Over Field & Glen

Run free with the wind. In the fielded glen. Fast as a cloud with few minutes over a valley to spend. Then rest beneath a few trees. With hints of azure skies. Above the boughs. Or bath in the cool of a mountain. Streams during Spring thaws. For such occurances. I bodily strive. Bound through natures’ eternal struggle with happenstance. To keep my life. I write, I sing. I fly as in a dream with birds. On a wing. An augury of flight. Innocents of the night. With our lives like ritual. And a foreboding sense of might. Where we will land. To the predator. There is given no clue. Simply a fact that. This story continues. Later, is true

Are You Holding?

The clave horn. The well trimmed board. The spice of life. Some friendly beasts, the canines. The home of a Franklin or even deeper into the well with a bucket plummeting from the common beheld ledge above.

Good company and fine friends. A home in the country. Fine upstarts in offspring. Stables for those beasts whom carry burden. A message from the hall. Dinner will be served on the hour.

A babe in my arms coming up with new ways to express most anything. The call of the Supper bell triangulating. The good company of the fast crew in their implementation of menial slake. Time for bounty on the turn and the sea change.

What is done is done is done. Forgive and forget and in this brave world of commizeration go afield only to come again some day. The blazes are beaten but the impaliar is sound. It is sitting right here on my fess. Cute little thing the way it switches from one to another hopping feet.

Sailors in love with time it takes to put the distances between. The trust in the work done. A one off with no way back in but for getting nasty and drawing marks. A sluice in the byway. Utility hats beckon the shell shocked laird from his ornery corner roost.

Oh I see you Sam. So over my head in Alabama. So ignorant of everything but that Madam Georgian’s new hit song. The thousands lost to pallor for dollars viscount.

A gregarious means to shake off the lethargy of connubial thoughts processii. When an apeshit bum in the garten tries his best to make off with the jackal’s ladder. The only climbing gait a pack of rabid rat racers could have laid out before them in the country.

Downs to await the waters’ course a free meander of able bodied mastheads of cross the paseo reaches. A trafficked palace street of the arid and clement. Where there is situated the respite spot. A glam space of trekless passes of eyes across the plane.

The ignobled stretches of grimacing big cats. Touring the brushy fledges. A house 🏠 for the crazy moon and her lucid manner. To behold the tide of a way through the field of precise star 🌟 laden sky.

A night’s pleasure in slow transpiring glances at the painted mural walls. Depth of field dipstiches of the drumming aptitude for martialing the airs of the tree borne greens. Through Summer and pining to give soil leave and rejuvenation.

The wrap up of a minuteman melee. Fading blue jeans canvas of old Army tents. The scoop of beans given to ward the hungry from the holding commisary. What lays in store and what only remits to entry of a given day’s collar.

The irony of dispatch from a trust back into the mete of the matter. The actual worthiness of viand and calabash as means to carry forth the fruit of the greenwood tree. Sturdy find of the largesse and illuctible.

Treats with a stash of the strong drink. Passersby accepting the good news of a favorable wanderer’s message in having traveled through. No more than metaphysically strange. The real need for familiarity in the circus of estates.

The bridge 🌉 that traverses the skunky stream. A spring feeling for the back meadow passes listing out in frugal new grains. Catching the fine and golden taste for shine. Each newsome bandersnatch to aggress upon the dates of frequency.

There arrives to races the folly gander, the eyefull snooker, and the workable embrace. New to old in a matter of labors. And the success rate of proud mamas and papas with the crest of there mountain ⛰️ home now brimming with caress and touch and holding a swaddling babe close.

Discourses & Parlances

Talk about the rhetoric. The happy hunting grounds. The Stargate and the mountain’s song. Play up Swany river in the tremblings of an outbound gestalt. The theosophy of trillobytes.

Plagued field hockey consort. Team efforts to make it out to the fair show. Grand Gypsy eloquence at tapping in the goal. Here we are amongst the lipped and the laundarer. Make out good at reading scrolls of potent bone fodder.

The good old mission church treating chillies with brimstone. The image being supplanted by its fiery host. 60-400 ways of gauging the illimitable and the folk geste in its plurality of the remit in the casual extant.

With a guest book of the tripping high and mighty. The recondite demand for pompus license. The fate of the big, bad, Boston Creme. Sitting on the counter like a rematch fridge keeper for the Associated cops on their pedestrian beat.

Walking to the sound of image. We are all real good keepers but he is steel on the link iron asserted. We will to brave the clement of notions. We turn out to look through the daylight heats at the supposed rabbit tales. Them whose lines mix up mastications of the pouty coyote bitch and her new collared brood of babes..

Its a spinning take on the raptures of the well cultured. Its a grasping at the scratch of molecules. The permagrin slide of matters own horn. Amounting to as much. The general opinion that surveys the lay of the land. Spacious, airy cappadocious labors making out for the broad waters.

The semblance of flying opining choice with too much fodder. Telling the whammy ball to requit the dodge of aces. Give and get back. Like a silly putty gamut runner.

Having made out for the gangway and spilling down the beltway like rainbow man and his emissary, the brave cloudwalker. Trip it on down along with the ropes of a fiddle roger. Let be flying clout in the peacekeeping efforts. Also in the block and quizzing zingers for the ambergist and viand pouring wine.

Tumbling blocks of woo. The procrastinator’s will is to carry his bliss to the moon. Where chi anthems are no hour of exploit. No the weir of staying is vouched for apparent in the musings of the sobriquit of folly. The OMG realization that I should have started a long time ago.

Burdened By Beast & Truck

The wallet whines and the wind assails. Slack sails on a doldrums salt watery sea. Crossing the lines of ocean that will never be drawn. Contracted with shipmen and society and with one’s babe. A crow’s nest passion. Taking it in with the extension of an ocular. Cloud swept, passionate,,, LAND HO!

It’s fair to say the river ran high. And that the tide ebbed low. It was a mammoth in the ice since time began. The scrolls of our jailkeeper have the guise of ashfelt lytresis in the tradition of their teachings. The mole scurrying across the floor has fallen on hard times.

You see his pride pig exterior expects to ride but the church shot his horse. Then they set fire to their braying mule’s tail. Foxes wouldn’t suit this jack Joe. No they need the butt of a joke to raise their 10,000,000,000 billion chillies by.

Ever and amour the hoar grass bets on its nervy rack of pluck. The land is a mission alive with the bayoful round of a doggone heaven. The lot of its terminal awareness caught up in the gutsy beliefs of its new sown children’.

Every iambic lamb willing to mow grass. Every swisher’s tale within awkward instance of a throe. Every atypical trafficking fly. The variegated depth in a rushing of damask for choice spots on the floor. The leaf pile instigators no longer treeless. No hot in the spot of jumping beans. An over the top wrest of the aviary and wreath. Coocoos said it best. The time is best now for a rest.

The countdown to infinity. Going nowhere fast and then some. A reminder of all things once saught after civil and and a time to begin again anew. Nothing disharmonious left to be undone. Left to the party of mischievous arborist whom when given a seat say just plant it. Never to chose who choses to deceive it.

Dawn and daybreak. The lit up new sky. The borne upon the doorstep. A gift of mystery to the new school. Pinters of the apt boon and new kith. While spirits counter them out looking for their swain.

Emotive Thought

Love agonizes over a throw. The into the dark pitch of sounding from off of a far wall. Reverb and chorus. Later days in the sanctimony of the even and its prop. How intellectual could be a keeper of shadows when the sun shines from on high right down into the middle of the street.

God Bless it I say the driving feat of proud footin’s mucho gusto. The reverence for the tide rolls up on the avenue. While the boulevard is a closer draw to make for headwaters of an amble and a saunter and those at mission for the night’s perpetuation of a memory and involvement in a sojourns’ rest.

Ya think? The emotional value given to abiding in the redemption school. To see the vehicle moving forth at a hounds foot pace. Having been given a taste for the bag and sent out baying. Trying to keep a good attitude in the dilly dally tide of darkness. Where outcry is going South through the country. Looking at its cross streets both up and down for vague salvage of a more personable commitment in the saving of face.

Let us not implement our own destruction. Let us look at that 60mph and 80 yards and twenty foot tall brick wall without having to seek a thrill. Let us stop on that dime and drop it. Real good and hardy. With wine bottles answering knowing corkscrews.

If the overwhelming feature of the bullies on the base say it is all too ephemeral to have a wonder about it to go by. Then let it dawn sweetly and looking back consider the rhythm of pacing. This and leigh out modicems of modesty in taking it up a clip. To let out the great force of breath we have only to exhale and let it go with a ‘shweho’. That is the one in her dance. Skrying madly to the beat of 10 dead bass drums.

Without regret never have want of answering the question again. Move on with your bad self and your selfsame looking gate and your mindful choo choo. I think I can, I think I can wwwoooOOOoooeee. D

Does it help anybody to truly be alone. Is this the long dread fate of our humanity. Even here in our Summer home. Wheat for sages. A single grain’s speculation. Left to entrain the repetitions of manevours given over to sexual prowess. Given a crush that rhymes with sport. Laid out for rest like bedcloths. Carrying the pocket stuff tryptyches of our son the train conductor.

Simply to mention the great tunnel of love coming up for today’s amusement park ride. All for the condition of make believe. A national obliging of the blind consuming marriage of nihilism with reality. I think it somehow vouchsafes the sweat for the racing fears of the tourilous American.

A lambaste of upstarts. The frequent of turning pages making due with storied wedlock. Into the garden of a realized set of fears grown over with weed and wildflower.

The womaning of grange and rucksack buck. The payback for great temperament. Tides of escapade having simply learned that the old gray goose is a good bet. One of the quickier, quackier ways for children to run a circle and make it their own.

For release, for concord, for fantastic requital of past kingdoms and loose tabs on the dreaming of catchers tales. Them still resolved to remain smitten with the bull, the bear, and the blue jean.

Hardy, har, har, the end went unforseen but the Sun continued to rise and the rain fell from the plaint. Flippy wiggy foments of geste flew the coop and Troubadors said good ride. Blessed rest of Wintertimes in happenstance. Glad in a sack and dreaming to the last of better times ahead. Faith thus making it through night after night until Spring.

Leftwich

Roseline. Equater. Ghana Sound. Benediction upon the dance steps of the Lord. The very horde is gold digger tramps. And all of their easy riders. See here! See here. I know what’s best when it comes to my mindfulness. Ain’t you never been across Texas. Snaking on bye? A real rattler? Bombastic and the figure is done.

All those toward and minor needs for redresses can go and float the boat. Hop to it. Bet tight with Cheer leader. Take the dance and win it at just that. Makes night hollers turn to what is homage. A gregarious but distinct pledge holder. The lead card and the sorbet.

Give the Herald his chuckles of cheese. Wish him wigs of locomotive cheese. An afternoon in the plain sight obfuscate of trumped up maidens from days gone by. The fierce recourse must request its tide. Must ease out flow with depth and candor. It was just a scratch.

But you need a pitch. Bet you with one eye I can see in the dark. You sense the other would be flying around in the candle light getting harangued by every zapper with a loose zipper. That way lines don’t get crossed. No the A train takes the A line.

Lists are for gaits and this one is closed. It picts the corsair with a trippy build on the Anglo Fair. The penchant for derangement is the slip that sits comprised of silly sear and tight rapt sequence of sussiance and snap. The honeycombs getting tapped by honey badger and hummingbird.

The glad praise singer getting down to his hoodoo in the punk straights of a true dat kind of broach on the peace. A real keeper in the blanch peanut industries book of hop lauds. The school days run a long of book chase ribbons. Making meddle out of founting silt-bed boggle boots.

An Evening Psalter

The extension of an area into the quandary of outer space. Lifting ones feet up when treading down a river so as not to catch in a rock and get it stuck and dragging one under. Or like the railroad crossing in the tide of Winter. A beater with a heater moving on with its gait to the extrapolation of lighter fare.

Not that the devil will always care but don’t be insulting by always having to make it out to him in your contempt. This upon the sanctity of our earth. Tourulous by always sticking out our claims to existence upon the cornerstone marks of a once thought extinct sense of tribalism.

Roaming singular into the referees of the homespun. The tinkering with antlerbone and the leveeworker quick with the jack and Piper trade. The shellacked outrig rider. Putting his canoe into the pond and saying to the tide “Okay. Now draw me Mother Nature!” Not because of my defiance but for the seqencing of my even keel. Lead me to night dances of stirring meads and expertly told stories of fishermen.

The long Bally table. Tilt a whirl pine and the recondite tributaries of an often suspended moon. Glamduring the pale rider heaves his saddle up the back of his beast. Hands high and turning. A gentle understanding between charisma and charm.

The filly will recollect her canting under the steep of John Barlecorn and his daylight stars. The long drawn memories of an eventual manner of elegant habit. A paradisical assembly of lyrical exchange. The parading salutary crewe. Given to bees knees and diademic pluralities.

So murky above the water the fog is all in jest. A gaping crawl through the aerodyte space of plentitude and recourse unto shelter and yesterdays works. There goes this a way a sense of cadence. It trips a market and it jumps a bean.

The poultry cluckers all vouch for the sincerity of foible declensions in fastidious harkenings to the unitivity of sultry maids in sundry dress. A toothsome and knotty Setti swings through the gaits of Summers to bear out in brave repaste.

There abides the sporty tom. A garnish of peppercorn in the acquaintance with its satrapies. Giving out garlands to usurpation. A great conflagration in the inimitable equivocations of breadwinner dichotomies. The daft mote and the chuckwind draft horse. Making good in both respects like a galavant and a trooper.

One kind of plausability for that need for an idea’s dissemination and review. A sounding board for the extension of modal church service. The list in its exegesis. A frequent parry of peptides. The end for Daisy chains in revery. An orchestrated quickpot run on et fini.

Scratch

Twenty-five fiddlesticks. Batches of grindstone hatchets. Court & spark. Copper kettle bodhi augury full of skylarks. Lightness. Brightness. Elevation in expansion of light from out the gravity of a humble Earth. The langour reigning in distinct guises upon guises over the moldering core below.

I cannot vouch for their being drawn. The viable legumes into the bread snatch. For use with the masty kates. To make illucidations upon monogamy and parallel messages of a chemical peace. The brothers of the league. The wake against the dipstyche and depth of field. It’s rolling its clairavoyant bath to the fluted pipes of the outre hierarchy and into the sun setting to the tune of auburn skies.

With an upheld lack of preoccupation meant to go delving into the wells of a selfsame misery. Where are the country bumpkins in the rosters of the arriving gait. Within its own crow of diviners. How many o’er the lough and salty. Into the season with chickle and baubles schtick. A gambol of the resurrection sang.

Gripes of the forelorn. Kicking cronies off of the roof of the bus. Enough of your flacid wash. Too much to speak of until the silence is realized. Then par for the course. See there are dampened now a good look over the admired ethos for the click of their heels. Three milestones away from the frosty cream sideshow stand.

A solid walk for youngsters in the crawl. With guidance and honesty of respects taking on burdens of a thespian crewe. This umpteenth glad to meet you aggression on the metaphysics of ascertaining in the mass. Involved in those cycles of a veritable tradition of original and prefunctory need to take up the sunshine of a Welshman gone a souling. Working in the guises of earth church and the many commons out the walk into glam pasturage and weatherable countryside.

Even flight can brave the expanse its delight in the daemon. Make condition and trust the wealth of concerned experience by the allowances of chore. To be seen forward and advancing. Crawling the footpaths and hillocked meadowlands with patience for the butterfly and compassion for the frog.

Waiting on the tragi-comic kiss. One of occasional sages. Meant for legends of mystical plurality in spirits. The passion of gentle men and women now made bonafide and succinct. To bear out in truisms of frank and efficient taking of the good stock. Fit for resources and the leagues of country well put to rest in the gleanings of the Linden wood tree for the green.

Said no more for its onus but made out to the great work and substancial. Done, well, fit for cree and made steadfast by acceptance of remittent blessedness in the bough and it good company.

In Competition With Convenience 2000/09/09 Thursday

How does one enter the public domain? Do those who have their rights reserved? What if I were to cross over into the public domain? How would there be someone to escort me, as in a service?

Write, write well, and you will come to this posture, this passage, to lay down extant your remains. And don’t over worry how it will go for the next artisan, the next participant. The next person to feel those thoughts, to hear that saying.

For some it will be a higher power that draws a link between you two. Between you and the next or even between you and a someone who came before.

But if your writing doesn’t work out and you find you have no such rights before those thoughts. And feelings and sayings slip from your fine fingers back into the ground. The common acre, the open domain. Well then maybe you should try Algebra.

Me & My Like

Heart rending sorrow and exercise. The compassion it takes in getting along with those in the manner of life. They whom are relieved to hear of your progress yet to whom one does not ask of the refrain. Courses amongst horses. Making out good and wise sense in the extant of their mind. In there goose fletching and the churches they place on the rock and on the hill.

Secreting a way the vernal axis. Making out a good place to set aside differences and get down to meditation. To come promising. To give to reason and its powers enkind. A veritable tautology of feating glades. A glam exegisis upon the cultured bough. The road is not for the weary my fine camper. No it is rather a conditional peace indeed.

When the leaves on the tree are flourishing. In the spring tide as they call it in the Northern climes. There is an excitement to find out who is the herald of the event. The gopher? The Robin? What about the fox? Up and at ’em babies! The glide of pacified wings checks its Jay at the door. Crossing these streets need have be the bane of the iconoclast. To no longer care for the filcher and the varmint. As quick as a dash and bent to feature it no more. Reduced to b-grade popcorn of the jiffiest kernel and poker’s fork.

If any more tribal lore has need splay my possessions then know I will be at the fly of a feather to make sure the reward is my proper wage. How about $10,000 dollars a show. Just the songs and chords will do ya what is necessary. And when all cheap excuses for vagaries have been exhausted well then end your day and lay ye down and take a proper rest why don’t you.

You have needs do that. See.