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Kim Wilde

When I was 15, I was naive, looked like a grey mouse and felt second choice.

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Carrolling II-Parody Lewis CARROLL–The Mad Gardener’s Song

Carolling II

He Thought He Saw

He thought he saw new Internet
exchanging peer to peer,
he looked again and found it was
a mirage for each year
sees more control, “what rôle, ” he said,
“for values once held dear?
Some track to trace attack and get
convictions based on fear.'

He dreamt he saw spam disappear,
all consultations free,
he looked again and found it was
a spybot lottery.
“Is net neutrality”, he said,
“from rash risks viral clear? ”

He dreamt that Microsoft would steer
all trash deleted fast,
then woke to find world insincere
where independence past
was sacrificed throughout the year
to biometrics ghast.

He thought he saw a friend’s hello,
with an attachment piece,
he looked again and found it was
the porno scanning police.
“Politically correct”, he said,
“can’t guarantee release.”

He opened it, discovered though,
a trojan horse to fleece –
he looked again as data flow
declined, - mind not at peace -
and whispered with voice hoarse and low:
'when will our worries cease? ”

He thought he saw a hierophant,
who’d deal successful life,
he looked again and found it was
subpoena from ex-wife
demanding child support, he said,
“cards are cut by Time’s knife.”

He looked once more with rage and rant
and swore like a fishwife

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Instead Of You Today One Black Mouse

Instead of you today
one black mouse.

It arrives the first
day of your departure.
It catches the corner
of my eye, my blood eye,
as you call it, and I
think at first that this
is only sunlight reflecting
from a window being closed
across the street but
my beating heart, faster,
holding my breath, tells
me it is a mouse that
precedes its smell in
the house, that is, if
it takes up residence,
and the curtains remain
permanently closed.

I do nothing but note
all this as briefly as
the flash, then return
to my grieving.

*

I see it true,
a mouse true, as
was and is the
affection I felt
and feel for you
but I do not want
to make this a
love poem unless
it is to a black
mouse claiming
vacated space

*

You must leave now,
black mouse of sorrow,
now formally named,
take up in another
residence. Do not
borrow my things,
do not move them
with your tail or tongue

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Slow And Steady (Based on the Tortoise and the Hare)

As usual an argument
An argument arose
In the poppy field
Next to the red rose

It was between the mouse and the cat
(No worse enemies existed than that!)
In the end they had a bet
Whoever won, he would get
The poppy field for his own to live in
While the one who lost would be given
"Exile, banished from here forever! "
Said the cat (who really was very clever.)

The mouse thought: "What nonsense!
But it'll be ME who'll win
And that cat will have to live
In the garbage bins! "

But before the mouse could get a word out,
The cat who had been prancing about
Cleared his throat, "I declare!
The competition shall be judged by the hare.
We are going to have a magnificent race,
Poor mousie won't be able to keep up the pace! "

There mouse stood, flabbergasted as ever!
Really, that cat, was sly and clever,
He knew mouse couldn't run at all!
He'd just trip over his tail and fall!
But (though worried he was) he had to do it,
Yes, mouse had to go and prove it,
He would run faster than any cat,
He would run like the wind and knock- them- flat!

The next day dawned, pearly and white,
But the poor mouse was pale with fright!
As he stood in his place
Ready for the race
The cat yawned, as if bored with all this!
When the starting goose gave a hiss,
"Ready, set, GO! "Shouted the hare aloud
The cat ran fast, leaving behind a cloud
Of dust, and the mouse ran as fast as he could
"I'll win this race! I'd do anything to, I would! "

As the cat ran ahead he couldn't help but think:
"There's no way that the mouse can pass me! "
I got ahead in an eye's blink!
Why don't I settle down for a nap?

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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

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Carrolling - Parody Lewis CARROLL – The Mad Gardener’s Song

He thought he saw an Internet
exchanging peer to peer,
he looked again and hedged his bet, -
by middle of next year
new routing tables tuned as yet
unknown may well appear –
on track to trace attack and get
convictions based on fear.

He dreamt that spam would disappear,
all trash deleted fast.
He dreamt that Windows would be clear
of viral bugs’ wormcast.
He woke to find world insincere
where independence past
was sacrificed throughout the year
to biometrics ghast.

He thought he saw a friend’s hello
with an attachment piece,
he opened to discover, though,
a trojan horse release –
He looked again as data flow
declined, - mind not at peace -
and whispered with voice timbre low:
I’ll send for the Police! ”

He thought he saw a heirophant
predicting happy life.
He looked again, with rage and rant
discovered from ex-wife
an email angry claiming scant
support, which threatened strife:
“At length I see the immanent
attraction of Time’s knife! ”

He dreamt he saw as he awake
the euro reach a peak,
he saw he dreamt that Bush half bake
would leave the dollar weak: -
he woke to find what grave mistake
was made for the next week
the politicians put a stake
in budget – rocked boats leak!

He thought he saw Commission clerk
jump on bandwagon bus,
he looked again, just for a lark,
and found no tinker’s cuss
the former cared for bite was bark -

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She Thought She Saw-Parody Lewis CARROLL–The Mad Gardener’s Song

She Thought She Saw

She thought she saw quite equal pay
afforded equal work,
she looked again and found it was
a most unusual quirk.
“That men should keep their cake, ” she said,
and eat it too, must irk.”

She thought she saw that light of day
would filter through each jerk,
she looked again and found it was
belief most held beserk.
“That men should nappies change, ” she said,
“would wipe off every smirk! ”

She thought she saw fair interplay
where men would never shirk,
she looked again and found it was
a most miasmic murk
where rights were flouted, - “Hey! ” she said,
“men stand, wait, feeble lurk! ”


(15 April 2007 Parody Lewis CARROLL Some Hallucinations
The Mad Gardener's Dream Sylvie and Bruno Ch.5 See below Carolling and Carolling II)


Carolling

He thought he saw an Internet
exchanging peer to peer,
he looked again and hedged his bet, -
by middle of next year
new routing tables tuned as yet
unknown may well appear –
on track to trace attack and get
convictions based on fear.

He dreamt that spam would disappear,
all trash deleted fast.
He dreamt that Windows would be clear
of viral bugs’ wormcast.
He woke to find world insincere
where independence past
was sacrificed throughout the year
to biometrics ghast.

He thought he saw a friend’s hello
with an attachment piece,

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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

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Modest Mouse

To the modest mouse,
Whose home, remotely shrouded
With the clutters of the cat's fallen eyesight,
Filled with such vitriol that none could grasp with coarse palms

And the cat, in her abode
Flourishing with jewels that glint like her devotion
To the pleasurable amenities of beauty and splendor
Why, have the heavens lost such bountiful ardor?

The lynx, the beau of indifference, forsaken with lips of crimson red,
Embedded with jewelry in a variation of halycon, sapphire, zircon
Inquisitive mouse, 'You glint so much, you fade in the light.'
Cat quips, irate with claws razor sharp, 'I beg your pardon? '

Oh, such absence of complications
As he prances across the wood, with reflux of blood in his tail,
Only exhibiting a weary face, of tombstone pale;
The cat walks eloquently, only embellishing what pride she has

Walking on thin, rusting wires with such prowess,
The modest mouse, puzzled, bewildered by such striding,
Resembling a hurricane, whose tempestuous whirling hurls edges that lacerate,
'There is no need to act like this! ' the mouse, judgment in surfeit

With such strife, arrogant like a lion,
The cat moves in sync with celestial aeons
With her whiskers, beaming towards the horizon,
None of this, the modest mouse could ever fathom

The modest mouse's confusion, 'Why pounce in such exuberant poise? '
Untoward feline's retalitation, 'Insecurity is a blight.' with such metallic alloy
The modest mouse, was not precarious, his eyes were too good for decoys
The cat's carnal eyes luster with so much flamboyance.

The modest mouse, in pure content, seeing his pale color of gray,
'You are charcoal gray, you should revel.' He told himself humbly.
And subtly, with silent distinctions, the cat stood behind the modest mouse,
With a condescending smirk in her face, for she is adorned in a multitude of colors.

'You seem to shine, like the rainbow! ' Oh, such humility this mouse beholds
The humility that withstands the fiery Summer, and the winter cold.
'I am, more than the rainbow.' Of this you see, the feral audacity?
With such depth, does she serenade herself incessantly.

'Your tail is horrendous! ' Said the cat, waving her emerald tail
Comparatively seeing, careening over her distinctions, the arrogance is ubiquitous.
Thus, the modest mouse cannot be stopped, he stood presumptuously,
Assuming a stance on all fours, with a face as meek as a lily.

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zy A Mousetrap (a Fable ~ Author Unknown)

A country mouse heard a rustling noise and looked through a crack in the wall to see what might be going on. He saw the farmer and his wife opening a box. To the mouse’s great dismay the box contained a mousetrap. Alarmed the mouse rushed out to the farmyard to spread a warning. “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! ”

The chicken, who had been clucking and scratching the earth, raised her head and said: “Mr. Mouse I can tell this is a grave concern to you, but it is of no consequence to me. So I shall not allow myself to be bothered by it.”

The mouse turned to the pig and told him: “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! The pig sympathized, but said; “I am so very sorry Mr. Mouse, but there is nothing I can do about it. Be assured however, that you will be in my prayers”.

Next the mouse went to the cow and repeated his alarm: “There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house! ”. The cow looked at him and said: “Gee Mr. Mouse that’s is to bad for you, but it’s no skin off my nose”.

Mr. Mouse returned to the farmhouse head down and dejected. Left to face the mousetrap alone. That very night the loud snap of a mousetrap snapping shut was heard throughout the farmhouse.

The farmers wife got up from bed and rushed out to see what had been caught in the trap. In the darkness she did not see that it was a venomous snake which had gotten its tail caught in the trap. As she stepped near the trap the snake struck out and bit her on her foot. The farmer rushed her to the hospital where the doctors gave the only treatment available but could not guarantee a full recovery. The farmer’s wife asked to be allowed to return to the farmhouse to recuperate.

Once home the farmer’s wife continued to feel ill. She developed a fever so the farmer, hoping to make her feel well, went out to the farmyard and killed the chicken to make his wife some soup. But her sickness continued and many friends and neighbors stopped by to wish her well and offer assistance. Grateful for their concern the farmer went out to the farmyard and slaughtered the pig so that he could feed the well-wishers.

Alas the farmer’s wife continued to decline in health and after some days she passed away. Knowing that many friends and relatives would arrive for the funeral the farmer had the cow butchered so that he would have meat to feed these mourners.

The mouse could only watch from his little crack in the wall. Saddened at the loss of his farmyard friends, but knowing that he had done all he could to warn them of the danger posed by the mousetrap.

The next time you hear someone is facing a problem and shares their concern with you, Remember the story of the Mr. Mouse and the mousetrap. We are all connected in life in what may seem mysterious ways, so when one of us is threatened we are all at risk.

Author Unknown

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Grey Wolves Grey

The Russian march is soft and slow,
Through dust and heat, or slush and snow,
When the Russian skies hang grey and low
To the frontiers far where the Russians go;
And they march to-night and they march to-day
Like the grey wolves grey, like the grey wolves grey.
Nor song nor sound their track reveals,
Save the ceaseless “clock” of the waggon wheels;
But a rift in the mist shows a glint of sun
On the long, dark shape of a toiling gun;
And they strain by night and they drag by day
To a distant goal, like the grey wolves grey.

As the horses toil at the ends of trains,
And the ends of roads on the Blacksoil Plains.
And Ivan digs in the frozen clay,
And he rolls the logs a bed to lay
For a gun that’s five hundred miles away,
But as sure to come as the grey wolves grey.

He is marching on with a purpose grand,
For brother Slav in another land;
Whose tongue, perchance, he cannot understand.—
But he knows the cry from the far-away,
And he smells the blood like the grey wolves grey.

And Ivan’s wife in her den at home,
While hunger looms and his lean wolves come—
With her grey-black bread like the Darling mud,
And her tea-bricks bound with the bullock’s blood—
She shields her cubs by night and day
Like the crouching sluts of the grey wolves grey.

And I march with Ivan where’er he be,
With the foreign blood that is strong in me,
And the love and the hate that is fantasy,
Like the ghosts of a father’s memory.
With the blood that is strange to us to-day
As the strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.
Grey wolves,
Grey wolves—
The strange wild blood of the grey wolves grey.

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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

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a mouse teaches Diogenes

You see Diogenes living in the slums. He lives in a barrel. This is the man even Alexander the Great admires. So it makes you wonder about Diogenes.

So you pretend to be there quite by accident and you ask: “Diogenes…Who was your teacher? ”

A mouse was my teacher, ” says Diogenes.

You are quite confused. And you say: 'A mouse is your teacher? And how is that, Diogenes? '

“Well, most exquisite Sir, ” says Diogenes to you. “Most cultured Sir, ” he says. “I had no home and I was in the streets. I almost killed myself. Then I saw mouse. Mouse ran around and looked for food and it found some and I observed mouse for over two days. And I realized how resourceful mouse was. And then I said to myself: ‘Learn of the mouse, Diogenes- and all will be well.’ And so I learned of mouse. And every time I have a problem, I simply ask myself: ‘How will mouse solve this? ’ And so mouse became my teacher. And now, most Exquisite Sir, I have a problem. You. I want to get rid of you and I ask myself: ‘How would mouse solve this problem? ’ He would bite…”

You listen to this and you are afraid – and you run. And Diogenes has done well; he has learned well from his teacher. And you can hear him shouting to you: “By the way, who was your teacher? ”

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An Extraordinary Friendship

There happened to be an Elephant with purple skin
Which caused many a little child, to laugh and to grin?
They considered it so strange, and so ‘out of place’
That, a cheeky smirk ne’er left each mischievous face.
They laughed so much that they even shed tears:

A Purple Elephant, with purple ears!
Who ever heard such a ridiculous thing,
Next we’ll be hearing the Elephant sing.”

On this did continue, for many a day,
Each time he felt more hurt and full of dismay.
He thought about travelling, far, far away –
“Perhaps then, my skin will be the normal grey? ”
Thus he did reason inside his mind,
This way he would be leaving his shame behind.
But, as he thought on, he began to realise
That his shame wasn’t what they saw with their eyes
But, how they made him feel, deep inside,
All this is what continued to wound his pride.

Suddenly, one bright and cheerful day
A small Blue Mouse just happened by his way.
The Purple Elephant instinctively let out a scream
From the fear and shock, at what he had just seen!
He was just about to turn, quickly away,
When, his attention was caught, as the Blue Mouse did say:
“Please, there’s no need for you to fear me
I’m only a little, quiet Blue Mouse, as you can see.
Why is it that you’re afraid and nervous too?
Please, tell me how I can help – I would really like to.”

And so, the Purple Elephant related his troubles and woes;
How he seemed to have few friends, but much more foes.
The little Blue Mouse gave him such caring advice,
Of which he thought was ever so nice:

“Don’t you worry about how others see you,
Because, when it comes to real beauty, they haven’t a clue.
Your strength of character is something I admire.
You battle on, where others weaken and tire;
You’re tall in stature, big hearted as well.
How do I know? I’ve observed you and can tell.”

The Purple Elephant smiled, and a tear glistened in his eye,
He found her words very touching, and did thus reply:

“O thank you so much, for your kind words so true,
Now, I wonder, is there any favour I can do for you? ”

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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;


Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

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A Legal Mouse

A lawyer had a legal mouse,
A naughty one they say,
That took possession of his house
And papers ev'ry day,

His books and records it would gnaw,
Without regard for loss,
Its disrespect and lack of awe
Just kept the owner cross.

When no revenge the man could get,
His anger blazed so high,
Till he declared when next they met,
The mouse would surely die.

The murder, all the world should know,
He planned with ire intense,
To strike the mouse a fatal blow
And call it self-defence.

One day the desk he opened wide,
The mouse in regal state,
Sat in a pigeon hole, inside,
In style the scene was great.

A stroke the lawyer at it gave,
A star it made to flee,
Into a hole its life to save,
To find security.

When he had guarded well the hole,
It scrambled for the floor,
Again he kept it from the goal,
Its life endangered more.

The door of hope he seemed to close
Upon the enemy;
Its feelings then, nobody knows,
Its longings to be free.

Up through his sleeve it made a break,
In search of freedom sweet;
His arm he then began to shake,
To bring it to his feet.

His cuff was thrown away, no doubt,
The button had to go;
His coat and vest he tore about,
The mouse had scared him so.

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Some Ways Of Looking At A Black Mouse

[to the reader:
This is part of a series poem...this one
follows 'Instead of You Today One Black Mouse'
which should be read before this one for greater
context. There is a playing going on in both
poems which is not only about love had and lost,
a black mouse that shows up, as well as a dove,
the day before the lover returns permanently
to live in native country of India. There is
a Wallace Stevens' playing with notions of
poetry, meaning, and more, and a playing with
language and signs which shall hopefully lend
some jarring but enjoyable takes/slants/songs/
glyphs.

When you see the 'x's
in the poem, read
'times' as in the
math sign for multi-
plication. & of course
the = sign should
be read as 'equals']

keep saying/
writing 'mouth'
when I want to
speak of the
black 'mouse'
which seems to
have left soon
after it appeared
as you departed.


'Mouth' and
'mouse',
'black mouth',
open and shut.

The window,
the casings
fall, clatter
scattering the
dove brown
upon the space
between the

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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

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Poetry: Ode To A Little Mouse

Ode To A Little Mouse
By Laijon Liu 20091009

'Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.'
- Shakespeare, The Tempest Act 2, scene 2, Line 40

01
In my tiny room, there’s a little mouse
A New Yorker he is, a resident of Queens
He’s lonely like me and nameless he is
He works all the days to see who he really is
Oh, my heart cries for you, my little friend
This world too big and your life too frail
In my roommate rooms they set the clip traps
And in each corner they prepared your last meal
But you still, running wise and boring brave
To be a master of your own fate, not a slave!

02
For that sweet cheese cake! You try to nose
For whole life among the rooms and traps
Oh dream of fulfillment, drives living purpose
That one day you may gain fat like those rats
But no, you are in my room, but I only have books
This is not a restaurant, nor subway tracks
And out there on street, too many wild cats
They are not house pets that live on diet food
So, you must be patient and do with what you have
For you haven’t met any girl mouse yet

03
Oh, love for a little mouse? Too unreal!
How that 2-second intimacy can make you feel?
What’s after, still loneliness, emptiness,
Such state even human wail and gods pale
In this mice and rats crowded capital,
How many couples truly find their nest?
Once you were born into this cold world
Then you must walk and search alone
Btwn the walls, sneak in and out the pipes
And hoping to find your sweet cheese

04
Go! You little mouse! Be smart and brave!
Don’t just hide in my tiny room
Even though you moved in here first
But your life is not staying here and starve
Even though I never wanted to trap you
Nor I’m too wicked to poison you
Still, you must go out and be stuffed

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Freedom Of Choice

A victim of collision on the open sea
Nobody ever said that life was free
Sank, swam, go down with the ship
Just use your freedom of choice
Ill say it again in the land of the free
Use your freedom of choice
Your freedom of choice
In ancient rome there was a pawn
Who faught alone
And watched it fall
He cast a stone
He felt secure
He felt that hed never be hurt
Freedom of choice
Is what you got
Freedom of choice!
Give into the voice
You dont want it
Seems to be the rule of thumb
Dont be tricked by what you see
You got two ways to go
Ill say it again in the land of the free
Use your freedom of choice
Freedom of choice
Freedom of choice
Is what you got
Freedom of choice!
In ancient rome there was a pawn
Who faught alone
And watched it fall
He cast a stone
He felt secure
He felt that his voice would never be heard
Freedom of choice
Is what you got
Freedom from choice!
Is what you want
Freedom of choice
Is what you got
Freedom from choice!
Is what you want
Freedom from choice
Is what you want
Freedom from choice!

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Goldilocks And Goldilocks

It was Goldilocks woke up in the morn
At the first of the shearing of the corn.

There stood his mother on the hearth
And of new-leased wheat was little dearth.

There stood his sisters by the quern,
For the high-noon cakes they needs must earn.

“O tell me Goldilocks my son,
Why hast thou coloured raiment on?”

“Why should I wear the hodden grey
When I am light of heart to-day?”

“O tell us, brother, why ye wear
In reaping-tide the scarlet gear?

Why hangeth the sharp sword at thy side
When through the land ’tis the hook goes wide?”

“Gay-clad am I that men may know
The freeman’s son where’er I go.

The grinded sword at side I bear
Lest I the dastard’s word should hear.”

“O tell me Goldilocks my son,
Of whither away thou wilt be gone?”

“The morn is fair and the world is wide
And here no more will I abide.”

“O Brother, when wilt thou come again?”
“The autumn drought, and the winter rain,

The frost and the snow, and St. David’s wind,
All these that were time out of mind,

All these a many times shall be
Ere the Upland Town again I see.”

“O Goldilocks my son, farewell,
As thou wendest the world ’twixt home and hell!”

“O brother Goldilocks, farewell,
Come back with a tale for men to tell!”

So ’tis wellaway for Goldilocks,
As he left the land of the wheaten shocks.

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