon intensive investigative work, ( 'intensive investigative work' my hole, you were only here five minutes and you now think you're Sherlock ****** Holmes) we have concluded that this woman's death was nothing more than an accident of human error and that she was, in fact, a *****."

Imagine having that written in the paper about you? My mother would be so proud.

Anyway, just to clarify, I did turn on the bathroom lights, I'd be a bit upset if the story ended here, wouldn't you? You'd close the book, throw it on something around you within a relatively close proximity (at least that's what I'd hope) and let out an angry sigh along with the words, "well, what a waist of five minutes that was."

After the feeling of acid being slowly dripped into my eyes faded, I was able to see. The white marble floor stared back at me, I wonder if this is what it feels like to stare are a dead person, you know? With a white face staring at you and everything. Anyway, I remeber getting this marble put down and how much I hated it even before I bought it. You see, it wasn't my idea, it's was someone else's flirtation of an idea that soon turned into someone else's definitive decision and here we are today.

I can't say I hate it now, I mean having to see something every day for more than one occassion somewhat forces you to get used to something.

Shame is that the same thing can't be said for some of the people in my life.

I took of the clothes I wore to bed, which was nothing more than a old red shirt with an aging beer logo on it and my underwear.
When I come home I'm usually physically, emotionally and spiritually drained, clothing means little to nothing to me.

Finding the will to drag each limb into the shower took some effort, but I got there eventually. The rush of water from my head all the way to my toes feels heavnily, absolutely brilliant. This, this is probably one the best moments of my mornings when I'm alone. It's more than just a place to clean, shave and get out, oh no, it's much more than that for me. It's the cylindrical scope at which I conjugate my best plans and ideas, where fantasize about the idea of being famous and also where I think I can reach the same vocal cords as Christina Aguilera and still sound good, unfortunately, that last part is really all in my head.

I sing some song I've had stuck in my head for the past four days that I heard while I was at a bar with friends and reach for the shampoo. Only problem is, I can't find it. Well, that's not all true, I know its there, but I just don't know where the geographical location of 'there' is. There's bottles of everything under the sun on this shower rack alongside soaps, a lilac luffa glove and a blue hairbrush that isn't even mine. See, these are the trials you face when you share a living space with someone. Nothing belongs to you anymore, absolutely nothing.

I finally find the right shampoo and conditioner, clean myself with a bodywash that smells like vanilla and leave the shower. Wrapping a towel around myself I go to the sink to brush my teath, there's no point in putting my hair up in a towel, it's to short for that.
Once all the obstacles in the bathroom have been defeated it's time to get dressed.

Standing, and looking aimlessly into my closet for my underwear, I decide what todays attire is going to consist of. I flick back and forth through the rack like a woman in a store thats actually got time to spend looking through the same item of clothing just in fourty different shades of the same colour. I have to admit, my closet doesn't differ all that drastically, it's all just black, white, navy and the occasional pop of burgundy. I don't do colour, it's just not my thing.

Oh, by the way , I'm Prideux.

Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.

Where/Why and the Who,  I Am

I am a child of emigres,
Sojourners in a land that was not theirs,
Early risers, both long distance travelers,
- a traveling salesman who never forgot a customers name,
- a lover of Rembrandt, ceremonial Judaica, Broadway,
who shared her love for small stipends, traveling large distances.

They were transformational people, transformers of all they met.

Not great successes, yet well-reputed.

emphasize the small in smaller businessman,  
emphasize the part in part-time lecturer, writer,
emphasize the fullness of full time mother,

An odd couple, continentally divided,
Germany and Canada and born many years apart

Never understood the pairing, the mystery of "them,"
Different in so many ways, but inspirational to many in their own way,.

Never till just now,
got the light bulb turned on to what was their secret sauce,
the connectivity essence that wove their web
and I had a front row seat!

Story tellers both,
and if their biggest dreams went unrealized,
no matter, no matter as long as they could tell stories,
Entrancing the many Sabbath table guests, Sisterhoods,
Their Passover table included everyone on the block,
Long before 'regardless of faith, creed and color' was extant

Even interlopers, those who would beg a meal,
The professional beggars who knocked at ten pm
never went away empty handed,
Any crying child who crossed their path taken in, was restored,
Authors of good night stories that incorporated your daily escapades

Their was no commonality in their separate tales,
Their upbringings were as different as Jupiter and Mars,
But in the telling was their planetary passion released,

His ramrod posture, highlighted by eye twinkling charms,
Germanic, on Saturdays he wore a Homburg and striped pants.
Was oft disturbed by the pressures of the real world,
Never took me to Yankee Stadium.

But to this day, his children are approached by strangers,
Grown men and women now,
Who all say the same thing,
I knew your father.

The where and why of my life is still a mystery to me,
What I will leave behind that is worth cherishing may be  
Less than a zero sum game, but now I see that
Nature trumps nurture, for the story telling gene is
Strong in their offspring, inheritance, both sides.

What they gave me, all their children, was this:

The fearlessness to sign your name
to a public document like this poem,
to do small acts of public service kindness
and thousands of small private one for no thanks,
that lays yourself out, open to snide critique and ridicule,
Above all, tell stories.

The Where/Why of my parents lives'
explains mine somewhat,
or maybe even,
its entirety.  

Feb 2012,  
above the intersection of
Wyoming, Colorado and Utah

It's as if they forget the rest of the world
The computers, the telephones, the policies
Each in their own never-changing world
Then it gets even worse than them
You look around and begin to notice things
The officials, these people "In-Charge"
With fat wallets and hollow brains
How the **** did you do that?
Half of them can't sharpen a pencil
And they get filled with hot air
So they think they're doing the job right
It eats at them knowing the real truth,
That there's mother ******* out there
Who will eat them alive at any given chance
The hard workers, earlier risers
Those who earned their keep
And you can feel their warmth as they walk
You know when they've entered a room
I like those beasts, those warriors
Those not being destroyed into robots
Keeping their creativity a float
Letting everyone know, that they are watching

Beep. Beep. The alarm, taking me out of bed.
I slowly, reluctantly raise my head.
My stupor is so great that I fear
Mona Lisa’s eyebrows would soon appear.

Oh Muse! Give me the strength to wake!
I cannot stand another minute drowning in this groggy state!

So my dear old desperate muse,
Drowning in his desperate blues,
Called on Zeus to set me free.

There came dear old wonderful Zeus,
And took some of his lightning juice,
And rained it down on me.

Oh! The pain and agony!
But it was the only thing that could set me free
From the unyielding grasp of sleep

Get up! I say!
It’s time to start your pitiful day!

I stumble to the floor,
Grasping desperately for the door,
Triumphant! The gods exclaim!
Your name shall be put up in the morning-risers hall of fame!

To the showers!
I go, with all due speed,
For a shower, a shower is all that I need.

I wash my hair till it resembles a great lion’s mane,
Shiningly shimmering in the shower-induced rain.

The soap, I capture, with a swipe of the wrist,
While it slips and slides in my strong iron fist.

Out of the shower, I sprint to get dressed.
I struggle with myself to pick out what’s best.

Pants or a skirt? I must make my choice.
No! I scream, with a desperate voice

Alas, it was gone, what I wanted to wear!
It was gone with my friends, when I decided to share!

Melancholy I was, but I did not fret.
On with the skirt I said,
And the turtleneck.

All fresh a clean, I realized my real pain.

Oh the hunger!
Oh the ravenous, unforgiving hunger.

I then set out for my next quest.
Food.

I searched in vein for some Froot-Loops.
The were gone last week along with the fruit juice.

Oh hunger! I say.
I must have food now!
But the question is, how?

Pancakes, I know not how to bake,
Oatmeal, I do not know how to make,
Boil, I do not know how to water,
(Or is it water I do not know how to boil? One can never tell)
Eggs, I know not how to create.

“Gram!” I scream with desperation,
“Please, for god’s sake, give me some satiation!”

In she comes, steadfast and true,
With some bacon, and eggs,
For her granddaughter-pooh.

“For me!” I exclaim, with honest delight,
And experience great ecstasy in each and every bite.

Off to school I say, and run to my doom,
Hoping each day, that it would me summer soon.

not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses

she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto

she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation

Chapter XXVI
Messiah of Judah IV part
Miracle  V - Gethsemane / Aramaic Phylogeny

They come out of Bethlehem, all on the Giant Camels. Of the seven spaces in the column, the last one that was occupied was the seventh where King David was going. Of the five spaces that remained, the Cherubim were going they were playing with Raeder and Petrobus; they would shine with their adventures flying towards the heights of the majestic Sun. The cherubs tinkled with the tinges of angelic Abrahamic beings, involved in the adoration and praise of the Caravan. Cherubs are mentioned for the first time on the route back to Jerusalem, with the great participation of bumblebees, bees and wasps, all flying alongside the Cherubs, Raeder and Petrobus and Alikanto. They would all stay up to seven hundred meters before reaching the eight gates and returning to the garden of Gethsemane. They were surrounded by dance in the Aramaic phylogeny. The bumblebees were embedded in the hills laden with echoes outside of man…., Putting themselves to the east of the Garden of Eden in rows of Cherubim, with a burning sword that was stirring everywhere, to guard the path of the tree of life. Ezekiel describes “four living beings” as the same beings as the cherubim, each had four faces that were like man, lion, ox and eagle - and each had four wings. Regarding the appearance of the cherubim: "there was in them the likeness of a man" These cherubs used two of their wings to fly and the other two to cover their bodies.

Beneath their wings, the cherubs seemed to have the shape, or likeness, of a man's hand that resembled the Aramaic phylogeny, which linked the organic environmental pollinations of the Lepidoptera, which were carrying the fertilizing spheres to reach the scrawny angiosperms. The Christic language was inaugurating on the fringe of the frolicking land, which awaited the inauguration of the Linguistic Phylogeny, to attend to the edicts for the perenniality of language, which relates Gethsemane to the olive presses, the cherubs flapping their wings to reach the father - Abba. With the flashes of the Apocalypse the Cherubs danced happily, magnifying the presence of the Apostle in the Hexagonal Birthright with the holiness and power of God. This is one of their main responsibilities throughout the scrawny abbey of members mobilizing to meet one of the twelve apostles with propaedeutic assonance attached to the twelve giga camels, in addition to singing praises to Iahvé, they also served as a visible reminder of the majesty and glory of the Messiah.

The Apostle says by parasychological regression: “A fascinating walking route in Jerusalem begins at the top of the Mount of Olives and curiously leads us to the route that will be taken after the evangelical legs of the camelids that will take them to the Holy Sepulcher, continuing through the Damascus Gate ..., here the camelids were restless! Very close you could see the topography on the top of the Mount, between the route of the feet of Bethany and Jerusalem, the Garden of Gethsemane appeared to us full of Cherubim ..., Joshua's prayers in Aramaic are felt sneaking into the camels' snores as they felt the prayers before his arrest in the Orchard. "

In here, at that moment, it happens that the bumblebees arrested the apostle, taking him to a specific sector of the garden, where sacred water and humid wind continue to flow, having olive trees growing in the garden of the embossment with huge risers, to be bordered by the oil pipeline in olives to grace the Lord on the laurels in Daphnomancy, as a holistic form of divination by which they are intended to make predictions using the leaves and branches of the laurel, chewing the leaves beforehand and then igniting them towards the crackling of the sacred fire of Aramaic Gethsemane that lit the Joshua's sacred paths and feet, and the Cherubim also carried on their four wings, with four laurels on each laureate wing. Thickened with palm energy, they walked towards the main entrance of the alzamara. They arrive in the surroundings of Gethsemane, surrounded by the Daphnomancy of the laurels that the Cherubs, the bumblebees and others carried on their wings that would be in charge of inseminating the pollinating particles in the angiosperms, thus they would rescue the smallest words and their verbal serial in the words that were transferred from the Kafarsuseh stable in Betehelem, so as not to misplace the Aramaic word, being thus redistributed to Gethsemane, by the Lepidoptera and bumblebees, wasps and bees.

This inter-organic phenomenon would make re-couple the verbalized accents of Joshua in mature and unborn age, in such a way as to preserve the Aramaic dialect, to re-clone the same groupings and intentions as the environmental phylogeny of the dialect, in cultural ritual that would write it. with the insects and the Cherubs, to re-enchant all the pluralities that would be arranged in the Garden, to energize the oil pipelines for the salvific and appearing of the image of Saint John the Apostle, King David, Vernarth, Etréstles, Eurydice and the remaining that compose them beyond the seventh camelids until reaching the last one; the Fifth Cherub who will be the scribe present with Peter and the two sons of Zebedee; only one with the close in great courage San John.

His Holiness Joshua said: “Abba…, Father, all things are possible for you; take this cup away from me; but not what I want, but what you. Then Joshua came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, Simon, are you sleeping? Have not you been able to watch one hour? Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak. Again he went and prayed, saying the same words. When he returned, he found them sleeping again, because their eyes were heavy with sleep; and they did not know what to answer him. He came the third time, and said to them: Sleep now, and rest. Enough, the hour has come; behold; the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners. Get up, come on; behold, the one who gives me is approaching. ". From a few lively little, henchmen lights were seen to the greater discontent ..., they were the executioners, attached to the hostile broken leaf of the laurel that fell on his back" On fire and cracking in all their offspring "

The anticipated visions were fertilized by the Cherubim, who advanced events in the chronological life of the apostle, which was related to his life as an apostle and evangelist of the new succession after returning from exile. It was coming close and entering by a path, it was a path where the lines of oil pipelines were that crossed the subsoil of Gethsemane.
Fifth Cherub Septuagint: “As a scribe of the Hexagonal Birthright, I refer to two hundred years before the birth of Jesus, where he developed a Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures that became widely accepted as a legitimate (even inspired) translation. Tradition relates how King Ptolemy II of Egypt established a vast library in Alexandria. However, it was not complete, and I wanted to have a copy of the Hebrew Scriptures in it. Ptolemy sent representatives to Jerusalem and invited the Jewish elders to prepare a New Greek translation of the text. Seventy-two elders, six from each of the 12 tribes of Israel, came to Egypt to fulfill the request. And like your Santiago you will write with me the allegory that will shine more in Alexandria. They were driven to the lonely island of Pharos, where at the end of 72 days, their work was completed. King Ptolemy was pleased with the result and placed it in his library. When the task was completed, the translators compared them all and each was found to be miraculously identical to the others. The result later became known as the Septuagint (from the Greek word for 70) and was especially popular with Greek-speaking Jews during the following centuries. Hebrew was displaced and Aramaic prevailed, which is the New Testament language that will influence the eclectic Aramaic language that was also promoted to heaven with Joshua to communicate with all the preaching of his Father, in the sacred phylogeny with the Lepidoptera and her entourage. "I am sitting on the last camel, and I know I will be the first.

Ellipsis  Prophet  Elijah: “They were on Mount Carmel, when I summoned the faithful of Baal, Ashera and others. I summoned them to seal a new covenant on the slopes that pointed to the barking in Jezrael, from which a long and cursed drought was lamenting. At the moment all the congregants were absorbed by the imprecation he made before Ahab, inquiring the abandoned Baal and killing the 450 pagan prophets, they called Baal in several days and nights and did not answer, Elijah mocked him saying: “Call him with all his strength. Maybe he fell asleep and needs someone to wake him up. “The people gathered on the mountain, and then Elias told them: “You have to make up your mind. If Jehovah is the true God, follow him. But if Baal is the true god, follow him. Let's do a test: the 450 prophets of Baal must prepare an offering and call their god. I'm also going to prepare an offering and call on Jehovah. The god who responds by sending fire is the true God. “The people accepted. Elijah put his offering on an altar and poured a lot of water on it. Then he prayed, "O Jehovah, let the people see that you are the true God." Immediately Jehovah sent fire from heaven to burn the offering. The people shouted, "Jehovah is the true God!" Now Elijah said, "Don't let any prophet of Baal escape." That day, they killed the 450 prophets of Baal. Then a little cloud appeared over the sea, and Elijah said to Ahab, “Here comes a storm. Prepare your car and go home”. The sky was filled with black clouds, the wind blew and it began to rain very hard. The drought is finally over. Ahab left in his car as fast as he could. Jehovah helped Elijah to run faster than the chariot. But were all Elijah's problems over?

The ground shakes and the initiations of the aramic roots appear, after the intervention of the fifth Cherubim and the prophet Elijah on Mount Carmel, the Phylogeny is testament to the links that flow between the subterfuges of the re-dogmatized civilizations by obviating languages and pagan dogmas. In this genealogy, there were the bumblebees, bees, wasps and Lepidoptera dispersing all this storm and rain before they all reached the arenas of Gethsemane, with the perfect annexation between the idiomatic form and the species communicated with the living expressions where so many times the Joshua's feet circled the Gethsemane tapestry. Without doubt here these species will establish the DNA, and its molecules for the successful genetic derivation for an evolutionary environmental testament in the establishment of pollination in the orchard.

Phylogenic dogma: The coincidences in morphological and embryological themes will be located in the garden, with a great genetic relationship and evolutionary similarity. To the garden, to eternalize the concatenations of both topographic niches, in such a way as to root the Aramaic in every organic element and not, to provide the great prevalence of an eternal pacifying and luminous discourse in creation that does not pass away, but rather is It reactivates with these procedures in a new phase that will be inaugurated by the Apostle and Vernarth, reestablishing the premature hegemony of the garden, as a link between birth and resurrection.   From the ratio Nazareth - Bethelem / Kafarsesuh - Getsemani. Of these diversifications, the key will appear with the trees and their adaptation to the environment and the new Methodist dogmatics, to adapt it to the material and immaterial elements as a habitat of paradise in Judah, with adequate species and aware of their own self-preservation and self-evolution.    At the Service of Joshua, preserving the Aramaic dialect as the axis.

Vernarth says: “In Greek mythology, Ilithia-Eileithyi, is our Hellenic goddess of births and midwives. In the cave of Amnisos-Crete it was related to the annual birth of the divine child, and its cult is connected with Enesidaon  the - shaker of the earth, who was the chthonic aspect of the god Poseidon. My divine child has similar "Behold the Fifth Miracle" coincidences both in a cave or stable. Ilithia is seen with the torch carrying light for the children to come to the world of the Messiah. Now we will shake the orchard, from its nascent oleaginous ducts in which we will have the salvific light that will flow from the hyposa secretion of the candelabra with the olive oil before a new messianic verdict, where we will populate the cave of the earth as a great similar light which will accompany the Shemesh-Sol philosophy, bearing witness to the Messiah and reconciling us with his instructions as it was in Jezrael and now in the orchard.

Under  edit

We're the New Levites:

We're the early risers and cable layers,
sound checkers and coffee makers.

We're the greeters, the good to see-yers,
the washer-uppers, the kids' teachers.

We qualify by turning up,
with willing hands and open hearts.

We're the New Levites and refuse no-one
so step up today, the rota's open.

It is black always black,
It is black in the light,
Tis void you and I black,
****** deeply void,
Alone in black am I

Shadows creak loomed the darkness,
Eyes bleed crimson slithers,
Mind filled with pungent aromas,
Rotting flesh smells I

Reaching twisting they move of the night,
Corridors screaming, laughing, buzzing,
Feeding, ticking thoughts thinks I
Doors bang and lock clutched temples,
pain stabbing fire,
blood pounds and pours dead are they,
ebony risers of the night

Shush shush sweeping blood slippers slide,
Shush shush sounds the old hag with broom
Pouring bloods,
tis perfumed I smell

Clanging keys black rooms screaming,
iced breath swirls, old cold hand brushes by,
Ever cold is water here electric red I see,
blood red nails screaming blackboards,
Screeching Seething and howling pierced am I

Writhing pain restrained jacket and I,

— Beseech me oh dead in white,

Locked away bathed in blood lonely heart,
Polished broken window moon eyes,

Mortal hell chained to die—




© Arnay Rumens /A Sol Poet 2012

The old man groans as he gets up,
Rising from the chair is a job.
He notices now he is getting older
His head is developing a bob.
Not quite Katharine Hepburn,
Not a nod as much as a bounce.
It’s not a palsy, more of a tic.
It’s not really that pronounced.

And stairs seem to be an enemy
They don’t match the cadence.
Between the risers and his feet
There just too much distance.
Or other times, they are too short
And rise up as an ugly surprise
Not coinciding with what he sees
With his own aging naked eyes.

The man complains about TV
How they are mumbling too much.
They seem to be whispering
Or using foreign words and such.
And when he turns the sound up
The action scenes hurt his ears.
A ***** trick to play on people
Who are a bit advanced in years.

The old man gets disgruntled
When people outside make noise
Like they are some kind of teenagers;
But they’re adults, not girls and boys.
Here it is ten o’clock at night
When decent people are asleep.
What kind of schedule is this
For decent people to have to keep?

What is he to make of the music
These young people like to play?
It has to be some kind of abuse
To use a guitar in that way.
In his day there was melody
And words you could understand.
The noise they make is like a collision
Between a dump truck and a sedan.

The old man grumbles in frustration
That things have not stayed the same.
He would write a letter to the President
If he could figure out who to blame.
But one thing sure, he always insists,
It didn’t use to be this way before.
Now a kind of anarchy seems to exist.

The snow leopard


A snow leopard is walking down snow covered streets.
In these empty streets, she walks alone, a vision to be seen.
With skyscraper buildings on either side,
All the cars are silent,
The apartments only have a few lights on,
As she walks outside in the night-time.


With every stride the snow leopard creeps along,
These empty streets with her eyes fixed upon,
Her destination; the local fountain has become an ice rink.
She needs a place where she can sit and think
And the frozen water is calling.


The scratches on the surface from skaters earlier in the eve,
Are sliced crisscross by fur-covered shoes;
Her claws dig in deep.
With perfect balance she moves along;
Tail flat, she is relaxed, no pressure is on.
No need to flee, no-one to be seen.
The snow leopard lies down to relax; her cub inside is heavy.


Before dawn has arisen, the snow leopard has awoken.
Her ears pointed skyward to listen to distant sirens.
From early risers, phone calls have been made;
The zoo keeper is on his way…
But with a flash of her silhouette, the snow leopard is gone;
She was only seen close up for a second,
Before she disappeared into the thick winter’s fog.


Never to be seen again, but the lights in the skyscrapers remember.
The snow leopard stood here, on this cold night mid-December.
From where she came, nobody ever truly knew;
Some people say she was here simply looking for food.


She had been hiding a long time in a snow cave;
Her footprints were filled by the snow and her tracks began to fade.
She never was found and never again did she return.
The snow leopard was just passing through, her image just a blur.
Like a wind through a narrow street,
A piece of ice falling through a cloud;
A memory of a snowflake that disappears as soon as it is found.


There was no sign that the snow leopard had ever been around
And there was no way to know why,
The snow leopard ever came walking through this town.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

The doors open.

Engines roar and wind howls
The smell of exhaust fills the space
Here stand, weighted down, with clenched bowels
The line moves forward at a dizzying pace
I make eye contact with JM and hand him my line
I pivot and jump and for a moment I'm flying
All I see is blue sky, my feet feet point at the horizon

One thousand, two thousand, three thous.....ahhh!

The chute opens with a thundering snap
Check the risers, check the canopy, watch the plane fly away
Look down at the world, spread out below like a map
Taste the air, feel the wind, get control of my sway
Undo the ties holding the weapon case on my side
Give a whoop!  
No, be quiet  
Professional pride

Look at how the sun reflects off the stream below me in the woods and turns it into a molten golden serpent.

Right now, if someone saw my eyes tear up I'd blame it on the wind
Oh, how long until I can do this again?

There is no worse feeling
Than nothing at all.
It's scary,
It's dark,
and it's lonely.

And it's kind of like the night.

Kind of like I am the moon.
And I am suspended above everyone else,
Flying high above in the risers, looking down at the actors on the stage,
On the people in the town
Conversing, falling in love, having fun, simply being
And I am up here
And I am alone.
I am the light to guide everyone's night
But they still don't see me.
I am at least one of two constants in their lives
And they still forget that I am here.
I will fall, I will rise again, and I will continue this cycle
I will swallow my feelings because
I have to
Because the town will turn to shambles if I don't.
I am not sure if I am comfortable with being this constant for everyone
I do not know if this something I should be okay with
If I should be okay with being absolutely nothing but
Something that is there.
I have nobody, but I am still there.
I am still here, don't you remember me?

Why won't you remember me?

"I came across a lonesome face,
among the figures stuck in traffic,
Someone there, somewhere,
Longs for a distant place...
A place, of dreams and magic.
This ageing scent, of dying breath,
And history, is just too tragic!

The wandering braids,
Scout the town,
Hoping, things will come around,

And as early risers greet their way,
Their faces Pass, and fade away!

The stones and old homes,
Fill space Between,
fiction, And the stories we tell!
They reek through the alleyways,
With reflections keen,
Mixed with an old familiar smell...
Of Passages dusty and features a-print,
The smiling pales of concrete mint,
And the fellow grin, by the local inn,
Who's never had a tonic and gin,
Unlike those of London...

This,
I can barely define,
stories-high, as we go by,
simply left behind!

But passenger light,
Drops in flight,
In the hours of eight 'till five,
I caught the melody sung in sun,
In our hour or so long drive...

Still I couldn't tell,
Of this old scent and smell,
and all that it's not,
why This raging ravel still, seems so forgot.
Although they've bettered it,
in some sort of a way...
Today, I think...
With all hopes a-still,
there's little much left,
and less be will...
Little still floats, and little is wet!"

A.r. Bazian
*Jan 14th, 2012

My family is absolutely ridiculous.  Every single time we have a family gathering, it always somehow results in everyone sitting around the table absolutely heated over political issues and everything that’s wrong with the government.  They’re all disgustingly republican.  It’s almost painful to listen to their views on certain things.  I’m the only person in my entire extended family (that I know of) that is more on the moderate/liberal side.  From what I’ve gathered, moderates/liberals are more of the younger crowd of people, because now that the older generation that was shamefully conservative is becoming scarcer and scarcer, some people are beginning to wake up.  They're also more of the "artistic", open-minded, down to earth humans, which is what I consider myself to be. I feel as though I've been shaped into who I am today because of the people I've associated with, the media, blogging, and just simply opening my eyes to what the world really is. We have a choice as human beings on whether or not we want to see the world as what it is, or the world with a filter over top of it, so we don't really see it for what it really is. Some may argue it's the "romanticism vs. realism", or at least I would. I learned that from one of my ex boyfriends, which was sort of the turning point in my views of the world. His name was Stefan, and he lived in England. I don't think that's even a real relationship, but he definitely helped me realize some stuff, although I already had fairly strong views on certain things already. One of those being the debate on same *** marriage. This hits very close to home for me, in far more ways than one, and is probably one of the things I dispute over most with people. I won't get into it completely here, but I am 10,000,000,000% for it. Just as same *** marriage, I have very strong feelings about self expression. It is our first amendment right to freedom of expression, and in school we are violated of that.  I couldn't imagine having to go to school with my hair in a bun, no makeup on, no more than one piercing in each ear, no ****** piercings, no nail polish, etc. To me, that is a violation of your first amendment right, let alone having it go against everything I believe in. This is why I'm so eager to move to New York City; where I can look however I want to and attend as many protests as I want and create as much art as humanly possible. Until the day the rest of America wakes up, the early risers will continue to brew the coffee in hopes one day the sleepyheads will smell how wonderful it is.