Every Sunday they would play, dancing on water,
Skidding across the ripples, and climbing up together
Two skiers fall in love, I for her,

And she for another, a friend to both.
Coveting what we wished was ours.
Idly on the shore I stood

Where The water cooled my feet
Watching how she watched,
how she chased

with a smile, I'd have given anything to make.
When the object of her eye, fell
Hard into angels' arms,

And nineteen turns around the sun
Was all that he would have
She cried, and her tears broke my heart

We both lost a friend that day,
But what hurt me most
Was how I knew she'd have never cried like that

If it had been me who fell
And so inside I said, I wish I could have traded fates
So for once I'd have made her smile stay

******* !
cannibals and skiers,
labeled solo fashion-istas,
God ****** bull fighters.

Why don't you try
lacrosse or gardening too?

you've inspired my passion,
but..
"turned my art into a science"

i don't understand
punctuation or horoscopes
but..
i know a little bit about a lot of things

and Jesus aint my friend
because i know too much about
him and his stellar clique

and i don't need to know about
crop rotations or biodiversity
to plant an apple tree

maybe i'm "just" inferior

forgive my shortcomings
i'm still exploring
i'm still developing

i may not be in the next
tour de France
but i can ride nine miles in thirty five minutes
i'm pretty **** impressed

so be proud of me mystical guru
cause even though i don't trust in you're miracles
i still think the water in Lourdes is the best I've ever had

forgive my rude outburst
i just cant live on a diet of humans alone

let me tell you a thing or two about my travels
and teach me about beauty
i think i know
but i could be wrong

show me your soul o' barrista
i'm sure you do more than make coffee

"So, you ski da marathon, eh?"
came the voice out of the back
"You anglos call me Frenchie"
"But, my friends all call me Jacques"
"You ever do da marathon?
That is why you're here?
Sit here with old Frenchie
Barkeep...three more beer"
We sat down with this old man
He looked worn out, nearly dead
He said "You know, to win this race"
"It's all up here in my head"
The beers arrived, he drank his down
Our lips were barely wet
When he signalled to the barkeep
Three more for him to get
"You know, I've been here yearly
telling Anglos like you's two
The way to Montebello
The best way to get through"
"I'm eighty fours years old you know
Believe me now it's true"
And with a little finger snap you know
The barkeep brought more brew
We sat and listened as this man
Told tales of races past
He talked of Jack Johannsen
And he drank his beer down fast
We sat with him for hours
And at ten we paid the bill
We'd spent two hundred dollars
This old man drank his fill
The next day we came in to eat
Before we started out
"You ski the marathon eh?"
We heard that husky shout
We looked into the corner
Three more suckers yet to please
So, we smiled and we left quickly
To our room to get our skis
We spent the day out on the course
Thinking that this wise old man
Knew just what he was saying
He knew every inch of land
We skied each part and in our heads
We heard that old voice say
In a husky, bad french accent
You ski the marathon...eh?
We finsihed up and thawed out beards
That had frozen to our bibs
We were off to see our wizard
In fact we fought for dibs
To see who'd buy the first round
To listen to this sage
To be a student of this teacher
Who'd reached this grand old age
"You ski the marathon, eh?'
Came from the back as we walke in
It was the same old husky accent
We knew that it was him
But, there back in the corner
Sitting at our teachers feet
Were another bunch of skiers
Who'd be buying this mans treat
So, we rounded up some barstools
And we bent the barkeeps ear
He told us that Old Frenchie
He showed up every year
He comes to town a week before
The race itself takes place
He's a regular here in this bar
The whole town knows his face
He isn't from around here
Lachute, is where he lives
But for two weeks every winter
It's free advice he gives.
You buy his beet, and hear his tales
It keeps the old man young
In fact, myself I've been here 40 years
And races...he's sikiied...none
He waits there in that corner
For you anglos to show up
And he drinks what he can handle
He's really in his cups
"Barkeep, three beers...if you please"
Came roaring from the back
It seems two brand new anglos
Were new victims of old Jacques
We finsished up, and paid our bill
We knew that we'd been taken
by an old man with an accent
Who smelled like beer and bacon
The last day, when we ventured out
We dropped by to see Jacques
The barkeep said he'd gone on home
But, come next year..he's back
You boys enjoy your race day
And I'll see you here next year
So, we tipped him ten bucks extra
To buy him and Jacques a beer
That summer, I went to Quebec
To run an iron man
I was down around Three Rivers
I went there with my friend Dan
We went out for an evening
To have some drinks before race day
And when we walked into that tavern
"You run the iron man...eh?"
That voice, you couldn't hide it
That was Frenchie in the back
He said hello, you anglos..bon soir my friends
...Now you can  call me Jacques!!!

This is for all my battle buddies, HOOAH!
Serving in Iraq,
Serving in Afghanistan.
With a grainy, sandy, hot, and humid desert surrounding you.
Looking into miles of nothing.
Always ready, always on patrol, ready to roll.
Ducking your head to re-load in the middle of the firefight.
Taking a stand against the evils of the world.
To my battles with integrity,
We all bleed the same,
Fighting for freedom of the Red, White, and Blue
Live green die green
Scream it with me at the top of your lungs:
HOOAH!
Soldier people;

This for all the clowns that play Video Games
Talking that 1337 (LEET) speak
Owning some newbs for fun
Screaming at the little kids that they ****
I’m taking on the girls 1 versus 1
Passing by the hours staring at the screen
Drinking Mountain Dew, and eating skittles
Sniping people with your M4,
Blowing them up as they walk through the door
Gamer people;

This is for all my Tech-y nerds
Working with computer components
Make sure you stay grounded
We don’t want an electrical eruption
I hated Network Theory,
But I still didn’t get a B.
The “have you tried restarting,” people.
Surfing the Internets, refer to Wikipedia people.
Tech people;

This is for all the Snowboard bums,
We ride hard, but still chill
Jumping in front of the skiers for a mighty thrill
We do it for an Adrenaline rush
Boardin’ through the trees,
And the snow that is white and plush
Snowboard people;

This is for all the Music lovers
That let the beat move their souls
Bumpin’ to the rhythm
Dancing out of control
Let the beat take you away
Fist pump yourself into the night,
Even though I can’t dance, ‘cause I’m White.
Music people.

It’s 30…
it’s 28 degrees outside,
or so says the rust-cased thermometer
on the balcony.

The blizzard we’ve been expecting all week
is a churning grey mist in the distance—
it is easy to see from the balcony
if I look through pine boughs.

The woods expanding below our mountainside balcony
are also home to several swanky condos;
evergreens and birch all down the mountain,
and a dusty snow falling in the valley below.

We are all familiar with the reddened barn
staring at us, perfectly opposite our balcony,
commanding a small field
on the little mountain across the dip of the valley.

But the blizzard is swallowing the neighbor mountain
in its snowy march towards the balcony.
And the lazy, drifting flakes above the pines
are shook into a frenzied dance.

A group of skiers, lost and floundering in the white
near the buildings lodged in the woods below
understand that cold, chaotic feeling I know
as the valley blurs in whitewash.

Trees curl their toes
holding tight
the shifting fields
of yellow grain,
thin air roars
like an avalanche  
through the branches
and a family of rooks
tilt forward like
skiers on the piste...

Bleeding paranoia
and one too many lines
searching for the definition of "purpose"
in porcelain skin and ruby designs.
Metallic marathon skiers
race down the snow, white *****
blue veins may be the finish line
wake up little Susie... let's find a new way to cope.

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

Hi. What were you expecting, Ghandi? Ha, he got nothing on this blondee! But seriously, I deliver this deliriously, decidedly in a dream, never has life had such a seam where I can pull apart and see behind the curtain, there i find a start to a life so certain to succeed, backstage pass to proceed, thanks to beautiful words inspired by soulful birds, delivered to my ear by a saintly seer who painted her picture on my heart-like fixture; crafted from wood and bone it was, until from song of love alone it rose to synchronicity, reciprocity, now I must maintain and lead you away from pity and shame. the answer is within, not without sin, but pure of soul and not so full, for to take in more is to cast ashore those anxious fears and noxious peers, come drink with me, come swim free in the sea, let not petty rules take hold of pretty mules so bold, you know not the burden placed upon your hurting shoulders, like boulders they come crashing down to crush your hopes, smashing the slopes for all us skiers, we hopeful believers. I see in you greatness, doleful eyes full of sweetness do tear me up, so here I erupt, exploding in passion, foundations i'm slashin', those doctrines on the wall that they hold so tall, hail me when they fall and it is I who down the hall is walking, pop locking my jaw, won't believe what you just saw when i saw in half your brain with what i'm sayin', relief from what im slayin, here comes the essential freedom, residential fleadom do they impose upon such a rose, so arise, no compromise, you're all gods in the land of skewed odds, sprigged pea pods in this rigged game of bigots and pigged out nitwits, so play with a cheat sheet and repeat and bleat like sheep, but don't sleep, oh no and don't weep, but cry proud tears and pry cold ears from frozen figures; you're so demure but it's time to fight! ignite the fire and thaw their limbs, listen to desire and fill to the brim your hearts with its pungent solvency as i lunge at false policy with ferocious lyrics and hurl atrocious bricks of wisdom at their Christendom. wed with me in destiny, we can be stones of density if only you shed your propensity to follow shades of green cotton for they have gone rotten and do yearn for earthly brown, so burn false worth down to the ground and release a sound to create a crease and fold into itself all the commonwealth. Chide along now, my sisters and brothers, ride upon this plow, try blisters and uncover the truth with your rudimentary excavation, this is elementary education I lay at your feet, so take a seat, for now I begin anew, and know all i said is true, honesty is in you to be more than a shrew drowned in a slough, elevate and delegate your passions; forever MASH'ON.

The sun seemed to rise slowly, almost hesitantly, this morning - a yellow syrup pouring into a deep, dark blue sky. The air is hot and thick, like a low viscosity liquid. We’re going out on the boat this morning and when you have 9 passengers and crew, everyone’s toting something.

Kim and Bili have towels and a shoulder bag of sunscreen lotions and repellents, Charles has a cooler with everything needed to make breakfast omelets on the grill (the eggs have been pre-beaten, the veggies pre-chopped, the cheese grated, the meat diced).

Anna and Lisa are toting a cooler of sodas buried in ice. Leong has the “dry box” with phones, Nintendo switches, kindle readers and iPads. Leong’s rolling a luggage rack of textbooks, Sunny has a large coffee thermos, and Sophy has a bag with dry clothes for everyone.

The girls are practically running over each other in their eagerness to be last onboard because the first two get to towel the night’s condensation off everything.

I carried the lunch cooler full of Chick-fil-a sandwiches, but my main job is to check the indicators and disconnect the dockside water, drainage and electrical feeds as Charles takes the helm and begins his “preflight” before he fires up the Mercury 500-hp engines. I know we’re a “go” when he turns on the underwater lights - that’s my signal to cast off.

The engines roar to life and then purr as we slowly pull away from the dock, we girls greasing ourselves up with sunblock. The air conditioning begins to help but picking up speed is what finally breaks the hold of the oppressive heat.

As we exit the marina Charles opens-up on the throttle and that’s always a thrill. We usually ski first, before the lake gets crowded, and lounge later.

Sunny, Leong and Anna like to sit in the bow, refreshed by occasional lake spray and the wind-whipped cool. Leong likes to sit in the cabin, like Charles’ copilot while the rest of us recline on lounges facing rearward to watch the skiers.

Our summer mornings have passed like this, launching around 6 am, skiing, then swimming, studying and getting off the lake before the noontime “heat advisories” and afternoon thunderstorms.

Later, I’m relaxing in the shade, having just gotten out of the lake, and I’m on my iPad.

“What are you writing?” Anna asks.

“Oh, I write poetry and stories - mostly stories these days but there is some occasional poetic recidivism.” I say.

“You write poetry?” She repeats, as if shocked, “I didn’t think there were any poets left.”

“Well,” I say, “Most poets died, in the early flames of science, trying to prove the pen was mightier than the sword, but there are still poets around - they live in cities where they’ll try and wash your windshield if you stop at a traffic light, and they’re frequently mistaken for the homeless - or they may actually be homeless.”

“Can I read some of your writing?” She asks, after waiting through my long joke.

“Absolutely NOT.” I answer.

Communication breakdown, it's always the shame, communication breakdown, these cons have got me insane! Free-range bottled catastrophe serf missiles? Long-target pre-coordinated nuclear crisis capsule complete with ****** thermometer. Caution precedes human condition, conditioning begets man, man never drops by to see what condition his condition is in. Turning into a walrus sized bunker for a cottontail, except for the 'Welcome Home' mat its a bunker much like a prison cell. Even the skiers are dry, the cities have gone dark, and everyone has stayed home from work. The conditions are more bearable on warmer days, perhaps in Half Moon Bay or closer to Dana Point. Whatever needs to be done to keep away from microwaves and fluorescent lights. The music they play is still playing a long ten years behind.

In a quiet place beyond the trammeling rays, on the precipice of yesterday, swimming in the crevasse  three or four of those giant salamanders from a docudrama in Japan. Maybe an amphibious subspecies underlooked by science and ignored by the sharks of Lake Michigan. Torrenting the minutia of their lair, ambulating with blind catfish eyes that ferocious and wet icy place someone must have mistakingly decided to call home. Not the winter of Chicago, but a place too cold to be home.

While tied to the brain, the typecast grew hot, the skin on the fingertips and wrists had all rotted. Two bruises shaped like feet, and gravity hurdling its' ugly veneer all down and back in a horseshoe of shimmering silver dust, sometimes blinding, but it was like being rained on by gray rain drops. First the frogs, then the fog, 8:21 marked at every turn. If you can't fly a plane you shouldn't be allowed in the pilot's seat. That means uncrossing your legs and keeping your calves pursed closely towards your feet. Maybe it means you broke Rule Sixty-Two, you wound yourself up more than you thought you had figured for the truth, but instead got more serious while you were losing.

Here is the tin can on an empty shelf labeled Planet #2 Earth, for $4.50 on sale, about the size of a coffee tin, but without that fresh coffee smell. Two triangles like the way pineapple juice comes.

Sharp resources are scarce when the meter drifts off to sleep, and the girl you crush on can't read any of your tweets. Then the nostrils get pierced, you get perched, on a rock, overlooking the dredging to get rid of all the dross. Sometimes I go back to sleep because I have a bed that's too soft, that even for someone who can fall asleep on concrete it's really too much. Two days, two nights, or four weeks, dozing with the hard rime collecting over my head.

Holidays go by quickly, as if they don’t want to hang around. My life seems to be happening at warp speed.

Lisa and I start our two-month summer fellowships tomorrow. It’s hard to believe it’s actually happening. Like most things in my life, this fellowship started as an obligation to my mom - shrouded in vague, emotional shadows - to perform the impossible.

I’d like to become a doctor but it’s no milk run. And while ambition is powerful, it isn’t magic. Yale has advisors to guide us but my mom, who has one Dr. daughter already and a son in med school  believes her every suggestion is sacrosanct. She’s usually right, but still (shrug), I’m here.

My mom did have one good idea - going to France over vacation. Peter got to meet my Grandmère and I got to visit with some of my cousins - those spoiled-rotten, monied members of “the fancy” - who have no ambitions, no goals and no self-worth other than their momentary possessions. By the time Peter and I left, I was itching to get back to work.

You only get one chance at life and if you’re lucky you’re good at something. Think of all the people who were born in the desert - who would have been the greatest swimmers or skiers ever - but never had the chance to try. I’m chanell.

Lisa and I are at my sister Annick’s 10th floor, 4-bedroom apartment, in Boston. I don't think she stays here anymore. She’s engaged, and my bet is that she’s living at his place. At first, she pretended that wasn’t true, that she was just thinking of staying there while Lisa and I are here.

Ok, I thought to myself, but why is everything in the fridge brand new?
“Where’s your cat?” I asked, like a detective reeling in a crook.
“Ok,” Annick admitted with a laugh, “you exposed my dishonesty."

Lisa and I’ll have this apartment to ourselves for two months. It’s a feeling that’s joyful, selfish and marvelous. We can see the hospital where Lisa and I will be working from Annick’s balcony - it’s that close. Annick bought this place because she’s a doctor in residence there.

I got in from Paris yesterday. I’m jet lagged and toey about tomorrow. I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. Even though I’m making a great display of calm, idle boredom, Annick knows better.
“Are you guys nervous?” She asked.
Lisa immediately declared “Hells, yes!”
I was thinking of holding strong, but after a second, I mumbled “Yeah.”

I’m really hoping I’ll be good at this fellowship business.

Thick fog breaks across West Point Lake ...
Bass boats and crappie fishermen , tour boats and skiers
skim across her blue looking glass , Wood Ducks test the skies
northbound up the Chattahoochee River , bank anglers anchor poles
along her fortified edges .. White granite boulders visible from the mid-line .. Indigo hope and dreams as starlings silhouette her morning miracle , shad minnows skim the blue mirror , visiting gulls feast along quiet shoreline . A tall Georgia Pine mirage forms in tranquil coves , early day crows call hysterically from the hardwood thickets .. Turtles occupy muddy banks , Whitetails quietly graze worked fields , dragonflies and monarchs  incessantly toil beneath the strengthening heat of Summer , baldfaced hornets fortify their paper rampart high atop a lone River Birch ...

there was a little mouse and he just longed to be

high up in the alps so he could learn to ski

he took at trip to switzerland where theres lots of snow

to the great big mountains where all the skiers go.



he bought himself some skies and some goggles to

and a thermal ski suit his favourite color blue

he took some skiing lessons till he got it right

ready for his go on the mountains white.



mouse he starting climbing till he reach the top

now the mouse was ready to began his drop

down and down he went down the mountain side

gathering his speed as he began to slide.



in and out bends with his skiing skill

he was having fun having such a thrill

mouse he reached the bottom as happy as can be

vowed he would return once again to ski

After two long days
of water skiers
and screaming kids on floaty things
skipping across the surface at high speed
behind motor boats
both big and small
loud and not so
of plump sun reddened revelers
sprawled on pontoon boats
playing loud music
drinking
48 hours of fishing lines
and hooks hanging at various depths
in anticipation of fish that may never come
of jetskis
that streak across the water
like water skeeters on *******

After all of that
a five day weekend
to rest in the sun
to let things settle

A long weekend for the lake.

Men lift their heads in wonder, shivering
Travelers halt, in fearful awe they stand
Crowds of nations in cities, quivering
As thunderous rhythm shakes every land
The Mountains are singing, they croon, they chant
Arousing poor surprised man’s mortal fears

Avalanche shrug of titanic shoulders
Dismisses the lethargy of ages
The throaty joy of caroling boulders
Carves new lyrics in history’s pages
The Mountains are singing, Earth is enthralled
Climbers, Skiers, and Poets lend their ears

Brave Matterhorn’s signal awakes them all
Kilimanjaro with full voice bellows
Everest, Chimborazo heed the call
Quandary Peak, bright-eyed, joins his fellows
The Mountains are singing, in grand chorus,
Majestic lyrics of tectonic tears

The cliff face shudders, leaping ecstatic
Landslides mark the beginning of the dance
Earthquakes become great frolics dramatic
Amid the refrains of stony romance
The Mountains are singing, a newborn song
To echo unto the end of all years

A rocky deluge of glorious verse
The Alpine cantata rumbles splendid
A true Canticle of the Universe
Whose beauty radiant shan’t be ended
The Mountains are singing, O, what a song!
Rejoicing each thunderstruck heart which hears!

Stepping onto the spray of pebbles
making our way onto the grounds
I considered to myself
And to myself alone
This will be a pleasant evening
with all parties involved behaving
as they should
Or something else entirely.
Something low.
Bellies down.

We gathered before
a small card table and
made our way unsteadily
Weaving up the incline
like skiers intertwining
down the molehills
to the properties.
Up is down.
Not good.

You moved to the right
Sprinkling pleasantries in one direction
and into one direction only.
Close and physical.
Like a sprite always looking up in quiet confidences
But a bit too early.
I wondered
Did the companion notice?
Can this companion see the play?

When too many seconds pass
And it’s time to head to the right
Where I am strolling
Disturbingly care free
Unattached and
No sign of attaching
You shakily try a few words
Yet offer no enticements
for that **** costs
It’s expensive
So you hoard and bestow sparingly
To well considered targets

Knowing this
And that there will be no payout
My body has told you that much
You return back to the companion
again and again
Softly stepping And considering
with your magical archetype-wielding
Hustle and shake down.
A threadbare con under the moon
And blackened sky.
I am left alone.

I had looked into your eyes at some point
and wondered
What are you? Peering deeply.
Are you a daemon?
I felt badly. To wonder
And certainly not for the first time
That this extended moment
sitting side by side
On stools
In the Mexican night
Was with some kind of creature
Not human
Not kind
A predator
You said so yourself
With pretty eyes
And two harmless old canines.

We sat and waited for the companion
Who showed up with a bottle of wine
And we sauntered back to your rental
The senile dogs entered and retreated immediately
into the darkness
to face the walls
immobile yet somehow agitated
A bad sign.
Spirits are here.
The dogs are aware.
You have said that they could be
Easily corrupted by being pure souls.
By a force that’s
bent upon the destruction of
All Souls
Not just dogs.
However if you asked me
The devil gets his due.

God that’s funny.

You withdrew to get them sorted
In the darkened rooms
Especially that dusky mauve poodle
A miniature with a frazzled dying coat
And questionable eyes
Blindness or Defeated?

You and the companion dug into your chicken
Ravenous and American style.
I, horrified, ate a bland soup of corn

Out came notes and pens and post-its
And the data was exchanged across
the central kitchen prep-table
with the white quartz top.
You paused and turned to your right
Facing me and my spoon
And speaking under your breath to your shoulder
Confirming with your angels
and channeling guides
That the real estate numbers looked good,
In what wasn’t any language
that I’m familiar with,
But they validated your inquiry
As they should
And perhaps you scribbled a notation
Or a mathematical calculation
Perhaps not

The companion saw none of this
Apparently hearing no little squawks or soft babble
Too busy grinding into her meal
and her resentment.
This is not going well at all.
My soup is bad
My company is bad
I must change this immediately.

But
The companion has a word for me
Instead
You are too nice
You have made yourself too available
You will get hurt by bad people in this town
You with that sweet smile
Warm hands
huggable shoulders
kissable face
and laughing eyes and all those euros in your
Change purse!
They will mean you harm.
I know about these things.

I chose not mention the man that drew my portrait that day
Although it did look like a rock
And yes the one that arrived at our lunch unannounced and uninvited
That did not go over well either.

But you
You have your daemon
You are safe
And protected
And loved
Touching fingers
And make offerings at her altar
by way of undeveloped but
prime
real estate
Giving the devil her due.

Rainy days and Mondays no longer get me down
Sorry Richard and the late Karen Carpenter
Snow and ice get me down
They are pretty but get in the way and are hazardous
Sorry skiers and skaters
Naysayers may not apply or get in the way of what matters
What matters is doing the very best possible
Doing the right thing when the wrong thing is easier a taste
that completely disagrees with me
My heart is on a page and one that I author
Some will never open it
Too much has happened
Too many last said goodbyes
Rainy days and Mondays no longer get me down

C@rainbowchaser2023

they pass each other on the paths
histories trailing behind them like
smoke from their cigarettes, which
most gave up eons ago

some wield two sticks, to stave
off the inevitability of their demise;
arms, legs, zig-zagging like
cross country skiers

others have the blessed cane of age
a teetering tether to this world, their
backs bent forever making a question
mark, a parenthesis at best

yet others have staffs, shepherds
of invisible flocks, ones they tend to
now in a world only they inhabit, looking
backwards at grazing apparitions:

lambs of their lives they
long ago sacrificed, sheep they
sheared--wool woven into coats
for other old men with sticks

who have their own histories, their
own fleeting flocks, their own encounters
with stick toting strangers, their own
walks on well worn paths

Fat ones, thin ones, some either way extreme:
Over weight or under - some slender, in the beam:
Optimist, pessimist, the ridiculously sublime,
Babies, Seniors, others arriving at their prime.
Happy ones, sad ones, dullards thought morose,
Flighty, persistent - sticking to the course!
Tall ones, short ones, others barely seen,
Added to the mix, fit some place in between.
Wise ones, dumb ones, others more intense,
Whilst some will exercise, a little common-sense.
Rambunctious, the quiet - timid as a mouse,
Spinsters, bachelors - they’re without a spouse.
The ugly, the attractive; noisy ones that bawl,
Lithesome, awkward, Nature makes them all!
Spiritualists, agnostics, and heretics join the mix,
Be they pious, or sinful, or mystics full of tricks.
Savage or cultured, coloured, yellow, black or white,
Together in a milling crowd, a kaleidoscopic sight!
Matching the vicious, we find the caring and humane:
The artistic and artisans, compare with those mundane.
Swimmers, jumpers, skiers in their special groove,
Seemingly impassioned, on prowess they’ve to prove!
To walkers and joggers, add the riders on a bike,
A diacritic mixture: there’s seldom two alike!
It’s with this infinite diversity, nature shows her skill,
For what ever class is sought?  One will fit the bill!
But moderation in all things has ever been the best:
For inordinate extremes, stand out from the rest.
Yes Humans are a mixture, of every shape and size,
Descriptions of such as I’ve given, elicit no surprise.
Accepted as the norm, no matter where one goes,
Are universal appendages, which nature will impose.

Rhymer. April 18th, 2018.
Okay Jim, where do you fit into this mix?  Or perhaps I missed your description?  Lol!
Lord help you folks!  I'm on a roll today!

The sun is burning down on my SFA cap,
my love sits beside me, her leg up on my lap,
we are on the shores of Cedar Creek Lake,
watching boats and skiers cut a foamy wake.

Her golden skin that shows, has a **** glow,
a tan she got started in New Mexico,
the bikini she's wearing is a Texas flag,
makes it look so good, I really have to brag.

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

The breeze is steady and its blowing brisket smoke,
my red solo cup is full of Beam and coke,
the table is filled, with snacks and chips,
some hot and spicy queso, I can't wait to dip.

The day is waning, the moon starts to climb,
cool water and sun made the day sublime,
golden stars now fill, the heart of Texas sky,
laying on the dock, in the middle of July.

We are really good at this,
it's our favorite pastime,
relaxing doin' nothin',
really is no crime.

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

We're just doin' nothin', want to come along?
the radio is playing, come on and sing a song.
The cooler is filled with blue mountain beer,
what are you waiting for, just get on over here?

Snow over mountain
skiers rush for highest spot
excitement galore

there was a little mouse and he just longed to be

high up in the alps so he could learn to ski

he took at trip to switzerland where theres lots of snow

to the great big mountains where all the skiers go.



he bought himself some ski s and some goggles to

and a thermal suit his favourite color blue

he took some skiing lessons till he got it right

ready for his go on the mountains white.



mouse he starting climbing till he reach the top

now the mouse was ready to began his drop

down and down he went down the mountain side

gathering his speed as he began to slide.



in and out bends with his skiing skill

he was having fun having such a thrill

mouse he reached the bottom as happy as can be

vowed he would return once again to ski

The Russians are coming

Skiers complain it is too cold, most of them are from the cold country
is the frost in China different than say, Scandinavia?
A newspaper gleefully telling us there fewer spectators this time
then in the Olympic last time, I think this tittle-tattle has to do with
infantile reports looking to throw some **** China’s way.
The war that didn’t happen and are not going to cover the front
pages of Europe, one senses they are willing a war against Russia.
Crimea was not annexed by Russia, there was a vote in favour
of being a part of that country, which is natural since most people
living in Crimea are Russians; this is a no brainer.
I so do dislike I. Phones; bills are sent to the phone nothing on paper
my phone is blocked because I let the battery run flat
Now they ask for my code to open the ****** phone who in
their does right mind remember a code?
Meanwhile, the sporting people continue to chase gold in Pequin.

there was a little mouse he just love to ski
all around the mountains the sporty type was he
he took a trip to switzerland were all the skiers go
so the mouse could ski through the winter snow

skiing very fast down the mountain side
skiing in and out as he began to slide
people gathered round just to watch him ski
he was very clever a clever mouse was he

the children they all loved him has he put on his show
skiing down the mountains as fast as he could go
they held a competiton to see who was the best
mouse he had a go so he could take the test

now the time had come for mouse to have a go
to see who was the fasted skiing through the snow
mouse he started skiing as fast as fast can be
mouse he won the race the fasted one was he

people start clapping as he lifted up his prize
mouse filled up inside with teardrops in his eyes
he was very happy his dream it had come true
he had won the race just like he wanted to

there was a little mouse he just love to ski
all around the mountains the sporty type was he
he took a trip to switzerland were all the skiers go
so the mouse could ski through the winter snow

skiing very fast down the mountain side
skiing in and out as he began to slide
people gathered round just to watch him ski
he was very clever a clever mouse was he

the children they all loved him has he put on his show
skiing down the mountains as fast as he could go
they held a competiton to see who was the best
mouse he had a go so he could take the test

now the time had come for mouse to have a go
to see who was the fasted skiing through the snow
mouse he started skiing as fast as fast can be
mouse he won the race the fasted one was he

people start clapping as he lifted up his prize
mouse filled up inside with teardrops in his eyes
he was very happy his dream it had come true
he had won the race just like he wanted to