tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23772528014216815692024-03-12T18:56:42.370-07:00View From The Northern Wallchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.comBlogger2160125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-31734187085727443152017-10-25T23:03:00.000-07:002017-10-25T23:03:39.379-07:00In The Outer Reaches<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nFS3XU4MgU0/WfF5vcXKl9I/AAAAAAAAJ60/_yHoyrvbj8MImcVauQZ3j05eyHmhiicpwCLcBGAs/s1600/Lambent%2Blight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nFS3XU4MgU0/WfF5vcXKl9I/AAAAAAAAJ60/_yHoyrvbj8MImcVauQZ3j05eyHmhiicpwCLcBGAs/s400/Lambent%2Blight.jpg" width="400" height="712" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
It's no game to play<br />
to call down the dark matter,<br />
the dark energy<br />
that passes through us.<br />
<br />
To call on frigid forces<br />
from the frozen fields<br />
of some Saturn's moon<br />
to bury the lambent world<br />
in rocky boulders<br />
of forever's ice<br />
is not a game, not at all.<br />
Never call by name.<br />
<br />
August 11, 2011 9:46 AM<br />
<br />
An unusual word appears in this poem. No one uses it very often. So... here ya go... <br />
"lambent world" = "world of flickering soft and radiant light"<br />
<br />
lam·bent<br />
ˈlambənt<br />
adjective - literary<br />
(of light or fire) glowing, gleaming, or flickering with a soft radiance.<br />
"the magical, lambent light of the north"<br />
synonyms: flickering, fluttering, incandescent, twinkling, dancing, radiant, brilliant<br />
"the lambent light from a distant campfire"christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-79073709951142225832017-08-26T06:42:00.000-07:002017-08-26T06:42:41.166-07:00Life After<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8WbQ-JmCPM8/WaF6lKCRlFI/AAAAAAAAJ6Y/wIUkWyILLt0imAngDfWP8EQ8wQPHKSWeQCLcBGAs/s1600/Immortality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8WbQ-JmCPM8/WaF6lKCRlFI/AAAAAAAAJ6Y/wIUkWyILLt0imAngDfWP8EQ8wQPHKSWeQCLcBGAs/s400/Immortality.jpg" width="400" height="266" data-original-width="849" data-original-height="565" /></a></div><br />
If my heart then died<br />
I would be free to lift off<br />
and take the angel's <br />
flight, along the lines<br />
laid down in clear air long time<br />
past the start of things.<br />
Immune now, standing<br />
in the wind fully drenched, light<br />
bathed, I radiate<br />
immortality.<br />
<br />
August 10, 2011 6:29 AMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-54571273683764232722017-08-20T01:12:00.000-07:002017-08-20T01:12:50.751-07:00A Lonely Man<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HlCZXJkXPoo/WZk7UV0dGfI/AAAAAAAAJ6A/onc0YiCm5TMO9D-n_r9i91k3WufSS3srgCLcBGAs/s1600/BlackRooster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HlCZXJkXPoo/WZk7UV0dGfI/AAAAAAAAJ6A/onc0YiCm5TMO9D-n_r9i91k3WufSS3srgCLcBGAs/s400/BlackRooster.jpg" width="400" height="390" data-original-width="385" data-original-height="375" /></a></div><br />
A sense of the end<br />
dogs me all around the slope<br />
behind my log house<br />
as I pull slivers<br />
out my dad-blamed body parts<br />
and hear the rooster<br />
crow in his cage built<br />
by Jose for him last spring.<br />
A fine black fellow<br />
is Leo, with eyes<br />
that pierce the hen perfumed air<br />
and his hens stay close.<br />
I have no hen, me.<br />
<br />
August 20, 2017 12:18 AM<br />
<br />
Reality check... this house is not a log house. The picture of the rooster is not a picture of Leo, the real black rooster in the cage. But Leo's eyes are of a stern quality and he and his hens do not fear us when they are loose in the yard. They are used to their routine and so go in and out the cage easily and do not leave the yard when free. <br />
<br />
I actually have no slivers I know of but I would from time to time if this was a log house, I am sure. <br />
<br />
The chickens do perfume the air - there is no question about that. A fellow named Jose lives here and he built the chicken run and a very fine chicken house. They are his chickens. <br />
<br />
There is a city maintained grassy slope that rises behind our house and at the top beyond the Oregon City Promenade an abrupt drop of ninety feet or so. That slope drains into the driveway of the house across the alley, where there is a sump and pump to deal with what was once a natural swampy pond with no outlet. I would never buy that house. We have sand bags in case of extra high water over there because pump maintenance is very difficult. <br />
<br />
We have never really needed the sand bags but before my time here sand bags were needed one winter. We lay the sand bags to block off the doorway to the basement in which I live, because that doorway is the lowest point and all the water high enough to get over the road hump would go into our basement. That would be a bummer. Leo would not like that kind of high water, nor would his harem.<br />
<br />
Final reality check: This is a fictional poem. I am not a lonely man.christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-86630252064380769932017-08-14T20:42:00.000-07:002017-08-14T23:11:29.668-07:00Bears<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jZ9ALxsrFPI/WZJtAIRFu4I/AAAAAAAAJ5w/ylNeX-rH1RMa-xpGbZu2h1K2FP06cb7DACLcBGAs/s1600/bears_will_kill_you..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jZ9ALxsrFPI/WZJtAIRFu4I/AAAAAAAAJ5w/ylNeX-rH1RMa-xpGbZu2h1K2FP06cb7DACLcBGAs/s400/bears_will_kill_you..jpg" width="400" height="266" data-original-width="709" data-original-height="472" /></a></div><br />
Oh by the way... in the heavens, the constellations "Ursa Major" and "Ursa Minor" are translated: "Bear of Great Stature" and "Bear of Small Stature". The latest prompt for Red Wolf Journal (Prompt 318) was to write about the stars...<br />
<br />
<b>Don't Poke The Bear</b><br />
<br />
This is no poem.<br />
I mean, it could have been one<br />
but since it is mine,<br />
I get to choose what<br />
I am going to call it.<br />
It's a pompous thing<br />
all carefully wrought <br />
word salad, partly practice<br />
for the real thing<br />
and partly for fun...<br />
<br />
I wish I was true to form<br />
and worth time and space<br />
like real poets<br />
are.<br />
<br />
Written by the shade of Pinocchio<br />
who wished to be a real boy<br />
and who if a real poet <br />
would really have written <br />
about the stars<br />
August 14, 2017 8:25 PM<br />
christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-23816445065176758542017-08-09T04:15:00.001-07:002017-08-09T04:38:03.838-07:00Feeling Distant<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B9lPV7PPCaY/WYrtrHrlWJI/AAAAAAAAJ5g/b4Mkr2X2miglYEw9kTE2UYL7f2mT7HpjgCLcBGAs/s1600/CharonFromPluto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B9lPV7PPCaY/WYrtrHrlWJI/AAAAAAAAJ5g/b4Mkr2X2miglYEw9kTE2UYL7f2mT7HpjgCLcBGAs/s400/CharonFromPluto.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="768" /></a></div>Charon in gibbous phase as viewed from near the surface of Pluto. The Sun is shining in from over one's left shoulder.<br />
<br />
I took a wrong turn<br />
on the way to Pluto's moon.<br />
I forget the name<br />
of the place I've been<br />
searching for in all this time<br />
circuiting the edge<br />
where the sun is just<br />
a bright, largish star. <br />
<br />
It's cold<br />
out here, as you know.<br />
I hoped to find signs<br />
and I still might at a guess<br />
but it feels remote<br />
and getting more so<br />
as the oxygen runs low<br />
and the windows freeze.<br />
<br />
August 9, 2017 4:01 AMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-64779057774076308292017-07-27T21:19:00.000-07:002017-07-27T21:19:49.658-07:00Not This Time<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TJXCOocNbPY/WXq6BW-4QTI/AAAAAAAAJ5I/p_eUq8fJp9sTMRrTDaz0dpZ9lBUpSdN-QCLcBGAs/s1600/StumblebumShore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TJXCOocNbPY/WXq6BW-4QTI/AAAAAAAAJ5I/p_eUq8fJp9sTMRrTDaz0dpZ9lBUpSdN-QCLcBGAs/s400/StumblebumShore.jpg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="1280" data-original-height="720" /></a></div>Shore of Guanabara Bay in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil<br />
Possibly I will sleep here tonight...on a true stumblebum shore.<br />
<br />
I showed up, opened<br />
the program and hoped for sauce<br />
to squeeze out my heart<br />
with my red red blood<br />
that my words might mean a thing<br />
for once, and maybe<br />
appear soaring with<br />
the flock of full fledged word birds.<br />
<br />
Maybe I will get <br />
it right this one time...<br />
<br />
Then my head just exploded<br />
and the heat of me<br />
dispersed like day fog<br />
on a summer coast morning<br />
and I fluttered by -<br />
a boy of all boys<br />
in my dreamy escapades<br />
from stumblebum shores.<br />
<br />
July 27, 2017 8:58 PMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-32208392418374283512017-07-26T23:35:00.000-07:002017-07-26T23:35:27.566-07:00The Gale<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Uxi-4905M0s/WXmJMVd131I/AAAAAAAAJ40/878rauwoIksr6qUxeYiqDNYttgCVYs7zwCLcBGAs/s1600/calm-before-storm-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Uxi-4905M0s/WXmJMVd131I/AAAAAAAAJ40/878rauwoIksr6qUxeYiqDNYttgCVYs7zwCLcBGAs/s400/calm-before-storm-1.jpg" width="400" height="255" data-original-width="400" data-original-height="255" /></a></div><br />
I've had to change out<br />
the ropes that hold the willow<br />
upright despite rain<br />
and wind, gale sized stones<br />
that fall at the shallowest<br />
slant and bounce along<br />
our path through the brush.<br />
<br />
You told me this was my job.<br />
<br />
Not that I ever<br />
refused you a thing - <br />
I have never refused you.<br />
You know this is true.<br />
and yet you doubt my<br />
purity of heart and soul, <br />
love and devotion.<br />
<br />
The gale is winning.<br />
<br />
July 26, 2017 11:15 PMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-87746897673343164172017-07-13T13:23:00.000-07:002017-07-13T13:23:17.259-07:00Taking The Chance<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mA8NQUpvVT4/WWfVag-f7EI/AAAAAAAAJ4g/2RAaadche88023APc5I-EWq_GWHLs5LaQCLcBGAs/s1600/Taking%2BA%2BChance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mA8NQUpvVT4/WWfVag-f7EI/AAAAAAAAJ4g/2RAaadche88023APc5I-EWq_GWHLs5LaQCLcBGAs/s400/Taking%2BA%2BChance.jpg" width="400" height="516" data-original-width="200" data-original-height="258" /></a></div><br />
"Marry me," I say,<br />
casting all wisdom aside.<br />
<br />
You look like a cat<br />
looks to an entrapped<br />
mouse and I change my whistle<br />
from tenor to shrill<br />
in that sudden squall<br />
from a flensed and open heart.<br />
<br />
I stand by my words.<br />
<br />
July 13, 2017 1:01:58 PM christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-62896398271855372082017-06-25T05:59:00.000-07:002017-06-25T05:59:11.995-07:00Foggy Dawn<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-llXqCz2R5Gs/WU-w27OVwII/AAAAAAAAJ4Q/UpcehrLg0-I31WTITj_KR5slgFhg2sKQQCLcBGAs/s1600/FoggyDawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-llXqCz2R5Gs/WU-w27OVwII/AAAAAAAAJ4Q/UpcehrLg0-I31WTITj_KR5slgFhg2sKQQCLcBGAs/s400/FoggyDawn.jpg" width="400" height="218" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="491" /></a></div><br />
She said there's room for<br />
some kind of flash in the pan,<br />
some flare up of hope,<br />
some change in the shape<br />
of slithery things to come<br />
once the sun rises...<br />
<br />
if the sun rises<br />
on this latest weird damn day<br />
of all the long days<br />
<br />
that trail behind us<br />
and are still rolling over<br />
our crushed and shattered<br />
arrangements and poise<br />
<br />
(we had no right to them all) <br />
<br />
as we lay them down<br />
with the feathers shed<br />
in our summer's latest molt,<br />
<br />
We call as swans do.<br />
our bodies newly pink<br />
and utterly bare.<br />
<br />
25 Jun 2017 5:33 AMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-12050780334292262982017-06-01T18:37:00.001-07:002017-06-01T18:37:33.430-07:00Old Wood<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UXTsaOqoGw4/WTDA6C6WsZI/AAAAAAAAJ4A/nyMzwK4GKRcedbyKzP0W6rN8MbIitxedwCLcB/s1600/DoubleArcRainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UXTsaOqoGw4/WTDA6C6WsZI/AAAAAAAAJ4A/nyMzwK4GKRcedbyKzP0W6rN8MbIitxedwCLcB/s400/DoubleArcRainbow.jpg" width="400" height="382" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="977" /></a></div><br />
I am the old wood<br />
receiving you as the rain<br />
in all its aspects,<br />
as mist, as the splash<br />
or the roar of a tempest,<br />
with the black of night<br />
or the sun peeking<br />
and the arc doubled sometimes,<br />
receiving your moods<br />
and the feel of you<br />
whether you are cold or warm<br />
and you strip me down.<br />
<br />
August 9, 2011 7:40 PMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-29504842846487806862017-05-29T01:47:00.000-07:002017-05-29T01:48:28.448-07:00Willie and Joe, Boots, Jackie, and Stormy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VBS_G8dbPQ0/WSvdlMS6CuI/AAAAAAAAJ3w/6yOEhLcJN0EBrASc4tF-ROBCwCIp80ljQCLcB/s1600/Willie%2Band%2BJoe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VBS_G8dbPQ0/WSvdlMS6CuI/AAAAAAAAJ3w/6yOEhLcJN0EBrASc4tF-ROBCwCIp80ljQCLcB/s400/Willie%2Band%2BJoe.gif" width="400" height="421" data-original-width="250" data-original-height="263" /></a></div><br />
<b>Willie And Joe, <br />
Or Wartime Lament</b><br />
<br />
Something for my words<br />
to finish and ooze between<br />
like mud and your toes,<br />
like slime and mine too...<br />
...<br />
I've busted through the wood frame<br />
of an old dry hole<br />
<br />
but I've caught a root<br />
stuck out from one side, red faced<br />
from the effort yanked<br />
out of my left arm,<br />
my scraped up dislocated<br />
fingers... I can't hold<br />
very much longer, <br />
and I am afraid, Willie.<br />
...<br />
Joe, I fear what comes<br />
gonna blow me up -<br />
the bullet with my damn name -<br />
even that boat home -<br />
and in the long haul,<br />
<br />
I must be giving up all <br />
hope of having a<br />
better past than this.<br />
<br />
May 27, 2017 5:01 AM<br />
Completed May 28, 2017 5:54 AM<br />
<br />
Willie and Joe were World War II cartoon characters drawn by Bill Mauldin, part of his war correspondance and drawn from his experiences in Africa and Europe primarily. He drew these cartoons from 1940 until 1946 and occasionally added additional drawings until 1998.<br />
<br />
I met Willie and Joe in a cartoon anthology my Dad kept in the back room of his Grandma's house that was once the bedroom he shared with his brother before the war. That was in Montalvo, California, a wide spot in the road south of Ventura, where the family settled when they migrated from Oklahoma in the Dust Bowl years. <br />
<br />
My Dad was old enough to catch the end of World War II in the Pacific, serving in the Marines during the Okinawa campaign and later in China. After the war he entered college at the University of California at Berkeley and played football for the Golden Bears primarily as a center on offense and linebacker on defence. He was part of Pappy Waldorf's championship teams and played in the Rose Bowl, along with other notables, including Boots Erb and most famously, Jackie Jensen. At times, my Dad, Stormy Hileman, was center, Boots was quarterback right behind him, with Jackie receiving the hand off in the backfield. <br />
<br />
Jensen went on to an illustrious career in the Bigs, playing Right Field and batting third or clean up with the Boston Red Sox to take advantage of his on base abilities. Jensen led the American League in various years in runs batted in, stolen bases, and in triples. Jensen also fielded so well that he led his league in double plays and assists. For a right fielder a double play consists most usually of catching the fly and then throwing out a base runner as well, which requires unusual throwing speed, distance and accuracy. The reason Jensen is not better known is that his career was cut short as Major League baseball expanded into additional west coast teams while depending more on flying to maintain the schedule. Jensen suffered from an intense fear of flying which he never could overcome. That forced him to retire early.<br />
<br />
In my growing up years, we would travel to Oakland and dine at the Bow and Bell Restaurant in Jack London Square, owned by Boots and Jackie. We rarely saw Jackie there but Boots was nearly always present.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://alamedainfo.com/jack-london-square/#bwg29/895">Jack London Square</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tAM1Tb5iNmE/WSvY-j3OvNI/AAAAAAAAJ3k/IfnEcNFkMd0ysh2QdTfnkVxTGjKwA4eowCLcB/s1600/Bow_and_Bell_Menu_Cover_Jack_London_Sq_Oakland_CA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tAM1Tb5iNmE/WSvY-j3OvNI/AAAAAAAAJ3k/IfnEcNFkMd0ysh2QdTfnkVxTGjKwA4eowCLcB/s400/Bow_and_Bell_Menu_Cover_Jack_London_Sq_Oakland_CA.jpg" width="400" height="512" data-original-width="234" data-original-height="300" /></a></div>Above is Jackie Jensen and below, Boots Erb. Boots' first name was Charles but everyone called him Boots.<br />
christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-1692196639379836842017-05-23T22:29:00.000-07:002017-05-23T22:30:44.875-07:00Fairies Fly Naked<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t7eK1V3A4Dk/WSUYxw27WNI/AAAAAAAAJ3U/CkdZ7by4qpgiWp5i5MAeeO7UTSF9O_u_QCLcB/s1600/Manchester%2BFairies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t7eK1V3A4Dk/WSUYxw27WNI/AAAAAAAAJ3U/CkdZ7by4qpgiWp5i5MAeeO7UTSF9O_u_QCLcB/s400/Manchester%2BFairies.jpg" width="400" height="366" /></a></div><br />
<b>Fairies Fly Naked</b><br />
<br />
Fairies are fine folk<br />
and though they fly around nude<br />
I think that's nothing<br />
to them or to us<br />
because they are really not<br />
made like we are made -<br />
no mud, in or out.<br />
<br />
August 10, 2011 3:20 PM<br />
<br />
Note: on this strange Manchester day, this also was news...<br />
<br />
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2596119/Away-fairies-University-lecturer-claims-photographed-real-life-tiny-tinkerbells-flying-air-British-countryside.html<br />
christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-29485175249596558902017-05-15T18:31:00.000-07:002017-05-23T22:31:46.262-07:00Telling Stories-Wordle 299<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H1V7fBtswyU/WRpULuJlxaI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/CXF2IkSuzK0ogEW5iD-rwlc4NhsCeIz6ACLcB/s1600/wordle%2B299.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H1V7fBtswyU/WRpULuJlxaI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/CXF2IkSuzK0ogEW5iD-rwlc4NhsCeIz6ACLcB/s400/wordle%2B299.png" width="400" height="226" /></a></div>"<a href="https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2017/05/13/wordle-299/">Wordle 299</a>"<br />
<br />
There's one tassel left<br />
and one line formed on the right.<br />
<br />
The speakers do love<br />
their honor and pay<br />
room and board according to<br />
the ubiquitous<br />
sign above the drum.<br />
<br />
You gave a bouquet to praise<br />
my work despite all<br />
I did to stop you.<br />
Orange poppies interpret<br />
my current palsy.<br />
<br />
I wish I knew more<br />
about telling good stories<br />
to the local crew -<br />
<br />
but I really don't.<br />
<br />
May 15, 2017 6:10 PMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-59599992435219567022017-05-07T19:09:00.000-07:002017-05-07T19:10:48.822-07:00The Straight Skinny<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xn03NWqpqxE/WQ_S-rlW40I/AAAAAAAAJ20/93ZsFwR18_g9ajQ9qiP7LDL11tQt_oh8gCLcB/s1600/RushdieQuote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xn03NWqpqxE/WQ_S-rlW40I/AAAAAAAAJ20/93ZsFwR18_g9ajQ9qiP7LDL11tQt_oh8gCLcB/s400/RushdieQuote.jpg" width="400" height="400" /></a></div><br />
So she asked me to<br />
reveal my slivered soul in<br />
verse - and I of course<br />
refused because I<br />
mostly lie in words.<br />
<br />
It's my eyebrows tell the truth.<br />
Or my blushing ears - <br />
So I grew my hair <br />
to cover the stupid things.<br />
<br />
I can't help lying<br />
when I sit and write. <br />
I write bunches - so many<br />
poems (and comments<br />
on the social sites)<br />
as if anyone ever<br />
cared - and I claim not<br />
to care if they care.<br />
But I do...really do care.<br />
<br />
(No. I deny this claim. <br />
What just happened here?)<br />
<br />
May 7, 2017 - 6:38 PM <br />
christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-44981699586607590092017-03-27T01:29:00.003-07:002017-03-27T02:02:36.514-07:00Turbulence Is Mine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tz-Hg8Cs78Y/WNjVAO2awgI/AAAAAAAAJ2U/NgRAaaNlGHoLa3L7ZxDt-j4An_OYoJkewCLcB/s1600/dental-surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tz-Hg8Cs78Y/WNjVAO2awgI/AAAAAAAAJ2U/NgRAaaNlGHoLa3L7ZxDt-j4An_OYoJkewCLcB/s400/dental-surgery.jpg" width="400" height="333" /></a></div><br />
<b>A Bad Day*</b><br />
<br />
"Turbulence is mine",<br />
Sayeth the Lord of the Flies<br />
And I fell for it.<br />
<br />
Sorting me out from<br />
The whole food fad grinding up<br />
My locality,<br />
I sneak a candy<br />
Bar, a Milky Way, of course, <br />
And suck a filling<br />
From the last molar<br />
In my upper wisecracking<br />
Worn out dentition.<br />
<br />
"What a full on sack<br />
Of crap". I snarl as I suck<br />
On that bottomless<br />
Hole in my fat head.<br />
<br />
27 March 2017<br />
<br />
This didn't really happen today but I have had this experience, sort of. My last dental visit a few days ago had the dentist fill three upper and two lower worn out teeth on my left side at one time with a composite resin that bonds so well these days that there was no need for any more than a serious disinfecting and drying out of the gaps. Thus all was painless and pretty quick too.<br />
<br />
Possibly because I am an ancient of days, the dentist figured that this simple procedure was enough because I will die sooner than the fillings will wear out. Cavities caused by infections are no longer my problem. Teeth wearing out is the problem now. Hmmm.christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-41444743979584565202016-08-21T14:31:00.000-07:002016-08-21T14:31:23.887-07:00Finding A Lover<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4EsscLFOIA0/V7ocksxvHDI/AAAAAAAAJ1M/hgjQrZIYIh4ZhKXqvaPONQrTnya56IAOgCLcB/s1600/GracefulWoman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4EsscLFOIA0/V7ocksxvHDI/AAAAAAAAJ1M/hgjQrZIYIh4ZhKXqvaPONQrTnya56IAOgCLcB/s400/GracefulWoman.jpg" width="400" height="258" /></a></div><br />
"The Buddhists say if you meet somebody and your heart pounds, your hands shake, your knees go weak, that's not the one.<br />
"When you meet your 'soul mate' you'll feel calm - no anxiety, no agitation." - Monica Drake<br />
<br />
<b>Graceful</b><br />
<br />
I am normally<br />
too clumsy but when it comes<br />
to you, my love, grace<br />
happens and I can<br />
undo the ribbing around<br />
your heart as though it<br />
was not welded tight<br />
by your own tensioned device,<br />
by how the years fell.<br />
<br />
August 9, 2011 3:56 PM<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y_xsXVHOVao/V7octcKcVDI/AAAAAAAAJ1Q/9DLo9zxouY0U3jToWZq8Fk16bjlE_GlwACLcB/s1600/GracefulDancer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y_xsXVHOVao/V7octcKcVDI/AAAAAAAAJ1Q/9DLo9zxouY0U3jToWZq8Fk16bjlE_GlwACLcB/s400/GracefulDancer.jpg" width="400" height="505" /></a></div>christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-81415916240835182582016-08-20T21:07:00.000-07:002016-08-20T21:07:30.123-07:00Old Age<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Jk7L6pgkZI/V7kmDnWw4HI/AAAAAAAAJ04/vNwqGxoCWxwENNf4GkTriqm_NxOuSk3IgCLcB/s1600/OldManHuffPost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Jk7L6pgkZI/V7kmDnWw4HI/AAAAAAAAJ04/vNwqGxoCWxwENNf4GkTriqm_NxOuSk3IgCLcB/s400/OldManHuffPost.jpg" width="400" height="200" /></a></div><i>There is a typo on this line, so...only now it disappears... If I remove these lines and lead with the poem title the space between "In" and "My" in the poem title disappears. Hmmm...</i><br />
<br />
<b>In My Dotage</b><br />
<br />
Your invitation<br />
as always is a challenge<br />
to be some other<br />
than the sloven soul<br />
I've become, bound in the dross<br />
of my aging life.<br />
<br />
I drool from the side<br />
of my mouth and wipe only<br />
half the time these days<br />
but I do clean up<br />
before going out of late.<br />
I wish no offence.<br />
<br />
August 7, 2011 9:23 AM<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UD3Er379wNk/V7kmSTMBYOI/AAAAAAAAJ08/du1avbpSLU4cqyU-KEmaUUaDibSQVhw8ACLcB/s1600/OldManOfTheForest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UD3Er379wNk/V7kmSTMBYOI/AAAAAAAAJ08/du1avbpSLU4cqyU-KEmaUUaDibSQVhw8ACLcB/s400/OldManOfTheForest.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a></div>christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-64465539946529034512016-08-15T19:35:00.002-07:002016-08-16T03:17:23.921-07:00Goat Love<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qtYpJqwjh3I/V7J7oHFI24I/AAAAAAAAJ0k/IYCrlNQ9FB0NowW6Lqmjt4YQGQdlbCuBACLcB/s1600/GoatLove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qtYpJqwjh3I/V7J7oHFI24I/AAAAAAAAJ0k/IYCrlNQ9FB0NowW6Lqmjt4YQGQdlbCuBACLcB/s400/GoatLove.jpg" width="400" height="247" /></a></div><br />
So you decided<br />
to keep goats and let them roam<br />
the cliff back of us<br />
while you hung out on<br />
Facebook with all your cyber<br />
friends and I wandered<br />
off from time to time.<br />
<br />
You got four but then one was<br />
stolen - Who would take <br />
a goat anyway?<br />
Two had paired. The white goat left<br />
alone began to<br />
bleat so hauntingly<br />
we tried to comfort her, then<br />
threw her off that cliff<br />
when she died of it.<br />
<br />
August 15, 2016 6:51 PM<br />
<br />
In case the typo has passed through to your display in the first line... What appears to me as Soyou I wrote so you. I have tried. I have seen that I can do this phrase anywhere in the poem except on that line. I have tried to fix the display many different ways. But this is the poem I want to write with that precise line as the first line. It is the only place that for me So you comes out on the display lacking the space. For that matter, I put twenty spaces there once to see and they all dropped away to soyou. WTF?? This has never happened before and it apparently does not happen on any other line. If I want, I can make it disappear by taking the Title down into the body of the post, which moves the first line off that particular location. It goes fine then but that is not what I want. There must be a reason for this loss of a space that only happens in this phrase. God knows. I don't. But this is the post as I wanted it, so I am explaining... this poem is appearing with the first line as the computer insists it should be while the post's layout is as I insist it should be and that's that. This is the computer's idea of a joke. christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-8050622465066977692016-08-12T18:36:00.000-07:002016-08-12T18:36:08.751-07:00Wood Burning<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g5UJ7OjaAYk/V6521-057EI/AAAAAAAAJz4/N-2v-7CgwLoW3vpMeRVGa56s7zGALwBdACLcB/s1600/bedroom-fireplace-design-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-g5UJ7OjaAYk/V6521-057EI/AAAAAAAAJz4/N-2v-7CgwLoW3vpMeRVGa56s7zGALwBdACLcB/s400/bedroom-fireplace-design-6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">This is what we wanted but it's not what we got.</div><br />
"I couldn't even<br />
burn the wood", you said to me,<br />
looking that way for<br />
the thousandth damn time,<br />
as if it was my fault again<br />
that the wood was bad<br />
or just whatever <br />
was so wrong with me this time<br />
<br />
and I get heavy<br />
with it all, heavy<br />
under your relentless press<br />
on my aging heart.<br />
<br />
Written July 29, 2011 12:25 PM <br />
Modified August 12, 2016 6:35 PM christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-20132303344201798092016-08-11T18:05:00.000-07:002016-08-11T18:05:35.863-07:00Missing The Point<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ybfQAEXPxGw/V60gY_DeN4I/AAAAAAAAJzk/SQMHN3Q5lb4Q-evuZPgMZugWBxrWAnpMACLcB/s1600/MissingThePoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ybfQAEXPxGw/V60gY_DeN4I/AAAAAAAAJzk/SQMHN3Q5lb4Q-evuZPgMZugWBxrWAnpMACLcB/s400/MissingThePoint.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
She's gotten away,<br />
convincing us all Tuesday<br />
to let her go soon, <br />
then giving us hell<br />
before giving us the slip<br />
this last Wednesday.<br />
<br />
I do feel foolish<br />
for believing her better<br />
than this, more stable,<br />
more a deep root tree<br />
than the whipping reed cutting<br />
me as she passed through<br />
and gone out the door.<br />
<br />
July 27, 2011 7:15 PM<br />
Modified August 11, 2016christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-74461597562624194252016-08-01T04:16:00.000-07:002016-08-01T04:16:18.603-07:00At Least The Books<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5wsNkhCzE8w/V58sdSsuD4I/AAAAAAAAJzU/57oKNeRx_4oOpCjars3TWjfD4SVbw14hQCLcB/s1600/bookshelf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5wsNkhCzE8w/V58sdSsuD4I/AAAAAAAAJzU/57oKNeRx_4oOpCjars3TWjfD4SVbw14hQCLcB/s400/bookshelf.jpg" width="400" height="240" /></a></div><br />
<b>Keeping The Faith<br />
Or At Least The Books<br />
In My Old Age</b><br />
<br />
Most of my toad life<br />
I have slept alone. Sometimes<br />
the bed was king sized,<br />
big enough for two.<br />
<br />
Before coming here, I moved<br />
to my living room<br />
and slept propped up on<br />
my couch because that's where my<br />
late night living was.<br />
<br />
What happened - Francie<br />
came back from expedition<br />
and shoveled me into<br />
her basement, complete<br />
with a stripped down version of<br />
my remnant household...<br />
barely any sign<br />
of my dead wife or mother<br />
left me any more.<br />
<br />
(I had moved into<br />
my mother's house after she<br />
died of her old age.)<br />
<br />
We bought me a bed -<br />
a hospital type of bed -<br />
an adjusting wide <br />
single for big guys <br />
like me and sold off or scrapped<br />
all the rest - except <br />
the books - you must keep<br />
the books on threat of losing<br />
your shriven old soul. <br />
<br />
August 1, 2016 3:37 AM<br />
<br />
Honesty note: This image is not my bookshelving but is a fair estimate of the number of books I still have. I divested of most of the paperback novels as well as most of my household furniture to move to Francesca's basement.christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-64627808000755231802016-07-29T15:37:00.000-07:002016-07-29T15:37:12.991-07:00 Renewed Hope<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TqSAjDiulDE/V5vYcZMASMI/AAAAAAAAJzE/aA6Dx0fO2eoUoyVOLTddcunb0s2M7GvowCLcB/s1600/HighRampart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TqSAjDiulDE/V5vYcZMASMI/AAAAAAAAJzE/aA6Dx0fO2eoUoyVOLTddcunb0s2M7GvowCLcB/s400/HighRampart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
2nd verse of <i>The Star Spangled Banner</i>:<br />
<br />
Whose broad stripes and bright stars,<br />
Through the perilous fight,<br />
O'er the ramparts we watched,<br />
Were so gallantly streaming.<br />
<br />
A rampart is a high wide wall of stone or earth with a path on top, built around a castle, town, encampment, etc., to defend it.<br />
<br />
<b>Renewed Hope</b><br />
<br />
Shedding years again,<br />
as if newborn, shiny pink,<br />
I act innocent<br />
and offer myself<br />
molted and muted standing<br />
on the high stony<br />
top of your rampart,<br />
if a gift, then brass moistened<br />
by blown melody,<br />
me the young trumpet<br />
of my renewed hope for love<br />
while I hold your heart.<br />
<br />
July 27, 2011 4:12 AM christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-14181717967781595342016-07-19T00:12:00.000-07:002016-07-19T00:12:42.939-07:00The Rain King<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_8I6Pbec0As/V43QZ4sDvqI/AAAAAAAAJyg/R5ehpgyYYIcOTvwcvoVM_Y65wmp4HMthwCLcB/s1600/The%2BRain%2BKing.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_8I6Pbec0As/V43QZ4sDvqI/AAAAAAAAJyg/R5ehpgyYYIcOTvwcvoVM_Y65wmp4HMthwCLcB/s400/The%2BRain%2BKing.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<b>The Rain King</b><br />
<br />
If the rain king saw<br />
reason, he would suck it up.<br />
<br />
He would head northward<br />
and settle somewhere<br />
around Vancouver B.C.<br />
where he has duties<br />
anyway.<br />
<br />
July 18, 2011 1:44 PM<br />
<br />
When I wrote this poem I had no conscious knowledge of this<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aT-E4W436Vg/V43Q0Vqob0I/AAAAAAAAJyk/0P7frU4W_JEE6YbfQxkLtasEh6bM9zbYgCLcB/s1600/HendersonTheRainKing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aT-E4W436Vg/V43Q0Vqob0I/AAAAAAAAJyk/0P7frU4W_JEE6YbfQxkLtasEh6bM9zbYgCLcB/s400/HendersonTheRainKing.jpg" width="252" height="400" /></a></div><i>Henderson the Rain King</i> is a 1959 novel by Saul Bellow. The book's blend of philosophical discourse and comic adventure has helped make it one of his most enduringly popular works.<br />
<br />
It is said to be Bellow's own favorite amongst his books.<br />
<br />
It was ranked number 21 on Modern Library's list of the 100 Best Novels in the English language.<br />
<br />
PLot Summary: Eugene Henderson is a troubled middle-aged man. Despite his riches, high social status, and physical prowess, he feels restless and unfulfilled, and harbors a spiritual void that manifests itself as an inner voice crying out <i>I want, I want, I want</i>. Hoping to discover what the voice wants, Henderson goes to Africa.<br />
<br />
Upon reaching Africa, Henderson splits with his original group and hires a native guide, Romilayu. Romilayu leads Henderson to the village of the Arnewi, where Henderson befriends the leaders of the village. He learns that the cistern from which the Arnewi get their drinking water is plagued by frogs, thus rendering the water "unclean" according to local taboos. Henderson attempts to save the Arnewi by ridding them of the frogs, but his enthusiastic scheme ends in disaster.<br />
<br />
Henderson and Romilayu travel on to the village of the Wariri. Here, Henderson impulsively performs a feat of strength by moving the giant wooden statue of the goddess Mummah and unwittingly becomes the Wariri Rain King, Sungo. He quickly develops a friendship with the native-born but western-educated Chief, King Dahfu, with whom he engages in a series of far-reaching philosophical discussions.<br />
<br />
The elders send Dahfu to find a lion, which is supposedly the reincarnation of the late king, Dahfu's father. The lion hunt fails and the lion mortally wounds the king. Henderson learns shortly before Dahfu's death that the Rain King is the next person in the line of succession for the throne. Having no interest in being king and desiring only to return home, Henderson flees the Wariri village.<br />
<br />
Although it is unclear whether Henderson has truly found spiritual contentment, the novel ends on an optimistic and uplifting note.<br />
<br />
Is it possible that my poem is a sequel?christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-4572843382897846272016-07-12T18:56:00.001-07:002016-07-12T18:56:18.633-07:00 Larceny In My Heart<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pFTY4JlOVTM/V4WfKaLXdqI/AAAAAAAAJyQ/bqjSGr1qxIwWv0Foj_Iu7Op9FiSXJatmQCLcB/s1600/LoveBirds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pFTY4JlOVTM/V4WfKaLXdqI/AAAAAAAAJyQ/bqjSGr1qxIwWv0Foj_Iu7Op9FiSXJatmQCLcB/s400/LoveBirds.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
What is this about<br />
that you would know my old ways,<br />
that you curled my truth<br />
to match my curly<br />
youth when I'm all straightened up,<br />
a good and true masque<br />
for an old actor<br />
with larceny in his heart<br />
and a yen for you?<br />
<br />
July 26, 2011 1:00 PMchristopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2377252801421681569.post-38758613254408186072016-07-09T18:44:00.000-07:002016-07-09T18:44:32.756-07:00I Found Out<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ej8T_-bkAo0/V4GmgB8VbEI/AAAAAAAAJx4/NDOdDTd0SQwLoQgxPQypMtT7Nd6niXbAQCLcB/s1600/FledgelingJay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="342" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ej8T_-bkAo0/V4GmgB8VbEI/AAAAAAAAJx4/NDOdDTd0SQwLoQgxPQypMtT7Nd6niXbAQCLcB/s400/FledgelingJay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A Fledgeling Jay</div><br />
The jays were raising<br />
such a ruckus I had to<br />
join in and find out<br />
the truth that pained them.<br />
<br />
It wasn't the cat only:<br />
the young one grounded<br />
trying to fly, fly<br />
like Mom, like Dad, strain<br />
and fret. fear because the cat<br />
stalked relentlessly.<br />
<br />
July 17, 2011 9:38 AM<br />
christopherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04201537517464996231noreply@blogger.com0