tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23712554126076611182024-03-08T05:51:21.888-08:00suposableeuh, things and uh, ya know, stuff and, ya know, other misspellins.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-49474022449337527142010-07-10T08:59:00.000-07:002010-07-10T09:05:59.026-07:00Am I?Recently a friend made the comment: I am not this body. If I am not this body, what am I? What is the "I" I refer to? Is my self consciousness merely a side effect of the biological processes of my brain? Or am "I" something more? What happens to "I" when this body finally dies?jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-80833876034860356112010-03-04T20:18:00.000-08:002010-03-04T20:19:28.719-08:00men, women, snakes, and courage.Here's a story some of you might appreciate, and supposedly it's true:<br />Back in the good old days of the British empire, in colonial India, a British family invited held a dinner party. All the usual suspects were in attendance; an authentic British colonel, an American business man, and so on, just like in Clue. The colonel was explaining how men are endowed with a certain trait that allows them to be calm and courageous in times of danger, but women lack this trait and become hysterical in the same situations. While he was going on, the American noticed the hostess whispering something to one of the servants. The servant left and returned with a saucer of milk, which she place just outside an open door. The American puzzled at this until he remembered that in India, milk is cobra bait. He concluded that there must be a cobra in the room, but there was nowhere for the cobra to hid except under the very table they were sitting at. If he said anything, everyone might panic, and the cobra might strike someone. If he got up, he might startle the snake and the same might happen. So he interrupted the colonel, saying he'd like to test out the colonel's theory by seeing if they could all keep calm and quiet over the next few minutes. The guests sat quietly as they watched the time. Eventually the snake slithered out to the milk. A servant jumped up and slammed the door closed behind it. The colonel, impressed said that the American's calm actions proved his point. The American turned to the hostess and asked how she knew the cobra was under the table. She looked at him and said calmly, "It was on my foot."jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-78417641231507020952009-12-26T12:16:00.000-08:002009-12-26T12:17:25.952-08:00EmpathyEmpathy<br /><br />Empathy looking out<br /> the windows of her room<br />Empathy waits for me<br /> to tell me what she sees<br />Empathy honest and kind<br />Empathy waits for me<br /> but I don’t have the timejasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-13056651151023684532009-12-01T21:36:00.000-08:002009-12-01T21:37:44.382-08:00two shadows cast long<br />bridged at the hands<br />walk up the stairs<br /><br />with hands in my pockets<br />i turn and walk homejasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-43120366807625317392009-11-07T18:53:00.001-08:002009-11-07T18:54:58.752-08:00Early DarkIt's already dark<br />Sitting here watching TV<br />The cats are asleepjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-40058289150082038172009-11-06T22:31:00.000-08:002009-11-06T22:32:03.745-08:00Red SweatshirtIn a red sweatshirt<br />Sitting on a barren shore<br />But that time is gonejasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-6836207556120449162009-11-05T22:03:00.000-08:002009-11-05T22:04:35.100-08:00Sun gilded sidewalk<br />My shadow cast before me<br />Autumn holds her breathjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-8627248062495502012009-10-28T17:56:00.000-07:002009-10-28T17:57:04.676-07:00Once again I’m down<br />This Sisyphean nightmare<br />Get up, try againjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-4248132061625138322009-10-24T11:59:00.001-07:002009-10-24T11:59:29.019-07:00Liquid SunPours in the window<br />And puddles there on the floor<br />Cat yawns and stretchesjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-56317634147228209872009-10-22T21:29:00.000-07:002009-10-22T21:30:34.207-07:00Another LeafAnother leaf falls<br />Another leaf but it's just<br />Another clichejasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-23457901404320506202009-10-11T20:36:00.000-07:002009-10-11T20:37:29.867-07:00In the Laundromat<br />Beneath cold florescent lights<br />A foreign language<br /><br />The strong smell of bleach<br />Linen, socks, and underwear<br />With perfect strangers<br /><br />Don’t know him<br />But it’s all the same<br />Just the same<br /><br />In the Laundromat<br />Beneath cold florescent lights<br />With perfect strangersjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-63710620077473844352009-10-02T21:08:00.000-07:002009-10-03T19:31:42.221-07:00StarsOnce again, I forgot the stars. They were always there, so hard to understand, so easy to forget. I remembered dark summer nights, tarps and sleeping bags laid out beneath the clear sky. I remember stars; so many stars that couldn't compete with the lights back home, and we never even thought of them before. The conversation fell off as we turned inward and upward. The sky was an ocean and our lives but a pebble thrown in without so much as a ripple. If we held our breath we could feel the Earth turning beneath us. Our desires, though clearly vain, only magnified beneath such a clock, pulling against the reigns that enslaved us to tasks that seemed, more than ever, a complete waste of time.<br /> I was a long way from those summer nights. It was cold. I could only see a few stars through the lights, but there they were. They seemed sad that I forgot them, but then, they were there whether I remembered them or not; It had nothing to do with me. I was ashamed to forget. something died long ago and I wasn't paying attention. How could I get it back?<br /> It was quiet on my back porch. The occasional dog bark or passing car, of course, but still quiet. I envied the smokers who had an excuse to step out for a few minutes every now and then.<br /> Inside the dishwasher was running, my wife was talking on the phone, and everything I needed to do, meant to do but never got around to, were reproaching me. And it's all, I need to do this, I never did that, this is due tomorrow, whatever happened to that dream, three decades have slipped by and this is all it's added up to, I need to get going, but where.<br /> And the TV was on, I guess, just for background noise. After a long week work, and people talking just to feel important, it was more than I could bear. With all that outside, and my ever churning brain inside, I needed an escape.<br /> The cold and the stars shocked my system into silence. For a brief second the world opened up before me as if I'd never seen it before, as I stood back and watched. But one by one, the thoughts crept back. As my ears adjusted, even the sound of the TV was able to penetrate the glass door and reach my tired ears. Something was lost.<br /> I learned to hate the TV as a teenager. Too much time was spent flipping through the channels, not finding anything, until I could feel my life bleeding from me as my brain turned to glue. Close my eyes, and there were changing channels. It would take everything to push a simple button and tear myself away. I told myself tomorrow would be different, but it never was.<br /> When I moved away, I had no TV and I didn't miss it. I considered myself much better off for it. I had more time to read, which I rarely did. I had more time to think, which meant pacing the room as my mind went on and on until I wished it would just shut up. I had too much time to lay there and stare at the ceiling, thinking I should be doing something until I finally gave up and went to bed just to end the pointless day, hoping the next would be better.<br /> Having put some distance between me and the tube, I had a much better perspective on those rare occasions I did get to watch. First, I didn't take any of it for granted. A box of light displaying images and sounds from around the world, from the past to that exact moment in time but for a brief delay for the signal to be shot to space and back again, jumping entire continents. Here was power, sitting so innocently in so many living rooms. I could almost feel what my parents, my grandparents, felt as they watched it for the first time, and knew the impact this thing had on their lives. There were so many channels, so many shows, so much opportunity, so much waste.<br /> Seeing it with new eyes, everything was magnified. The good was miraculous, in full color right before my eyes. The bad was infuriating, like sandpaper on the soft flesh of my brain. I noticed the subtle condescension of the good commercials, felt their gentle magic on me, as they humored and lulled me into the notion my life might actually be better with their product in it. I felt the slap in the face of the bad commercials, as if I was stupid enough to fall for it. The stock audio laugh tracks, rarely even noticed before, made my blood boil.<br /> A few months after meeting the girl who would be my wife, we sat on the couch and the TV was on. Her head was on my shoulder and her hand was in mine. We couldn't come up with anything to do, so the TV was on. What was on, I don't remember. It wasn't something I would've watched on my own, but at the time it didn't matter. I didn't have to come up with some place to go, something to do, spend money, and wonder if she was enjoying herself. I didn't have to come up with something to say only to hear my voice and think I sounded like an idiot. After only a few minutes I noticed my mind slowing, quieting. For the first time in years, my mind was quiet. There I was, the warm body of a beautiful girl next to me, her free hand stroking the inside of my forearm, her perfume under my nose, and I was comfortable. I was comfortable with her, with the TV, and with myself.<br /> I saw a vision there, something comfortable, something domestic. I saw myself coming home from work, not caring what that work was, to this warm comfort. Before this image of someplace comfortable with someone to love, all my grand pursuits, whether intellectual or artistic, seemed just as silly and the worlds pursuit of fame and money. This enemy, this TV, this symbol of an idolatrous world's vanity, revealed my own vanity and replaced it with something better.<br /> It was strange to admit to myself that it was that flickering blue light that told me this girl was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. From that moment on, my course was set.<br /> But years had passed. Life is full of stuff, noise, and things that need to be done. It crowds in, makes it hard to breath and impossible to see. It talks and screams and beeps and buzzes away thoughts, dreams, and memories. And there I was, in the cold, trying to remember something. The door slid open behind me. A voice, soft, holding that secrete, that one thing I was looking for, somewhere in its smooth timbre.<br /> "What are you doing out here?"<br /> "Just getting some fresh air."<br /> "Come sit with me." It wasn't so much a question as a demand, but a gentle one. Her eyes were somewhere between devious and pleading. What could I do?<br /> Inside it was warm. The dishwasher hummed in the dark kitchen. The living room lights were dimmed and a show I actually liked was starting on the TV. There were two whole days before either of us had to go to work, and there was nothing that couldn't wait for another day. So we sat down before the great electric narcotic, proving once again that all things, though easily abused, are good in appropriate moderation.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-17673344182129588962009-10-02T21:06:00.000-07:002009-10-02T21:08:10.232-07:00One More DayHe felt like he just woke up from a long dark nightmare. The snow was fresh. The morning was purple and orange, and growing pale. The sun approached the horizon. He wanted to feel the cold air in his lungs, and he did. He wanted to feel his feet on the pavement, and he did. His eyes let in the same world he'd seen all his life, yet somehow fresh, new, original in this one moment in time. He felt the camera pull back to show him in the frame; no longer a screen in front of him, but all around him. He breathed it in, and breathed himself out, each a part of the other. The sky was opening, the temperature was dropping, his face felt the cold, his lips felt her lips, his shoulder held the weight of her head resting on him, his frozen hands felt her hands keeping them warm. Alone, he walked to work to slog it out one more day, one more day closer to her, one more day closer to something better, one more day if life would give it to him.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-56679254206348674862009-09-09T16:30:00.000-07:002009-09-09T16:34:02.343-07:00StepThey say walking is as simple as putting one foot in front of the other. It's really a bit more complicated than that. It requires falling, catching yourself, and pushing yourself up again all at the same time.<br />A bit like life really.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-64357862593057612332009-08-24T11:50:00.000-07:002009-08-24T11:52:41.957-07:00To Ruin Such a Work of ArtIV.<br />against whom do you jest?<br />against whom do you open wide your mouth?<br />what do you say within yourself?<br />are they right in your own eyes?<br />no one sees?<br />does you guilt keep you up at night?<br />how do you justify yourself?<br />do you believe in your own lies?<br /><br />you sought wealth<br />but it was never enough<br />will silver keep you warm at night?<br />will gold dry your tears?<br />what good’s a feast eaten alone?<br />for whom do you labor and deprive yourself of pleasure?<br />it won’t deliver you when you cry out<br />but the wind will carry it away<br /><br />you sought power<br />at whose expense?<br />do you see the faces of those you’ve used<br />those stepped on to reach your throne?<br />what became of the promises you made?<br />the lies spoken to earn their trust?<br />did you ever really care at all?<br />or where they just pawns in your game?<br /><br />the self anointed<br />you say you know best<br />we must be saved from our simple ways<br />we do not know what’s best for us<br />could you be wrong?<br />do superior intentions override fact?<br />the road to hell is paved with good intentions<br />and the abuses of today were the reforms of the pastjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-22188791876401304372009-08-23T22:20:00.000-07:002009-08-23T22:22:00.916-07:00To Ruin Such a Work of Art<span style="font-weight: bold;">III.</span><br />a silent figure sits alone<br />as sand sifts through a sieve and falls<br />the time slips by her pale blue eyes<br />a dream within a dream she sees<br />a youthful beauty in her veins<br />of future’s hopes and dreams to come<br />but eyes that see beyond her age<br />a game within a game she sees<br /><br />of lives and knives stabbed in the back<br />they grasp and claw and kick and climb<br />and rarely lift a hand to help<br />except for their own gain<br />other’s pain is but a sport<br />and power is the prize to win<br />they plot and laugh within themselves<br />and lift their joy from other’s shame<br /><br />she wants to live and see the sun<br />she wants to feel the warmth of love<br />and tired of all the nights alone<br />she wants someone to call her name<br />at night she cannot hide her fears<br />or stop the tears within her eyes<br />but doors locked tight and blinds pulled down<br />will keep her safe ‘till sleep arrivesjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-65607868844009223362009-08-15T22:15:00.000-07:002009-08-15T22:16:25.220-07:00To Ruin Such a Work of Art<span style="font-weight: bold;">II.</span><br />standing on a hill of leaves and grass<br />wind blows life in lifeless leaves<br />across the lawn like children<br />they scurry from game to game<br />blown away from dust to dust<br />a turtleneck sweater cradles her chin<br />denim legs defy the breeze<br />planted firm as the world blows past<br /><br />the rains come and feed the grass<br />growing high to reach the sun<br />the warmth awakes the seeds to grow<br />the light’s brushstrokes paint the flowers<br />the sun that brings forth life brings forth death<br />his furnace flames burn the grass<br />his wrath wilts the flower’s glory<br />their peddles fall to the ground<br /><br />her home has become strange<br />her memories don’t seem to fit<br />dreams have been rooted from their beds<br />exposed to the frost and snow<br />protective walls have been torn down<br />the wind chills her bones those she trusted betrayed her<br />she doesn’t recognize her own family<br /><br />now she’s alone<br />and independent force of will<br />no one to lean on or share the weight<br />no one to love or waste her tears<br />why care for a world that doesn’t care?<br />why believe a liar?<br />why trust a thief?<br />they lie in wait to steal her souljasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-47931602033801418702009-08-10T23:02:00.000-07:002009-08-11T05:42:07.397-07:00To Ruin Such a Work of ArtI.<br />a girl so delicate and young<br />in silence her melody’s sung<br />while shyness holds her gentle tongue<br />on spider’s threads her words are hung<br /><br />a gentle hand brushed hair from eyes<br />a subtle breath of silent sighs<br />a single girl beneath the skies<br />above a world that moans and cries<br /><br />and awkward smile upon her lips<br />nervously alone she sits<br />within a world that runs and trips<br />a silent girl that never fits<br /><br />i dare not bring before her eyes<br />the ugly sin that in me lies<br />my clumsy hands might break her heart<br />and ruin such a work of artjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-79589872685920092852009-08-09T19:44:00.000-07:002009-08-10T05:44:07.387-07:0010-28-06In the curve of your chin<br />The curl of your lip<br />In the arch of your brow<br />And in the defiant hair<br />That refuses to submit to your will<br />I see a beauty I cannot attain to<br />Looking down upon my shaky clumsy hands<br />I see the stains of blood I’ve shed and cannot justify<br />I see I am but a man<br />Weak and blind<br />Made to return to dust<br />But in your eyes I see hope<br />I see in the dust and ashes<br />These dry bones can live<br />In your tiny hands I see strength<br /><br />Who am I that thou art mindful<br />Is it for me so week and sinful<br /><br />But if it is for me<br />I will accept this<br />In the faith that the weak will be strong<br />The blind will see<br />And though I die I shall live<br />And if I live I shall not die<br />Love will perfect me and cover my sin<br />And maybe a portion of the love shown me<br />Will return to youjasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-81873082975659867942009-08-09T14:32:00.000-07:002009-08-09T14:36:40.599-07:00Silly Cat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sn9BQLi0tLI/AAAAAAAABK8/91jJNGWj1MY/s1600-h/042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sn9BQLi0tLI/AAAAAAAABK8/91jJNGWj1MY/s400/042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368081027081483442" border="0" /></a><br />My cat is a silly cat; she talks the whole night long.<br />She tells me all about her day, and all that I've done wrong.<br />My cat talks to birds and sings them pretty songs,<br />But when I let her out to play, all the birds are gone.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-54263144347195847222009-08-04T21:46:00.000-07:002009-08-04T21:49:48.247-07:00The Old House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/SnkPX1sIp6I/AAAAAAAABIo/064f2Lbc4ps/s1600-h/IMG_0001+-+Copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/SnkPX1sIp6I/AAAAAAAABIo/064f2Lbc4ps/s400/IMG_0001+-+Copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366337333212260258" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">VII.</span><br />Bottle caps, bottles, and boxes as sleds<br />Ivey, and stone, and bricks of red<br />Tulips, and poppies, and daffodils bright<br />Rain, and snow, and warm sunny light<br />Trickles of water and swamps of muck<br />Trinkets, and treasures, and charms of luck<br />Forts, and trees, and bottomless pits<br />Dirt, and grass, and gravel, and grit<br />Plums, and apples, and berries so tart<br />Clay, and wood, and snow made art<br />Such words still echo within my heart<br />Such dreams still flow deep in my heart.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-11020334095108663672009-07-28T21:51:00.001-07:002009-07-28T21:54:20.332-07:00The Old House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sm_V3ZuLG-I/AAAAAAAABDs/mNhvsM2lu-w/s1600-h/me0002+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 339px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sm_V3ZuLG-I/AAAAAAAABDs/mNhvsM2lu-w/s400/me0002+-+Copy.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363740828995623906" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">VI.</span><br />To this day I close my eyes<br />And walk the rooms of times gone by<br />I see the light shine through the glass<br />On all the dreams that could not last<br />I see the paint chip off the walls<br />And every line of crayon scrawl<br />I see the stains upon the floor<br />And crystal knobs on all the doors<br />They turn to open wide a view<br />Of things my childish mind once know<br />The things that mold me to this day<br />And things that long since went away<br /><br />Once as a child I saw as a child<br />I walked as a child, I talked as a child<br />But know I stand the form of a man<br />The faults of a man the fears of a man<br />All we have is here and now<br />To find some joy and peace somehow<br />But even then a gift was formed<br />A seed from up above<br />And time does not impede the growth<br />Of faith and hope and love<br />And time cannot decay these three<br />The greatest of which is lovejasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-57310266302846878602009-07-27T20:12:00.000-07:002009-07-27T20:25:10.903-07:00The Old House<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sm5vhDWIlUI/AAAAAAAABCU/SwCOsAggCAo/s1600-h/me0002+-+Copy+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__ju-Z3aFWZ4/Sm5vhDWIlUI/AAAAAAAABCU/SwCOsAggCAo/s400/me0002+-+Copy+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363346819869349186" border="0" /></a><br />V.<br />It seems to me it snowed that night<br />As we walked beneath orange tinted street lamps.<br />The streets were mostly vacant.<br />Most were home for the holidays.<br />Those who remained sheltered themselves<br />Within the confines of warmly lit homes.<br />In an old wooden wagon we towed our prize.<br />Heading home to set it up in the living room,<br />To decorate it in happy memories,<br />And light with the joy and love only a family knows.jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-83093365416444897262009-07-21T22:59:00.000-07:002009-07-21T23:02:13.177-07:00The Old House IV.<span style="font-family:courier new;">Down in darkness deep and cold</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Deep beneath the peaceful dreams</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Drifting through our sleeping heads</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">As we lie in warm soft beds</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Hid behind a bookcase tall</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Sealed like tombs within a wall</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Dark and damp in hidden pasts</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">O’er our dreams a fear is cast</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Can the dark still recollect</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Fear and sorrow time forgets</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Can it store the past and lock it</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">In that dark cold basement closet</span>jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2371255412607661118.post-66743154103377966862009-07-20T17:39:00.000-07:002009-07-20T17:44:08.689-07:00The Old House III.<!--- blog subject ---> <div class="blogSubject"> <span style="font-size:100%;">III. <label id="pBlogSubject_266330162">pirate tree</label></span> </div> <!--- blog body ---> <div id="pBlogBody_266330162" class="blogContent"><p><span style=";font-family:Courier New,Courier,mono;font-size:85%;" >a mast is formed by trunk and branch</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >and sail is wove from leaf and vine</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >a deck is planked with twig and grass</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >an earthen hull will do just fine</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >to sail upon these waves of wheat</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >a pirate's life is brave and free</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >as hills become an open sea</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >a pirate's life for me</span></p> <p><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >a sword of wood is carved for me</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >and all I see is open sea</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >yo ho yo ho I'm wild and free</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;" >a pirate's life for me</span></p></div>jasonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06438271906004870891noreply@blogger.com0