a fat dollop of raspberry jam sat between them
seemed a vast distance
they struggled through the goo
met half way
"do you think this could use more salt, a quintessential pinch?"
"oh, def more sugar than salt would tune it up a cinch"
"oh, I see, I thought salt for tang"
"yeah, that'd be right, just like a man"
"tomato"
"potato"
rolling her eyes, rolling onto her wings, she back-stroked around him
treading porridge, swirling jam, he yelled "alright, alright, have more sugar..."
and with that they parted ways and both sank into their nirvanas
he called her sheila, she called him bloke
a coupla flies in porridge
how nice
(c) joules april fools day 09
~
auto musique !
~
Music
Sylvian, Forest Fire moving pictures, live
Oscar Peterson...Tord Gustavsen.....Inga Liljestrom....
David Sylvian....Ryuichi Sakamoto....The Blue Nile....
Crackpot (aus).....Michael Franks....soundscapes
.....City of Lost Children......Run Lola run .......Delicatessen.....Big Fish.......
Hero (Li).....Crouching Tiger ......
Gold Rush (CC).....The Notebook......
Bladerunner.....Away from her.....Ran.....
Empire of the Sun.......A Very Long Engagement......Amelie.....
Breaker Morant......Cinema Paradiso......
The Hunger (Daneuve).......Blue Velvet.......The Quiet Man(O'hara).....
....Francois Truffaut (Stolen/Farenheit-451)....Kurosawa.....Coen bros.....Romeo is bleeding (Oldman).....The Village....The Shipping News....Himalaya....house of flying daggers....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Television
carnivale
"a matter of loaf and death"
wallace and gromit
The Prisoner
Books
~
.
hurried stretched fingers
cherry cheeks in shrubbery
mothers easter hide
(c) joules haiku easter 09
.
Heroes
Rosa Parks(passenger on the ride of her life).......Marcus Aurelius(stratetgist)......Charlie Chaplin (movie mogul)....Sugihara Chiune .......John Heartfield (artist)......socrates .......
Maquereaux chases Ms Shue (this is the original premise of these characters)
She walked by the store on a regular basis
one day the store owner found out that she worked several blocks in the opposite direction
he wondered "why does she come by my store, as if it is convenient?"
the next day she came again, only this time, the store owner pretended to have left the store unattended
as she walked in the door he quickly backed away around a partition and crouched and made shallow breathing
he could just see her as he peered through the crochet fabric,
she made a vague head gesture that said 'serve me if you want to, but, for now, I am not here.'
She wasnt sure what made the shop attractive but she liked how the smells all seem to be seperate and not in a mess, intermingling,
the vegetables with slight earth tones in their odours and the fruits smelled as though just rinsed in new rainfall. She knew the keeper
was a cleanly and thoughtful individual, although, lacking in decorative skill. 'Plain enough, not dowdy', she thought.
~~
he watched as she slowly picked each fruit to feel its firmness and look at it with careful muse, an ever increasing grin
the peach, caressed and stroked with the thumb as she held it to her nose, closing her eyes momentarily at the nectar
spinning, with surprising speed, that made the store owner suddenly take a quick breath, with her acute spatial sense,
she looked up toward the partition with a slight frown and without moving her head, her eyes diverted to the pomegranits,
the ruddy yellow complexion capturing her attention, her furtive brain was into hyper drive
the frown gone, the smile returned, she felt somewhat cheeky....no one here, the place to herself, what mischief? A tinker here,
tinker there......the colours were just enough for her design of great dinners, this was heaven in a gourmet alcove.
From the cauliflower, spring peas, snow-peas, long-beans and what had become her favourite, the St. Ettienne tomatoes, that the store owner had marked "the love apples" and it made her giggle everytime she read his quaint style 'so old-fashioned' she thought and giggled again.
the store owner was in a complete fix, hid behind the screen and completely transfixed by her at the same time. He was in the red-zone in his imagination. All the dials on his radio were on ten!
~~
On a past occassion he had attempted witty banter with her but was an oaffish understudy to humour and appeared a tad slow to her. She did get his sincerety. She liked him for that and thought of him fondly, in a different way to everyone else she interracted with. He fitted well into her idea of living in this district. She had moved into the area just after he had taken his first shipment of St.Ettienne love apples. Previous to that he had bland stock that few were interested in and he ran mostly at a loss. Somehow her presence made him take risks beyond his normal imagination. He was astounded by the renewed
vigour he had for his store as he'd pondered giving it away. After a few days of her visits he didnt care about the finances or his mundane afterwork activities, no, as long as she came into the store life was a peach, or a plum, stawberrys and cointreau, take your pick.
~~
The following morning he had taken all the fruit out of the window to revise the whole display. To his complete surprise, she strutted in the early afternoon, which took him by surprise, as if she had moved by stealth and demanded "Monseiur, monseiur? Pourquoi........" interrupting, holding up his hand, he said "I'm sorry, madame, but I ......"
"madamoiselle, sir"
"Oh, excuse my ingnorance, kind miss, but I......."
re-establishing her authority in the conversation "I am going to take all your stock today!"
As if to protest in her favour he made a slight stammer "Yes, but, well, you see....."
He wanted her not to be too disappointed, in his meagre holdings, but, he had this habit of elocuting in an old fashioned way and instead of, what he thought would be protective of her sensibilities, in a giving way, he came across as argumentative. His style of conversation dogged him everywhere he went.
"Is there a reason I shouldnt take your stock?"
"Well, yes, I mean, no, of course not"
He stood and stared at her, his character seemed to shift momentarily and this confused him.
"Is there something wrong, sir"
"Maquereaux!" he blurted.
"Excuse me?"
"Sure, you're excused!" stammering weak banter with a shuffling and embarrassed laugh......'oh,dear' he thought, 'open a hole in the ground and suck me under, please'
Keepng as much poise as possible and getting back into the previous tempo of conversation he said
"No, no, I mean, my name is m'sieur Maquereaux but my friends call me The Inspector Gooseberry" He broke into a chortle then, in a flash of recognition, he went bright red as if discovering a piece of broken glass in his shoe while ballroom dancing with the Presidents wife. Dancing with such company was an unlikely event for this humble man.
She looked at him as if intently admiring a puppy at the kennel.
He felt a shift in himself again, despite the faux-pars.
She wore a small mauve hat, like a flight-attendants, with a miniature vale. She wore it with distinct practise. Suddenly, he began to see her as if walking in an aura. He felt quite odd in a way he could not remember, but he didnt care to remember, this was a fine feeling of oddity. Fine indeed. Suddenly, he thought, 'I must be grinning at her like a baboon with the only banana in the jungle' because her face went suddenly straight as she announced "I am going to return with a surprise"
Damn, this is exciting!
His shift kicked back in again. His ego like a carnivale crazy mirror. Objects may appear closer than they are, no they don't, yes, they do!
As she turned her back and began a haute-couture runway exit, 'Obergine adrenaline' he thought and made a
slight snicker which faultered her stride but she thought to ignore his silly way.
With that flurry of glancing and mystery, she was gone. Puff!
'Damn, this is really very, very exciting.'
~~
Several minutes passed by before he could finally move and do his little pretend-scene, like a child getting the first cookie, out of the oven, while mothers back was turned "Am I a dude, or what!"
A mental fry-pan hit him across the frontal lobe "Her name!" He began a sprint toward the front door, in two steps, into full stride she reappeared. "Oh, dear......the clown act. Am I always going to be caught in this clown act?" he whispered under his breath.
"My name is" (the brass-section in his orchestra were on their feet), "my name is......."
his jaw was slowling falling to the ground while his eyebrows were racing the opposite way, manga eyes......
'what an eloquent pause' he mused.
"My name is ........Yerromede Shue!"
He let out a small yelp which she summarily dismissed, thinking 'I'm sure can't help himself....'
He couldnt!
"There! Remember?" She did that thing, with her head again. He would come to look for that little quirk. A habit he instantly liked, no matter the dismissive nature of its intent.
~~
For several days his ears would ring to the sounds of 'Shue Yerromede, Yerromede Shue, somptin' aboutchoo, mizz Shue, oh, how do you do, missy-Shue, stick my teeth together with glue, mystery-Shue.......do as you please, Yerrowmede' and occassionally break into renditions of 'a boy named Shue'
Yes, readers, he was one sick puppy!
~~
All the while having a slight intrigue about him, 'distantly', she thought, 'keep him, but, distantly.......he seems harmles enough, fits into my plan and I don't know why, but I'll have to keep an eye on him mmmmmmmm....'
~~
Neither knew about the agreement they had reached. How dangers lurk in clear water. This is probably typical of people who like each other for differing qualities. Yerrowmede knew what she wanted and was on a mission. He didnt know the mission, however, he revelled on what he knew HE wanted. Their desires did not match. Semi-trailers, jack-knifing toward each other, on an English Somerset side-road! This was going to be spectacular.
this ends part i of volume (v) in the Urbane Caeser series
(c) ict 20/06/08
~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~
Finally, Zurich......
After their first night together, Gooseberry scrawled onto the bathroom door a message for Yerromede. Again, along with his distinct bent for quirky humour, he began the piece with "Who I'd like to meet" He wondered, should that be "who" or Whom" and did his gafawing chuckle.
~~
The door was found seventeen years later, in the dark and dank storage area of a deceased wrecker who had shown his wife the amazing message as he was a cynic and thought such things stupid. His wife disagreed and had insisted he not sell the door despite its value to the artisan set. The wrecker had rolled his eyes and quietly grumbled at men with romantic notions......
~~
Carrot cake or the deals off.....
if you like pecan pie then the deals back on again!......
Walk the bottom of the Alps
then the tops........
Then the valleys......up the peaks again......
I was talking about walking, wasnt I?
Oh, yeah, java
at the
Cafe Schober
in Zurich
I'll meet you there......
marry me?
Gooseberry
Yerromede pointed out his mispelling of the name Schober, missing the 'c'
All Gooseberry heard was "Yes!"
(c) jct june 28th 2008
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~
After the affair with Yerromede Shue, the Inspector took a long voyage, care-of his pension-plan, from the French Gendarmerie.
In his usual fumbling manner he found an old chocolat wrapping that looked reminiscent of a 1950's tram scene along the Riviera, when men dressed elegantly, in hats and the women had real poise. He was barely a boy then.
~~
An old stubby pencil in his long coat, left from an old case, was a favourite momento and he looked at it ruefully, as the wind made him sway with a corrective shuffle against the swells.
~~
Being the only passenger on the windy deck he braced himself in the aft of the ship and wrote his best poetic memory on the underside of the wrapping to the woman who was gone from his sight, not from his consumption:
~~
From "The Curiosity of Inspector Gooseberry Maquereax"
found in the blog entries of his Granddaughter Anne-Marie
The wrapping and font were later to be carefully ressurected by
outside the hotel doorway the little boy sat cross-legged with the whisps of his hair swirling upward as the heavy revolving-door whipped warm air across him. He had positioned himself strategically, to catch the warm air and the consierge would turn his back for the shoeless boy, for as long as he could, until the next post-opera limousine arrived and then he would stand between the rear door and the boy and guide the hotel guests attention away and down toward L'Arc de Triomphe, with a pithy one-line pun about the brittish.... Inside the Hotel, in the public section of the brassierrie, the boys mother sat on a high stool at the bar, elbow length black gloves, slowly and obviously licking a maraschino cherry. The barman, tall tumbler in one hand, towel in the other, twisting and polishing his metaphoric penis. Meringue tones from the quartet in the dimly lit corner with specks from the single mirror-ball dancing across their oversized instruments. Her husband sat, making swirling patterns on the dark wooden table, with a rum and coke-ringed empty glass, vague stare, a forgotten character in all spiritual ways, at least, from the ways he thought matrimony had intended. Suddenly, a voice yelled from above; "look out below" and as the estranged husband looked up a very large bucket of shaving-cream came down, covering him completely, like a scene from Luciel Ball black and white, only, he didnt have that staged look of hilarity, where you know the characters love the banter, where the acme company make fake death-traps.
The wife at the bar, sitting side-on pointing a small, single-shot, gold, pearl-handled gun at him and leaned her head back with a bellow that sounded like a whale venting, while still stroking the champaigne flute, up and down, in-step with the twists of the barman who had also begun a distorted bellow like a rhino warding off an attacker. The wife fired the single shot into the husbands head. Maraschino juice oozing out of the white shroud. Outside the crack of the shot resounded straight into the boys ears and he gasped at its intensity forcing him to look directly at the sky. At the same moment the consierge also took in a sharp breath and whipped his head around to look for the boy, fearing the loss of an old friend.
"Yerrowmede!" Gooseberry awoke. Grabbing for air as fast as he could, looking directly at the ceiling, tears streaming down both sides of his face. He swung his legs and sat on the edge.......
Gooseberry wasnt sure how long he'd sat there, staring at the floor. He became aware of the sunlight catching his eye, the tops of his feet were tear-drop wet. He looked up at the ceiling to see where the rain must have come in. No tell-tale stain. He felt startled as he couldnt remember crying. Where did that moment go? He slowly got up as though being careful not to restrain an old injury realising that the injury was in his head. Fragments of the dream were racing past him again. Making his way to the bathroom he stopped and held the frame of the doorway as though it might suddenly collapse around him. The door was gone. The stained-glass door that he'd written the love note to Yerrowmede. He felt the gut surge, the need to vomit. Yerrowmede was gone, the door was gone and now he was having, what are, nightmares for him, tutorials by Freud. He squinted at the 6.45am spring sun and wished he could feel its heat and quietly said "thanks god, at least you have some pity on me" Gooseberry had begun another black-dog day.
"I wanted to ask you something........" the door swung open and Yerromede had that swish thing that Gooseberry couldnt quite describe in words but the chemical kick in his head told him that that was THE look, ha-boy!
Gooseberry caught himself as he yelled; "Done! Haha!"
Sitting at the foot of the bed, with one hand flapping around holding his key piece of prose and the other other making like a baby attempting to reach the overhead carnival-characatured mobile, he interrupted Yerromedes swooshing
"Look, my first one, see what you think........"
Clearing his throat in an overly theatrical manner and moving his head from side to side in the heavy-weight, boxer style, he began after a small pause as he made a conductors forefinger and thumb pose to count in the string section.......and
"Right now you have the right to be loved by a man
That man;
.....that man should be ready to go, to go with you, anywhere, anytime
that man should be prepared financially, physically, mentally, lyrically, formerly and seductively
that man should make you feel loved with his look to you, feel like an orgasm building inside you the moment he touches you, he should melt you with words and show his strength with his actions, make you want to release so hard the neighbours will call the police
That man shall keep himself in good shape and you shall know him to be young for his age, not care the windows are open
that man should be practical, understand what you need when you bleed, he should bathe you, brush your hair, tend you when you are sore, stroke your cheek when you wake and make you feel like releasing again just before you walk out the door
that man should be soley tied to you and have no affections or hide any allusions, he shall be clear that his heart has no room for any other.......just you, only you and your child
that man should know everything, to the absolute limits, a man can know, about child birth and how birth brings pains that go beyond delivery and shall not be shallow to chocolates and roses, he shall be attentive and his honesty shall bring a sense of the sun when you are in darkness
that man should make you feel that you both are children of fun and be the same man who takes on tasks the world demands with planning, strategies, guile and ardent desire to master that which he doesnt already know
that man is going to relearn how to love by listening to you and he'll be in a clearing that only the two of you may stand in and he'll be damned if does anything else, forever
that man shall find muses and readings to bring back to you and increase his own capacity to bring art and prose that great scholars would smile at his choice for you
that man shall learn how to talk in the voices you desire, optomisms and pragmatisms, he shall always speak the low tones quietly in your bed and practicable tones in your ventures and plans, with clarity and ghusto, when you both agree that something shall be so, planned, designed, completed!
that man shall begin with we, not I
that man shall not allow his ego to wander in magazines, on the phone, in a theatre, at the traffic lights, at the supermarket, he shall be tending his thought for you
that man is going to be present every moment you are together, you may think him distracted, just ask and find out, he doesnt know how to lie and he'll give himself away to you when he's next to you, looking at you, inside you, on the phone to you even when he says nothing for hours you'll see him speak
that man shall never make you feel the need to talk or feel the need to ask, never feel the need to seek permission or respect from him, he shall already have planned to tend to your needs and all these things, they are a given and he is going to say so in his vow to you, openly, not suggestively or flirtively, openly!
that mans word to you shall be the essence of who he is and the words shall have character before angelic play and self-inspection before humour and work to maintain a balance of them all
That's what THAT man is going to do
you may consider, to allow him two private things; that you allow him to hide his written words of love, until he is sure they are acceptable for you to know, as you always want to know and that you shall not mock at his failed attempts to grow beautiful flowers for you..."
A triumphant warrior, with a very slight bouncing on the bed, waving the piece above his head with a gleeful glinting smirk he called;
"Huh? So, Yerromede, what do you say, is it ok, really, tell me, won't you?
Yerromede stood stuck in the one place, staring at Gooseberry and he felt the intense burn into his irises as she put both fists on her hips, disaproving rock of the head and tapped her right foot, then, grabbing the bow of her hotel robe and overtly pulling the knot tighter she did her best pirouette and was gone out of the room. Slam!
Very slowly Gooseberry whispered "Huh? Oh, you've got a question?"
A tad too late, Maq......again
julian sat 2nd aug 08
~
where I do my work-outs(bar-bells for brains!)
_____________________________
~
~
Across the Ice
spoken word
Subject across the ice
across the ice Ive walked for several days,
a mix of disorientation and abject drive,
the wind travels at me, slicing knives, sideways,
My ribs are a sculpting, showing through my skin,
my toes are turning black,
I think about you,
no matter this state I'm in, there's no turning back.
the days are dark, no summer here,
and dieing in this desolation is the least of my fears.
I think about you,
sunflowers, pineapple and cheery blossom trees appear.
circular howling wind whips my eyes into a blur, I think about you
frost on my beard, I think about you.
I can smell your skin.........
you bring a smile to my lips that have split.........
I have fallen to the ice........
suddenly the wind and razor-snow seem to quiet.......
Train-chsed filly
Kevin and Diane had missed the train home. They'd been to the local bowling ring and had won their duel with best mates and were feeling fairly ego'd with twice the number of strikes. Diane liked the way Kevin would do a mild shimmy after a strike, just enough for her, but not too overt that another woman would notice.....that was one thing that Diane liked about Kevin, but never said, as if it was a naughty or cheeky secret for her to giggle about and keep a sense of exclusivity with him. Sometimes, just prior to bowling Kevin would stand perfectly straight and give Diane fall view of him as if in a cheap offering and the only thing missing would be the james bond pun. If kevin made a complete arse of a bowl he would pretend to fall to his knees and plead with the gods-of-whatever, in a faux pose and then he'd pretend to trot to Diane and snuggle into her breasts and bury his head into Dianes neck, like a puppy. They were happily pathetic together in public. Diane knew this ritual. This was the prelove ritual. The baby love. In a halo.
They decided to take to their fave local, which was barely a klik away from the apartment and two stops on the subway. An overcast night, slightly humid with some crackling thunder just over the mountains. Diane was a shandy girl, eight parts beer, two parts lime with a twist of bitters. Kevin was a scotch and dry, no rocks. They would suckle on each others drinks with one straw between them. Another ritual. This was a lift in the emotion to inlcude an idea of sex. Kevin and Diane never talked about sex. they always referred to themselves as makers of love only Kevin would pretend to make the sounds of someone vomiting to round-off the idea of sounding too sensitive. This was Kevins secret. He knew how much Diane want ed to hear him talk in tones of love making but Kevin had never stepped over that ledge of commitment. He always felt that must be room for relationship to improve so they wouldnt get bored like he'd seen other couples do and kidded himself that this was his mystery edge but there were times when Kevin could see himself clearly and knew the truth of his fears. Kevin never understood how Diane adored him and loved him with abject desire and thought of him with an esteem to humble kings of history. Sometimes when they were out Diane would sense Kevin losing his normal ease of presence in a crowd if there several men, who were obviously on the prowl. Diane would be quickly surrounded by these wanna-be shag-artists and while she felt momentary flattery what really excited her was the opportunity to show Kevin how much he meant to her. She would stand with three or four men and stare at Kevin with a sligh grin and hold her head so that the white of her eyes woulkd show just below here pupils and ever-so-slightly bite the right side of her bottom lip. She would form a slight crinkle in her forhead and wait to see Kevins face change colour, just enough, Then suddenly stand bolt upright like Kevin at the bowling arcade and announce that she had to go and thanks for the etc etc with a deft wave of the hand. The boys had been dismissed ....the real man was about to get her sweetness, she'd say to herself.
As they stepped out from the pub the first droplets fell on them and the temperature was just below pleasant. Kevin pulled his denim jacket off to shelter them both. A simple gesture, totally ineffective, practically.
The rain belted down and they still had eighty meters to get to the nearest shelter. The sub-train would be along in about twelve minutes, enough time for Kevin to do his favourite Gary Sinise scene from Forest Gump. Running across the road, the truck hit Diane at thirty five kilometers an hour, an easy pace, the greasey road and bald tyres were no match for Einsteins theory.
Diane liked wearing white shirts. Kevin never understood that either. The shirt was quickly soaked in deep red. Thrown for several meters Diane lay like a swollen piece of grissle thrown to a dog at a barbeque. Kevin could hear nothing, even though his screams were louder than the hissing of truck breaks and screaching of tyres that kept going for several meters beyond. Kevin seemed frozen in moment that no-one ever gets to practise. There was no play-acting tonight.
The funeral done, Kevin could not seem to stand straight, he couldnt seem to keep upright for very long before he would have to sit down. He felt confused, in a perpetual flux which were made worse by distractions of life that would grab him with relief only to rob him back to memory.
The police psyhciatrist had been sent to listen. He told Kevin "Write about the evening, Kevin. I want you to complete your story with Diane." Kevin gave a slight sniffle as if to dismiss this attempt at pop-psychology. Kevin knew that he had no answers and he also knew that Diane liked one of his mottos; "if you aint got a better answer than to complain, then, shut-up, just, shut up!"
Kevin didnt write immediately. He waited eighteen months until he could sit and write on the piece of paper he had placed ready three weeks after Diane was gone.
Kevin awoke from an incredible dream. In the dream Diane was there, in the rain, running towards him, her long hair that would normally be full and flowing was like mop and the street lights were shining on her cheeks......she was grinning that knowing grin, the one she always had for him before they would launch into intense love and sex.
Holdind the bed sheet around him as though he was displaying modesty to no-one in the apartment, he walked to the desk and the paper that seemd to be like a construction site awaiting completion, slightly crinkled with a pen laying like a giant crane.
Kevin didnt cry. He didnt feel anything. This was the business end. This had to be done. A mission. Even though he knew, on a concious level, this was for him, he felt this was for Diane. "This is for us" he quietly whispered to her.
Train chased filly
in from the heavy rain
drenched, heavy breathing
white shirt sticking....wrenching, ripping
heels in the centre of my back
wait!
wait!
wait!
curse this damned excitement!
Slow-train comming through...
the wheels turn at a walk...
over-arm, over-arm, over-arm
whistle sounds
horses at full gallop
sounds of rain subside
horses grazing, occassional shake of the head
naked, at the foot of our bed
we pull covers over us and
let the horses discover the valley again
Into evening, crimson shadows
we remain,
held, suspended,
in a hush........
sounds of the train.......
sounds of us, again........
(c) JCT monday 09th June 2008
J u l i a n's Details
Status:
Single
Here for:
Friends
Orientation:
Straight
Hometown:
Seaford
Body type:
5' 11"
Zodiac Sign:
Aries
Occupation:
author, musician
J u l i a n oxymoron: non-fattening chocolate Posted at 8:05 AM Nov 29 view more
cats whiskers brush her cheek as she patents her distance in a thimble of mercury heat.....
joules (c) 290609
28 Nov 2008 02:33 AM
...as each note is played the singer refuses to sing
obstinance to the song of life, however, does not stop life......
Was there green wallpaper? I don't recall.
Was there a purpose? Or, none at all?
Into the maze, sometimes, I feel as dirty as a rat
running through reeds,
riverbank pilgrimages where, when deep enough,
another boat shall race pass and soak me
~
inside the black balloon
the one I blew into yesterday
and then fell inside,
stumbling on the rubber,
head over heels like a baffoon
getting sea-sick....
fearing the pinprick
a thunderous roar
the light comes screaming in
totally surrounded
breathing fresh air
filling the lungs
unsquinting my eyes
I go home and paint the walls white
c joules 160209 for Sana
~
Victorias Valentine week
(haiku)
Victorian ash
asunder and bedraggled
defiant roots spring
.
putrid hands alight
inflamed, lustful gazes sweat
in this state, hunted!
(c) joules fri13feb09
~
for emma
aqueuse
remparts
neige
castor bébé
huddles contre les flux
premier aperçu
....feuilles....vertes
vient bientôt la liberté
c joules 5feb9
~
Category: Writing and Poetry
if god gave me permission
there is a man I do not hate
there is a man I hate
there is a woman I do not know
there is a woman I love
there is a hurt that I do not mend
there is a hurt that shames me no end
there is a man who hurt you
I am the man that wants to hurt him
If god gave me permission
I am a man of compassion, thinking head, hurting heart
if god gave me permission
I would use my head. That man would be dead.
I would use my my heart. That man would be dead.
There is a woman I love. That man is dead.
Soon, golden sunflowers adorn her pillow.
There is a woman. God gave her permission to be free.
Julian Aug 6th 2008
____________________________________________
Flakes fallen Brown, Flakes fallen Blue
The snow seems to drift and dance about me,
did you send the crystals of angels my way, my dear?
I slumber and on the soft flakes the crimson spreads.
My darling, you know that christ was not born on the 25th,
why we celebrate the date I'm not sure and maybe,
when I get to New York,
I'll ask Lincoln.
The canons are quiet tonite,
no shots
in Virginian farms,
spindley baron trees and hang like giant white spiders.
Thankyou for the woollen coat my dearest
and muffins are a real treat.
Kiss the youngens. Think of me in our bed tonite.
Your blue eyes light up the night-sky in my dreams.
He was on the verge of a great tofu stuffing when the turkey overpowered the staff and has perched at the top of the church steeple....guess dinner will be a little late....Have a Great Thanksgiving!!! barb
Stopping by to say hello."Hello"!How have ya been?I'm doien okay.So what's been happing your way?I had alot going on this week.I thought that it never ended.Thank god for the weekend.
EAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees; Calling the lapsèd soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew! 'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass. 'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.'
William Blake is a Poet from England Come Learn about more as...
EAR the voice of the Bard, Who present, past, and future, sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walk'd among the ancient trees; Calling the lapsèd soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew! 'O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass! Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass. 'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day.' 
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