An idea

Child lost in the catskill mountains.
Escaped convict hiding in the same mountains.
Search & rescue efforts mixed with police/FBI teams.
Meanwhile, the convict has to choose whether or not to help the lost child....

I don't imagine it's an original plot, but i'm gonna write the story any way.

(on a semi-related note - this is gross: Prisoner cuts off own ear http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8657960.stm)

The Beast: Slavery

Piol was seven years old when his mother asked him to go sell eggs and peanuts at the market...15 miles away. Although he would rather play with his friends, Piol knew better than to contest his mother's request, so he headed off, cargo in hand.

Smoke. Gunshots. Screams.

Arab raiders, backed by the Khartoum government, had hacked down his family, torched his village, and were approaching the market. The little Dinka tribesboy had no idea what was going on, where to hide, or what to do. Then the killing began.

He watched the attack. One after another, men & women slumped next to their stalls, their bodies assuming slack postures of relaxation...it was Piol's first look at death.
* * * * * * * *
I heard Piol speak last night. His western name is Francis Bok, and he's a refugee from Southern Sudan.

A new look at old books: "Atlas Shrugged"

"Atlas Shrugged is a hateful book, deserving of hatred, which contains nothing between its covers but adequate writing and deplorable ideas."
- Sarah Szabo, Variety Editor for the student newspaper of the University of Tulsa

In her review of Atlas Shrugged, Szabo savages Ayn Rand as a sad, bitter, second-class writer still shell-shocked from starving in Russia. Szabo asserts that Atlas Shrugged is full of material that makes Stalin look tame, claiming Rand had "ideas that were just as bad, just as cruel, and somehow even more painful to read than the ideologies of her enemies."

Somehow failing to notice any characters beside Dagny and John Galt, and overlooking the necessity to objectively critique any idea, principle, or passage contained in its pages, Szabo opens herself up to the suspicion that she either never read the book, or she's the progeny of Betram Scudder.

In her own words, "None of this would be all that offensive if it were not just idiotic in every conceivable way."

(Note: I started reading Atlas Shrugged a few weeks ago, and just reached the 600 page mark. As soon as I finish, I will publish my own review (warning: expect analysis of actual content)).

(Note 2: The University of Tulsa recently received $750,000 in federal funding for a yet unproductive experiment trying to refine algae into gasoline. Government funding accounts for 59% of the school's research budget.)

Pardon me as I transition from laughing to weeping.

Echo spun around the room,
Cacophony.
Echo danced, molten sound,
teasing, “Remember,”
Then quiet as smoke and cruel as summer,
Echo slipped away.

Neither created
nor destroyed
I stand,
inheritor
of worlds.

Quotables

"As academics in a university we don't have to confront religion if we're not religious, but in the world, they will have to." -Alison Simmons, a Harvard philosophy professor who co-chaired the committee which added "Reason and Faith" as a required course at Harvard

Ah, the poor bitter masses, clinging to faith in a just God, unaware that the professors have done away with the need for justice. The answer to every broken heart is not redemption, but apathy.

A pocket guide to Life at a Desk

no matter what time of morning, afternoon, or evening,
coffee is the greater good.

Begin the diplomatic dance,
spin away from anything that
suggests mankind is at fault,
or sin is possible, even though
the very music you are dancing to
is full of broken harmonies.

The Established Politician

Out of my way, you drooling, dagger-clumsy fool!
Your squalling insults perturb me less
than your squear-eyed, catkin'd brain can comprehend -
I'm off to battle with real men.

Stop your prating - your ideas of justice are dwarfed by mine of power.
You are unsuited to the fray - the stakes are higher than the heights of your most moist,
miserable, fantastic dreams. Step aside.

Are you familiar
with the slicing edge of a thinking man's tongue? STEP ASIDE!!!
Or is annihilation not resident in your vocabulary?

Fie! My blood lineage alone ought to quell your advance! Shame, you churl-spawned beggar. You yet proceed with mock-challenges to war? You have the manners of an Englishman, the breeding of a cow, and the intelligence of a dreamer.
Move on.

What? All men equal? All gold? Bah.
Step aside! Down! Heel!
In one month's time
I'll put you in your place
six feet underground.

[two awake is more than one alone]

Come, my beloved, let us go up the shining mountain, and sit together;
we will watch the sun go down in beauty from that shining place.
We will sit there till the Night Traveler rises in beauty above the shining mountain;
we will watch him as he climbs to the skies.
We will watch also the little stars following their chief.
We will watch the northern lights playing their game of ball in their cold, glistening country.
We will sit there on the beautiful mountain while the thunder beats his drum.
We will see the flashes from the lit pipe of the lightning.
We will see the great whirlwind race with the squall.
We will sit there until all creatures drowse.
There we will hear the great owl sing his usual song: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and see all animals obey his call.
We will sit there in beauty on the mountain, and watch the small stars in their sleepless flight.
They do not mind the song, "Go to sleep"; we will not mind it either,
but sit more closely together, and think of nothing but ourselves,
on the beautiful mountain.
Again it will be heart: "Go to sleep, go to sleep," and the Night Traveler
will come closer, to warn us that everything is sleeping
except ourselves and the little stars.
They and their chief are coursing along, and our minds go with them.
Then the owl sleeps; and his call to sleep sleeps; and the lightnings flash
from a long way off; the great pipe is going out; and the thunder
ceases to beat his drum; and though our bodies urge us to sleep,
we sit in beauty, very still, upon the shining mountain.

- ABANAKI SONG
from the translation of John Reade
(adapted by Robert Hass)

9-11-2010 (it gives me sight and makes me brave)

Age After Age - Sandra McCracken

On the edge of the river, the mighty Mississippi
Two boys spent their summers on the banks of the levy
When the waters burst and broke the dam
they were swallowed in a wave of sand
they pulled the younger one out by the hand
from standing on his brother's shoulders.

One nation under God, young and proud she stumbled
With a trail of tears left by those who were outnumbered
She said, "This land is your land, this land is mine, unless you are an Indian"
But a higher ground we have tried to find
standing on their shoulders.

Age after age
of heroes and soldiers
it gives me sight and makes me brave,
standing on their shoulders

One man in the shadow of the white-washed cathedrals
Weighed down by the system through the eye of the needle
To his conscience bound he would not recant for the freedom of the Saints
And truth is truth is truth
and we are standing on his shoulders

(chorus)

To the ones left behind who are picking up the pieces
of planes, bombs, and buildings of innocence and evil
'Cause when the news and noise and flowers die,
and you still wake up alone
There is a God who knows every tear you cry
and this world is on his shoulders

Age after age
of all the heroes and the soldiers
So why am I so slow to change
when I am standing on their shoulders?

Age after age
of (all the) heroes and soldiers
God, give me sight and make me brave...
as I am standing on their shoulders.

(this song is a good song...http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/best-laid-plans/id178801149)

I want to BE the NEW LIVING VERSION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sabbath rest, the rest of completion,
God has made a world.
creation cavorts, swims, sleeps, sub-creates;
the two smooth-skinned humans wake,
and discover love.
God has made a world.

Discord, stony earth, blood - the chaos of interruption,
Satan has made claim to a world.
creation snarls, rapes, cries, and destroys,
the two skin-clad humans flee,
and discover pain.
Satan has made claim to a world.

The Recluse

Toadflax and asters, nightshade and burrs,
These are the neighbors that my heart prefers.

Cowslip and birdfoot touch and flush pink--
spiderwort whispers and snapdragons wink.

Queen Anne’s lace lady, hair in a bun,
minxes with larkspur in the afternoon sun.

Milkweed and cockles, bluets so vain,
sour pink blackberries clean from the rain--

yes, I adore them, thistles and all,
for they never come visit - no, never at all!

(weeds are better than cats, and cats are better than Joneses)

Our wildflower backyard - jcp

Chicory morning, blue from the window,
red clover corners meet day-lily lines.

Finch-thistle thickets, brightest at midday,
uprightly scornful of shade-clinging vines.

Now doused in sun’s set, ablaze with fireflies,
clusters of asters are stars, or star-signs.

i'm afraid you won't see the sun
i'm afraid you won't taste the summer
i'm afraid you won't feel my heart
beating next to yours.

i'm sick of all the lies,
i'm sick of too much talk,
i'm sick of everybody saying
that there's not enough room.

so many empty arms.
so many vacant hearts.
so many of us dream about you
and would die to hold you.

so

i will go to war for you.
i will not give up on you.
i will not stop burning for you
or weeping.

thoughts to conquer doubt

and for this poem
let me briefly state the truth:
love is not hate disguised,
not merely a passion put to use,
or the redemption of a lonely soul.
No, it is the point of all the battle-wit and grief,
else pain's foil were not so sharp;
It is the purpose of our measured days,
for we need it like drowning men
crave air.
The word is beaten, formed and molded for
unsterling uses, but LOVE is not
anybody's plaything or a dog to call to heel-
it is untarnishable, untameable, unconjurable and deep.
As blood would not be red without iron,
so the vibrancy of love depends, not on
fate or chance or beauty,
but on the health of the soul.
For whoever trys to master love deceives himself:
Love only enters in the clothing
of
a
servant

Would Shakespeare cringe, listening
as meth-dazed kids discuss Hamlet's great sorrow?
With words so battered and grooved, slang so
casual they puzzle over slow revenge and the complexities
of love and madness. It almost does not seem like speech,
but rather the pre-articulate thought process
of some amoeba-cluster still millenia from evolutionary progress.
No, but if the Bard himself sat here,
methinks he would not protest. Rather, with a
small smile above that stiff collar, he would
start writing a new play....
"The upstart youths do tarry, and we call them knaves, but surely they do see the stars of heaven with their eyes...."

go up and fly
leap up into thunderous airs
far from my eyes
leave me planted
on trembling legs.
i would not be so small-souled
as to begrudge any creature
the chance to fly.
go up and greet the morning
in the sky.

anagram

Forget it. Seriously,you don't owe me anything,
really. if only i could make you understand how
i love helping you, and how
every chance i get to be with you is
never enough - i want to be with you always.
don't you see,
silly. We're friends.

England is a (Single) Man's Land

by Cate Pilgrim
Written in memoriam of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975)

There are times when a man’s soul craves refuge from the woes and sorrows of the world in solitude, and there are times when what he wants most is a pint of bitter surrounded by his fellow man. Tonight was one of the latter. I had been working like a galley slave for weeks as undersecretary for Lord Widders, editing his publication England is a Man’s Land. My soul was feeling pinched. A spot of olden golden at the White Swan was just the thing, and I’d just sent my man for an overcoat when the telephone buzzed.

It was Archer Campden, asking a favor. Young Archer is a decent specimen, but he has one significant flaw. He’s the sort of chap who loses his head over long-lost brothers, stray dogs, and damsels in distress. His mother’s friends say he has a beautiful soul. I’ve never seen it, but I have seen his Robin Hood routine land him in some devilish tough spots on several occasions.

From what I could gather through the static, he had encountered a beleaguered damsel on the train, and promised to assist her. “Bruton, old man, she’s a striker. A peach. A doll. All of merry England rings in her laughter,” he began, and I thought wistfully of the White Swan, and the low table in the corner that was lamentably empty of my lankly, masculine form. I decided to be firm. “All of merry England? Archer, she sounds like a public menace. In which I am not interested. But if you are, I wish you the best. Good nig….”

Here, Archer cut in.

“She’s arriving at Tenbury Wells on the 4:15, and dash it, Bruton, be a man. Meet her at the station and take her to dinner. Remember our days at Bewdley Primary in Wribbenhall?”

There are many notable forms of unsportsmanlike behavior: kicking a man when he’s down, drowning kittens, and swindling widows out of their mites. But chief of all is dredging up old debts of honor, especially those long since paid, in order to get a chap to entertain a female stranger. With the phrase “Remember our days at Bewdley Primary,” Archer had me. The ancient code of the Brutons forbade me to ignore his request, as he had once rescued me from mortal peril (in the form of Headmaster Cradleblood). “Tenbury Wells, eh?” I barked, pained at the thoughtlessness of his parents, who had somehow failed to strangle him at birth. “Right. Tenbury Wells. Bruton, you’re a godsen....”

With a low cough, my man entered with my overcoat and trilby. He must have noted the abrupt termination of my conversation with that loathsome thing Archer, but he said not a word. Nor did I. I shouldered on the coat, affixed my hat, and exited my flat with my face set like a flint.

In November, the weather is beastly in Bewdley. Villagers do not stir, save to go to church, or visit the hallowed premises of The White Swan, the Horn and Trumpet, or the Woodcollier Arms. And here I was, exposed to the elements all for the sake of some idiot female.
The spirit of chivalry was not dying naturally, I reflected bitterly, thoughtless girls were killing it in their spare time.

An hour later I was gazing into the deep brown eyes of Claire Talbot, a true English rose. Although an authoress, Claire was slim, charming, and entirely enamored with Lord Widder’s dashing young undersecretary. She clucked over my overworked state, and sympathized with the dangers of the modern work ethic. Her clear laugh rang out over the soup, and by the time the waiter served the fish, we had got through weather, politics, aunts, and were moving into poetry. Tennyson had just surfaced when there was a crash at the table behind ours.

I craned my neck to the north, just in time to get a face-full of orange marmalade. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day when nothing has gone as planned, but if you ever find yourself in one, beware orange marmalade. It’s very unpleasant to the optic orbs. Once I had cleared the stuff from my visionary region, I found myself watching a scenario, which, as Bert at the White Swan would say later, was “rum indeed.”

Lord Widders, my sober and responsible employer, was crouched in a defensive posture behind the table’s decorative centrepiece, while a well-endowed blonde was hurling condiments and cutlery in his direction. Although the code of the Brutons also frowns upon eavesdropping, I couldn’t help but overhear what the blonde was saying, partly because she was booming like a steamer in full sail, and partly because she had run out of missiles and had crossed to our table and begun launching our condiments.

“You pompous, arrogant oaf! How dare you criticize The Ladies Home Gazette in your nasty newsletter! We are a force for good in this country! Do you feed the poor?”

Here she seized a plate of small pickles, showering them down upon Lord Widder’s collar.

“Do you minister to the sick?” Next went the bowl of olives. “Do you shepherd the souls of young girls into the mysteries of womanhood?”

At that, Lord Widders shuddered, although it may just have been the result of a blob of mayonnaise connecting with his left ear-lobe. “You said female literacy was responsible for the erosion of common sense,” the blonde shrieked. “Philistine! You and your aristocratic Neanderthals would have all of England’s women illiterate, would you?”

Up to this point, I had, like Banquo’s ghost, watched with a mild sense of wonder and bemusement. It did not reflect well on me to be undersecretary to a man mostly covered in gravy, and I turned back to Claire, to reassure her and perhaps talk a bit more about the blighter Tennyson. You needn’t imagine my surprise when a second dish of marmalade made contact with my person, because I will describe it. I was surprised.

Shocked may be a better word.

My eyebrows traveled to my hairline.
My mouth opened.
I gasped.
I gaped.

And then I crouched behind the table centrepiece as the lady Talbot stood, flung back her head like a war horse and started howling at me. “Sexist swine! You work for the author of England is a Man’s Land? Hanging is too good for you! Waiter, more marmalade!”

********

I believe I have already observed that at times a man’s soul craves refuge from earthly tribulation in solitude, and at others he wants a pint in the company of his fellow man. Fellow man, not feminist authoresses with egalitarian ideologies and homicidal tendencies. As, somewhat stickily and smelling strongly of citrus, Lord Widders and I slid into the low table in the corner of the White Swan, I sighed. "Lord W, it would appear that England is a single man's land." Bert brought two foaming mugs. I sighed again, more contentedly, and began imbibing that liquid balm of the soul. With the first sip, a pleasant thought occurred to me. “I’m going to kill Archer Campden.”

Song of Songs: A Note

"Indeed, A. La CoCaque and S.D. Gotein point out that the woman speaks 53 percent of the time in the Song, while the man speaks 39 percent of the time." - Longman

Shakespearean Sonnet: 101

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

I woke up and fear said good morning,
drank my coffee and put on my shoes.
Thinking him a guest, I said nothing,
but i wondered who'd invited him in.
he lounged, he chatted, and he ruffled
through my desk, flipping the pages on my calender,
a small smile playing about his mouth.
I said nothing, thinking perhaps he was an old friend
whom i'd forgotten. Nervously, I smiled, and gave
him the key to the attic when he asked.
Instantly i regretted it.
As he ascended the stairs, I called after him;
he ignored me.
A sort of wild madness beset me. In the kitchen I found a knife.
I could hear footsteps above me.

an open stretch of sand and sky,
an island meets the water
I'm standing in the silver cold
and I'm the ocean's daughter

the scallop shell can never tell
how vast and wide my home
nor catch the sweetness of my song--
it is lost among the foam

storm and snow cannot deter
my travels through the deep
last night i heard a baby seal
crying in its sleep

i found it moaning on the shore
alone in spotted fright,
i led it to a little cove
& it swam away alright.

[engaged]

Thrilling to the sound of snow
melting; of sun on skin
and February thaw -
all within sings for briar rose
hedges, thick green for the birds,
lingering twilights,
and hours spent walking beside you barefoot,
you, my own true love,
my own June bride......

ME=OW

Robert Wager found a coin
lying on his mother's grave;
gravely, Robert took the coin
coldy wagering within
that doing so was not sin.
Thus engaged he did not hear
a black-clad figure drawing near.
"What have you done,"
the figure cried,
"that coin has been there since she died.
If removed, she swore to come
and haunt my sanctuarium."
Robert grasped the coin still tighter
"I found it here, you wretched blighter.
I'll bet you want it for yourself,
but I have bloodright to this pelf."
The stranger gave an awful yell,
"Your mother shan't disturb sweet Hell!
Put the coin back, you spiteful brat,
or I'll turn you into a three-legg'd cat."
Robert laughed, but Old Scratch cursed
and shortly after Robert burst
into fur, then shrunk, then mewed.
Ever since there's been a feud
between Old Nick & the feline breed.
Be warned, and do not yeild to greed.

To the DORK QUEEN OF MY HEART

I hate your blubber guts,you squirrely girl.
you drive me nuts; i want to hurl.
sugar and spice and a head full of lice-
i'd rather lick mice
than look at you twice.
what's up with your hair?
is it supposed to grow there?
And those boats...are your feet?
When you laugh its a bleat
like a sheep with TB.
If you're allowed free
then incarcerate me.
A pug is a poodle
compared to your noodle;
A glance at your mug
is a near-lethal drug.
You make Munch's The Scream
a pleasant daydream.
You're God's one mistake
(those warts are not fake)
If I was your beau,
I'd find an ice floe
and go, go, go, go
until death did us part.
You make lettuce seem smart.
Oh,
by the way,
it's opposite day :)

yes. i actually used "hark." it's legal in poetry.

Hope never dies

The day was an arrow from a warrior's bow
the night was a feather dropped by a crow
Sunrise, that songbird, was welcome and sweet
while dusk traveled slowly as a weary man's feet.
Tomorrow, a stranger, is journeying near,
bearing its burden of joy, aye, and fear.
Dawn brings the day, and day brings the night
sure as the arrow spins in its flight;
sure as the raven croaks as it flies,
love is eternal for hope never dies.
Whatever shall hap with another day's sun
thou art beloved. What is done has been done.
Farewell the arrow and farewell the wings
but welcome the future and hark! how it sings!

Sleep (for A.F.R.)

Finally, you've fallen asleep.
Now, I can look at you,
ice-eyes lidded & peaceful,
and the bow of your mouth unstrung;
you look like a child.
You've thrown your arm out now-
unconsciously touching mine.
Something strikes me,
hard;
Love, full force, arrests my heart.
There is only one question in the universe:
How can I ever look away from you?
Golden, midnight falls upon you
but you do not stir. Even your hair is resting.
Is this how your mother felt,
watching you sleep?
Did the same fierceness overpower her demurity?
For, though a moment ago I murmured gently in your arms,
now
I find I am a lioness,
hot-blooded. Willing to tear the throat out of
anything
that threatens you,
my young love.
Perhaps it is always so for woman, but
somehow I think not, for surely if there were others thus transformed,
the wide world would be a Serengeti
and every husband's dreams
peaceful.

Drought is a bad neighbor.

The entire prairie is ablaze -
from a hundred miles away, smoke dapples the sky.
Deer, buffalo, and all the small fry
are on the move.
And so are we.
Goodbye, Father's farmland.
Goodbye, Mother's washline.
Goodbye, Plum Creek & Stoneford Farm,
and all the places our rag-dolls love.
Orange sun, orange flame, orange goodbye--
burn
burn
burn.
My heart is saying goodbye to Home
with all the pathos
of the mewling kitten
which Mary's holding in her apron.
Run, deer and buffalo.
Run, mice and shrews and muskrats.
Goodbye, golden land. You are being eaten
by the hungry orange
of prairie flame.