tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32533669493909573442024-03-13T10:44:44.180-06:00WHEN THE PEN BLEEDSVein violator (blood letter) to ink insane words...S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.comBlogger227125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-23948624696623551192016-06-22T16:31:00.000-06:002016-06-23T10:42:28.436-06:00S.E.INGRAHAM:S.E.Ingraham writes, has always written, as long as she can remember. Some days - her memory is not that reliable - but on others, she is able to state with certainty that she's been writing for over six decades.<br />
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She now pens, mostly poetry, from the 53rd parallel (Edmonton, Alberta) where she and the love of her life share space with two Pugly dogs.<br />
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Her poems mainly concern her years as a mental health consumer (blessedly over now but still of concern); social justice activism, and bearing witness, and, as Sylvia Plath once said:"I write because/There is a voice within me/That will not be still." She concurs.<br />
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She began writing in elementary school where she was born and raised - Scarborough, Ontario - one block from the famed Scarborough Bluffs - cliffs so magnificent, she dreams of them even now. Is it any wonder they find themselves in different aspects of her writing?<br />
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As do the Kawartha Lakes - at least one of them - Belmont Lake - Big Island specifically - the place where she and her family spent many summers during her childhood. A place she thinks of fondly as one where they were all their best selves.<br />
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Ingraham has been married almost 47 years, has two grown daughters, and three grandsons. She has become very private about her personal life, but, is happy to speak about the ways in which she has been honing her craft - workshops and online MOOC's - and is thrilled to count such luminaries as Thomas Lux, Robert Pinsky, and Claudia Rankine among those whose lives have touched hers as she continues to pursue excellence in poetry. She counts the time spent with the ModPo gang under Professor Al Filreis out of the University of Pennsylvania, both as a student and now as a CTA, as some of her most remarkable, valuable hours - both for learning about poetry and for learning about life.<br />
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She has had some publishing success - both online and in print, in publications among which are: Shot Glass, Red Fez, Pyrokinection, FreeFall Literary Journal, the Poetic Pinup Revue, and numerous Kind of a Hurricane Press anthologies (including two "best of years" Storm Cycles).<br />
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Ingraham has enjoyed some awards also, for instance: <i>Table for Three,</i> 2013 First - Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest; <i>Superman's Sheet </i>placed in Free Fall's end of year poetry contest 2013 (published in Winter 2014 issue); several poems were selected to hang in the Hickory, North Carolina Art Gallery beside photos by acclaimed photographer Steve McCurry; and a sidewalk poem here in Edmonton is etched in stone in perpetuity.<br />
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(Ingraham's successes are listed elsewhere on this site under "Achievements": scroll to the bottom of the home-page to the links there. A link to a record of educational accomplishments and workshops is there also. These links are updated periodically.)<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-33685000936158222092016-03-15T13:47:00.002-06:002016-03-15T13:50:19.490-06:00HAND IN HAND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the dim-<br />
dark unnatural<br />
light I watch<br />
your oxygen<br />
levels fluctuate<br />
as you battle<br />
to breathe<br />
and hold<br />
your icy<br />
hand flanked<br />
by mine, trying<br />
to rub<br />
life and<br />
warmth into<br />
your surprisingly<br />
tiny digits.<br />
<br />
Even retaining<br />
fluid, your<br />
fingers remain<br />
delicate—<br />
the nails<br />
neat and<br />
short, although<br />
ghostly pale;<br />
the lunula<br />
crouched<br />
at the base<br />
of each<br />
perfect nail<br />
almost<br />
invisible against<br />
your pallor.<br />
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My own<br />
arthritic<br />
pair seem<br />
outsized;<br />
the gangly<br />
veins<br />
roaming<br />
green<br />
and helter-<br />
skelter,<br />
unchecked;<br />
a rough map<br />
of my life so<br />
far; when you<br />
stop, will<br />
they?<br />
<div>
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com17Edmonton, AB T5C 3L3, Canada53.615621999999988 -113.4606863000000253.614444499999991 -113.46320780000002 53.616799499999985 -113.45816480000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-2795141659132071242015-01-11T18:25:00.006-07:002015-01-11T18:25:59.939-07:00THE SMELL OF OVER...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I came close to crumbling earlier this week<br />
Near the edge of that place, the one I know<br />
Better than to approach usually, or especially, casually<br />
But learning of a late night visitation by gendarmes<br />
Ready, or so it seemed, to <i>condemn </i>me<br />
For my <i>inky </i>ramblings - I felt ready to <i>capitulate</i>,<br />
if for but a <i>single </i>moment<br />
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Until, rising swiftly through the mists of malaise<br />
that had accompanied me across an ocean and<br />
a country, continent-wide<br />
I was able to <i>generate </i>some common-<i>sense</i><br />
Shake off both ill feelings and a general <i>ennui</i><br />
that crouched ready to seize me should I<br />
become any less vigilant<br />
<br />
End the paranoia shrouding me - begin to <i>list</i><br />
the reasons not to give into<br />
whatever these latest accusations were about<br />
By the time I met the authorities, I was able<br />
to <i>channel </i>my truest self - writer, advocate and<br />
most importantly...<br />
<br />
mother who sadly has only one concern; my child<br />
who has gone somewhere I don't recognize for<br />
reasons I cannot fathom...<br />
There seems no <i>end </i>to the betrayal that she needs<br />
to ladle out, hoping to <i>render </i>me gone<br />
Not sure what that's about...I am, after all, gone...<br />
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But it's not her fault; she feels threatened, frightened<br />
somehow... it's the death of our relationship, I know it<br />
These latest acts have proven we are done,<br />
more grieving but even that is nearing an end;<br />
...the <i>smell </i>of over, is heartbreak.<br />
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*<i>the words in italics are the twelve chosen and needed to be used as part of this week's Whirl</i><br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-73835364153398520992014-12-09T23:50:00.001-07:002015-02-18T19:43:43.418-07:00IN THE NIGHTS SAMHAIN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Twirling her cape like a matador,<br />
she stepped into a haze of dusk,<br />
shot through with the final remnants<br />
of a deranged sunset ; daisy-chains<br />
of coral, peach, and salmon,<br />
strung along the horizon, fighting<br />
against the dark.<br />
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It was her favourite time of day,<br />
and when she felt most alive<br />
As others were headed home<br />
from work or school, no longer<br />
having to feign interest in whatever<br />
boring things caused them to traipse<br />
through their days,<br />
She was just starting to rouse, feeling<br />
her blood course, her breath quicken<br />
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Like an animal let loose, she felt<br />
herself strain against the sane<br />
She knew she should stay in the cave<br />
until full darkness fell<br />
But the melting day enflamed her so<br />
Made her want to filet something,<br />
just cut it into pieces<br />
There's comfort in a blade's keenness<br />
She would exchange light for sharp soon.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-82494988574919834202014-12-08T00:24:00.003-07:002015-01-11T14:03:15.814-07:00THE INEVITABILITY OF LIGHT <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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From beneath a layer<br />
of black so dark<br />
it could only be pitch,<br />
or ebony<br />
crept the tiniest bits<br />
of something hopeful --<br />
Could it be possible,<br />
after months<br />
of down-turned smiles<br />
which are after all,<br />
sadnesses.<br />
<br />
What is the lightning<br />
around the edges<br />
of the slate horizon<br />
Was it the dawning<br />
of not only<br />
a new day<br />
but something else<br />
After so much mourning<br />
and desperate dark,<br />
what could this be coming,<br />
what could happen now<br />
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But of course,<br />
she knew it all the time...<br />
when you have endured<br />
so much time<br />
stumbling as if blind<br />
in dimness so black<br />
as to be ebon,<br />
as to be soot<br />
What had to follow...<br />
what had to be<br />
the crack under the door,<br />
the flash along the horizon<br />
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Her heart swells<br />
as she recognizes<br />
the most lambent<br />
lights of all...<br />
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Christmas, only<br />
breaths away<br />
it is indeed<br />
inevitable,<br />
she spend it atop<br />
the highest hill<br />
in the City of Light...<br />
Her eyes grow wide<br />
as the plane sets down,<br />
she's home --<br />
Paris<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-57982026087132911832014-12-07T21:27:00.000-07:002014-12-07T21:27:09.352-07:00 LATEST NEWS, THIS JUST IN*<br />
We were on our way out of town<br />
when it came on the radio<br />
A little girl was missing:<br />
the vehicle being described<br />
as seen in the neighbourhood where<br />
she disappeared...<br />
Well, it matched the one we were driving<br />
out of the city.<br />
<br />
What the hell—<br />
Sure there's lots of '88 GMC, navy Vandura's.<br />
But how many of them have three round white rust spots<br />
on the sliding door.<br />
Plus a diagonal slash on the driver's door.<br />
<br />
I slowed and pulled over to the shoulder.<br />
Both of us stared into the dim interior, calling softly,<br />
"Punky? Hey Punky?"<br />
We crossed our fingers, she either wasn't there, or if she was,<br />
she'd be just fine.<br />
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*This is based on a true story: six year old Punky Gustavason was the subject of Edmonton's largest manhunt when she was snatched in 1992; she was raped and smothered, left for dead two days later - she died before she was found.<br />
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Our van was one of the ones investigated because it fit the description...we were out of town when the child was taken, but it was still creepy. Her killer was not caught until 2000, and it took until 2005, with DNA evidence to convict him.<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-52306363070075004742014-12-07T20:47:00.000-07:002014-12-07T20:47:19.276-07:00WORDS OF GRATITUDE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Were I the praying type, I would want to say thank you<br />
for so many things I am fortunate to have<br />
I know, for instance, just how lucky I am to have that man<br />
right over there,<br />
Yes - that's the one...he, who loves me like crazy<br />
Who always has and always will, and tells me so, each<br />
and every day<br />
I know what a difficult person I am, not only to love, but<br />
especially to live with<br />
Oh - I'm not a criminal, I'm not even a nasty person...but I<br />
do come with some pretty elaborate baggage<br />
And my love has not only helped me tote these bags, he's<br />
been with me at many of the stops along the way<br />
When I've needed to off-load some of them, or actually<br />
unpack them - he's stayed right beside me<br />
<br />
In addition to being thankful for this man who is my<br />
partner in every meaningful way,<br />
I'm also grateful for the father he was when we were raising<br />
our girls -- especially during the times I had to be away,<br />
working on going through some of the afore-mentioned baggage<br />
He is still the most wonderful father, I've ever known, even if our<br />
children don't always reflect our combined parenting skills<br />
-- more a function of my shortcomings than anything he has or<br />
hasn't done, this I do know<br />
My gratitude extends to being appreciative for still being alive<br />
and healthy enough to enjoy the love of an exceptional man<br />
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In a complicated way, I am grateful too, for both of our children -<br />
two much loved daughters who I used to describe as being both<br />
the sunshine and the thunder in our lives<br />
One has had perhaps the hardest year of her young life...a divorce<br />
from a man she still loves but cannot stay married to, her choice:<br />
but not made lightly, and so not easily...and the total ostracism from<br />
her sister's life because of her choice; her one-time best friend,<br />
her sister has cast her out of her life and out of her nephews' lives<br />
as well<br />
Ostracism - such an ugly word, yes?<br />
Much as I love our second daughter, the eldest, it is she who has<br />
brought the thunder to our lives this year<br />
And while I am thankful that she is still physically healthy - at least<br />
I assume she is— I have no proof<br />
She has also ostracized her father and I, from her life, entirely<br />
And from her family's as well...I give thanks for our grandsons who<br />
we no longer get to see<br />
I am grateful that we are healthy enough, I hope, to wait...<br />
Perhaps she will come to her senses in time to see her way out...<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-54292887805936174042014-12-07T17:22:00.000-07:002014-12-07T17:22:19.974-07:00IF IT'S ALL THE SAME TO YOU<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass on today's<br />
Middle East skirmish<br />
If you can call the slaughter of children by something<br />
as pernicious as a suicide bombing, a skirmish<br />
If it's all the same to you, I'll also take a pass on hearing<br />
any more about the riots in the USA<br />
Because another policeman has done something untoward<br />
or outside the rules of law<br />
Not because I don't believe it - I do - I'm just tired of the whole<br />
business<br />
I wouldn't be a cop anywhere south of the 49th<br />
for all the money there is<br />
If it's all the same to you, I will pass on the number of football<br />
games available to me on my television<br />
I know it's downright amazing, but I think I can contain myself<br />
If it's all the same to you, I will resist reading reviews<br />
of the latest books, movies, and musical releases -<br />
especially those I might be the least bit interested in seeing<br />
Not because of their so-called spoiler alerts, but because reviews<br />
tend to spoil my first shot at viewing any of these things;<br />
give me a chance to make up my own mind without your<br />
well-meant but unavoidable influence, thanks<br />
That's it - if it's all the same to you.<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-61490170249791477992014-12-07T16:47:00.001-07:002014-12-07T16:47:41.913-07:00LOVE YOU<br />
So often she ends her conversations with a chirpy "love you"<br />
And without thinking, whomever she's talking to, answers<br />
in kind, says something like, "back atcha" or "me too"<br />
For no matter how often the words ring in the air, most<br />
are caught by surprise by the two little words that hang there<br />
<br />
Why is that, her mother wonders now, when she no longer<br />
hears it...Was the insincerity there all along and she, rightly<br />
suspicious, never having an answer, was always astounded<br />
Then again, maybe it's only her, the mother, that found<br />
this habit an oddity; maybe that's part of what's wrong...<br />
<br />
Maybe not ,who knows, the mother questions everything<br />
now - her memories, ideas, even the way she breathes.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-46425003144414317112014-12-07T16:36:00.002-07:002015-01-05T15:51:39.014-07:00WHEN THE OPPOSITE OF LOVE IS APATHY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The opposite of love, is it hate, she wonders<br />
No - the baby, who can barely form thoughts<br />
Knows only that she isn't loved, alone in her crib<br />
In the orphanage with dozens of other babes<br />
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Some are screaming - not many actually<br />
Some are sleeping, most are listless, staring<br />
There is an eeriness about a roomful of infants<br />
staring into space as if stunned into silence<br />
<br />
They don't expect to be picked up, to be changed<br />
They don't even expect to be fed;<br />
For many hunger has passed its peak, now<br />
food is just something that happens occasionally<br />
<br />
These are children not even six months old<br />
And already they have been conditioned to apathy<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-62154834606092550462014-11-30T21:30:00.000-07:002014-11-30T21:30:00.985-07:00I'LL BE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's so much to consider, so much, so much<br />
I'll be your consequence when winter sets in<br />
I'll be your brilliance when the tiger is caught<br />
I'll be your remittance when your book is auctioned<br />
I'll be your sustenance when the surgeon's knife slips<br />
I'll be your nonchalance when Paris burns anew<br />
I'll be your endurance when the poems begin to pale<br />
There will be little to consider then, so little, so little...<br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-91669740510176542012014-11-27T19:34:00.000-07:002014-11-27T19:34:12.175-07:00RELEASING THE DOVE<br />
She found it in the tall grass beside the school,<br />
the place they were using as a dormitory<br />
for the summer<br />
Southern Italy swelters kiln-hot July and August<br />
and the baby bird had been baking to death<br />
She estimated for a long time --<br />
But there were many feral cats in the area so<br />
it couldn't have been that long<br />
Or it would have been scarfed for sure<br />
<br />
She made a nest of found feathers, grass, and yarn<br />
in an old ice-cream box<br />
And settled the fledgling on her window-sill near a<br />
fan, behind some chicken wire, found also<br />
Then searched out turtle dove feeding habits on-line<br />
It was going to be labour intensive but she really<br />
had the time so decided to go for it<br />
<br />
How could she have known that caring for a<br />
baby bird would make her this attached<br />
She carried it with her everywhere, tucked<br />
inside a large pocket next to her heart<br />
It needed to be kept warm and it was the<br />
only thing she could think to do<br />
Besides it needed almost constant food and<br />
water, so she carried eyedroppers<br />
Of both with her ,and kept them, and it, replenished<br />
<br />
She was amazed at how quickly the dove<br />
grew strong<br />
He began purring, the way adult doves tend to,<br />
right next to her<br />
One day she decided to take him to a vet, to<br />
see about his health<br />
And maybe about releasing him, although she<br />
really couldn't imagine life without her<br />
feathered child<br />
<br />
The vet was impressed with her bird, said it<br />
was probably ready to go right now<br />
Gave her instructions for letting it fly on<br />
a tether until its wings were stronger<br />
She tried to be happy, but felt her heart break,<br />
just a little<br />
Nevertheless, she started helping the bird exercise<br />
<br />
In no time, he was straining against the tether,<br />
pulling hard<br />
She began running up a hill behind the dorm,<br />
with the bird, made the tether a bit longer<br />
could see how strong it was growing<br />
When it came back to land, it perched on her<br />
shoulder now, took food from her hand<br />
Slept snugged near her head on her pillow<br />
<br />
One morning two adult doves were cooing in<br />
trees above them<br />
While she ate breakfast and her bird sucked<br />
down water and some mealy worms<br />
It fascinated her still, that it sucked water but<br />
the vet assured her it was normal for a dove<br />
She watched it tilt its head, looking for the<br />
adults and finally, spotting them<br />
Her dove cooed and she thought it was<br />
a sound he'd never made before<br />
The adults swooped lower finally landing nearer<br />
<br />
In moments, another small dove joined them<br />
And her dove began bobbing and cooing wildly<br />
The adults purred softly but kept their distance<br />
The small dove with them shifted from foot to foot<br />
Bobbing its head, in what looked like a shy move<br />
Her dove fluttered its wings and stamped its feet<br />
As if dancing along in front of her; she, however<br />
Might as well have disappeared, for her dove<br />
Knew only the shy, beautiful female before him.<br />
<br />
It was time, she knew it; without pausing to think<br />
She undid the tether, stroked the dove's tail feathers<br />
Whispered to it some nonsense words about freedom<br />
Then backed away to watch it go...<br />
Without a backward glance, her dove that was not hers<br />
joined the other small dove and they rubbed heads<br />
Before flying up into the sky; she smiled, swallowed tears<br />
Remembered the vet's words - release was the goal.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-7451098829518623592014-11-27T16:03:00.001-07:002014-11-27T16:03:13.706-07:00THE MOON, THE SUN, AND HER RAISON D'ETRE<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2BloKbWy3BY/VGRCN_cZxcI/AAAAAAAASSQ/BvQQKdzhfHs/s1600/moonshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2BloKbWy3BY/VGRCN_cZxcI/AAAAAAAASSQ/BvQQKdzhfHs/s1600/moonshot.jpg" height="119" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The gibbous moon fled the sky flinging clouds farther<br />
than would be thought possible on most nights<br />
But this moon, this deadly cream-coloured orb, had<br />
risen in the south - no moon had ever risen there<br />
No wonder it hurried to depart the heavens before<br />
too many realized its mistaken presence<br />
<br />
North by northeast, that would be one way to get<br />
there, she thought, staring at her compass<br />
But only if she hurried and took the wind into account<br />
and if it didn't change direction<br />
She knew the wind was as fickle as sunshine and could<br />
change on a whim<br />
But she also knew her whole reason for living was to<br />
get there, no matter what it took<br />
Before anything else happened...<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-89518777420780190842014-11-24T17:22:00.003-07:002015-01-03T09:27:09.434-07:00I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J96mr4O2cXg/TUJKqFSZGII/AAAAAAAAGBE/edb8h1Eamdg/s1600/DSCN15820199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J96mr4O2cXg/TUJKqFSZGII/AAAAAAAAGBE/edb8h1Eamdg/s1600/DSCN15820199.jpg" height="128" width="200" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Should you one day decide to tell me</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
what this has been about</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Should you suddenly wake up and think</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
--- oh, I've been crazed</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And call me up and tell me that;</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I still don't think I'll get it</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No, by now, I realize, I will never understand</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If even a month ago, someone had suggested</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
this as a possible outcome</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I might have hesitated, might have paused to</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
consider the chance that you</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
could explain the turn our lives are taking</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The idea that there is an explanation had not</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
quite paled to non-existent then</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But it was fast becoming so</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And now, with a few more weeks slid down</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
the metaphorical drain</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the wall between us built taller, more impermeable</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I know I will never understand what has happened</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It will not matter, should you ever think to tell me</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-18009024769858935102014-11-24T15:16:00.003-07:002014-11-24T15:16:57.446-07:00THERE REALLY IS NO EXCUSE...UNTIL THERE IS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8PZHbFAubaE/S8fTPaSqlsI/AAAAAAAAEFM/8-Ek4M551Oc/s1600/lone%2Bdead%2Btree%2Bweb%2Blrg%2Bsz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8PZHbFAubaE/S8fTPaSqlsI/AAAAAAAAEFM/8-Ek4M551Oc/s1600/lone%2Bdead%2Btree%2Bweb%2Blrg%2Bsz.jpg" height="320" width="198" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
It was the family motto, a legend almost<br />
and they all knew it, and abided by it<br />
"There's no excuse for bad behaviour"<br />
Whether it meant treating someone<br />
discourteously, or less than charitably<br />
Or in a manner, you knew you would<br />
not like to be treated yourself<br />
<br />
Then came a day, when one of them<br />
began to feel a creeping malaise<br />
That something just wasn't right<br />
And she didn't know how to express<br />
her feelings without sounding<br />
whiney so she never said anything<br />
<br />
Until something happened, something<br />
minor, so minor - no-one knew what<br />
it was...<br />
And the one feeling slighted, the one<br />
feeling that things weren't right<br />
Fell off the map, went somewhere dark<br />
and from there, shot invisible nets<br />
of steel around herself, and<br />
everyone she wanted to protect<br />
<br />
The others, having no idea about what<br />
was going on - were flummoxed<br />
They wondered if the one upset had lost<br />
her mind; the change was so unexpected<br />
and radical<br />
And she was not responding to any of their<br />
overtures to discover what was wrong<br />
In fact - quite the opposite<br />
She was putting up stronger and thicker<br />
walls, daily.<br />
<br />
There were no excuses for this kind of<br />
behaviour, some of her family thought,<br />
and said<br />
But as time went on and there was no<br />
way to get to this person<br />
Some of them began to wonder...<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-29016905760626105122014-11-21T14:15:00.002-07:002014-11-21T14:15:45.048-07:00IF LIFE CAME WITH FORTUNE COOKIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p9DIujAzGws/TSKP6Va98NI/AAAAAAAAF68/cKw0QJjMlLs/s1600/email%2Bflorals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p9DIujAzGws/TSKP6Va98NI/AAAAAAAAF68/cKw0QJjMlLs/s1600/email%2Bflorals.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Say you could order only<br />
that which you truly desired<br />
The same way you might<br />
when ordering take-out<br />
Chinese food<br />
<br />
Say you would only get<br />
the sweet things,<br />
suggesting you would<br />
like to pass on the sour<br />
<br />
But really, does anyone<br />
ever only get sweet<br />
Don't we all want a bit<br />
of sour to take<br />
the edge off all that<br />
sugary sweetness<br />
<br />
One could overdose<br />
on too much goo<br />
and goodness<br />
Become diabetic<br />
if you think about it<br />
<br />
Throw in some sour<br />
somethings...<br />
Or how about this<br />
Sweet 'n sour<br />
chicken balls....<br />
Then you have it all<br />
<br />
Isn't that what most<br />
of us want -<br />
To have it all...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-85957730567212786362014-11-19T17:22:00.003-07:002014-11-19T17:22:42.401-07:00OF BEASTS AFFLICTED<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_bm7zb0NHBs/VG00KC_j1HI/AAAAAAAASTw/WlJwusBpvgs/s1600/Thai%2Bdogs%2Bused%2Bfor%2Bmeat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_bm7zb0NHBs/VG00KC_j1HI/AAAAAAAASTw/WlJwusBpvgs/s1600/Thai%2Bdogs%2Bused%2Bfor%2Bmeat.jpg" height="144" width="320" /></a></div>
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The sound is unlike anything I can recall<br />
I try to shut my ears, but there's no doing that<br />
so they are inundated with an unholy screaming<br />
that only tortured dogs can make<br />
At first it's just celebrities talking about some-<br />
thing so heinous, I can't take it in<br />
Then, my computer screen shows me these<br />
videos -- even now, hours later -- I can't<br />
get the pictures out of my mind<br />
<br />
There are all these little Asian men and they<br />
have long poles with some kind of noose<br />
on the end<br />
They are looping the nooses around the necks<br />
of dogs and throwing the dogs<br />
onto flats filled with other dogs<br />
And I do mean throwing - just heaving these animals<br />
They yank them as hard as they can, not caring<br />
if they break their necks or legs<br />
Or hurt them in any way as they smash them<br />
all together onto a truck<br />
<br />
They stack the flats of smashed together dogs<br />
Dogs that are literally screaming or whimpering<br />
or yowling in pain<br />
They stack them on top of each other - five or<br />
six or eight flats deep - on the back of the truck<br />
Then drive, apparently sometimes for days,<br />
never stopping - they don't intend to ever<br />
feed or water these animals again—so why bother<br />
Many of the dogs die enroute from having other<br />
dogs piled on them<br />
Or from dehydration or starvation<br />
<br />
Once they get to their destination, the dogs<br />
are skinned and used for meat--<br />
Restaurant meat or supermarket meat<br />
Often, they are still conscious when they're skinned...<br />
so I guess it's lucky to die enroute.<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-70900399779187583312014-11-18T22:44:00.000-07:002014-11-18T22:44:24.956-07:00HERE'S HOW I SAW YOU OFF<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-69rMnor3fCU/TR-vhzOrSdI/AAAAAAAAF6Q/aSfyHqrpbrw/s1600/email%2Blarge%2BThe%2Bspot%2Bwhere%2BI%2Bknelt%2Bon%2Bthe%2Bedge%2Bof%2BLightning%2BCreek%2Bto%2Bpour%2BBill's%2BAshes%2B12.30.10%2Bnoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-69rMnor3fCU/TR-vhzOrSdI/AAAAAAAAF6Q/aSfyHqrpbrw/s1600/email%2Blarge%2BThe%2Bspot%2Bwhere%2BI%2Bknelt%2Bon%2Bthe%2Bedge%2Bof%2BLightning%2BCreek%2Bto%2Bpour%2BBill%27s%2BAshes%2B12.30.10%2Bnoon.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
In a sotto voice, gentle as rain<br />
he bid us come into the office<br />
and laid out papers to sign<br />
Then went to get you - I was<br />
surprised at the tiny box holding<br />
your cremains<br />
In the end, I guess we all don't<br />
amount to much<br />
I remember thinking<br />
<br />
Then, still kind as ever, he pointed<br />
out the corner screws on the lid<br />
Asked me if I had a Philips screw-<br />
driver; it was the law<br />
You be securely fastened inside<br />
the little pine box<br />
Until such time I was ready to<br />
disperse your ashes<br />
<br />
Just so happens, I do carry a<br />
multi-use driver, so smiled<br />
in the affirmative<br />
He and I firmed up plans for<br />
your memorial at the<br />
Warrior's Cafe on Thursday<br />
He agreed to read the<br />
eulogy I'd written but<br />
was afraid to read<br />
Fearing I'd break down<br />
<br />
So - music selected - check<br />
Hall and food arranged - check<br />
Obit written and in paper - check<br />
Hymns picked - check<br />
Programs printed - check<br />
Minister booked - check<br />
Eulogy written - check<br />
Memorial collage designed -check<br />
Cremains fetched - check<br />
Death paperwork done - check<br />
<br />
Send you down river - check.<br />
Mourn you forever - check.<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-19997598714079561652014-11-17T18:58:00.002-07:002014-11-18T22:45:53.592-07:00HOLY SKIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J70HaybTjqc/VGqnrVD6JvI/AAAAAAAASSg/h22uJTklqAg/s1600/IMG_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J70HaybTjqc/VGqnrVD6JvI/AAAAAAAASSg/h22uJTklqAg/s1600/IMG_0225.JPG" height="160" width="320" /></a></div>
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I sit with you so many nights in the Islamic cemetery,<br />
Outside of town where the silence is profound<br />
And the night-sky richly dark; there's so little ambient<br />
light, the stars tearing the fabric are sharper, more sparkly.<br />
<br />
Had you not died, I doubt I would ever have seen this place<br />
It occurs to me, I am not close to many Muslims...<br />
Although I might've come here to see where they laid<br />
the babe...another story...for another time.<br />
<br />
It strikes me often when I visit you at dusk, or in deepest<br />
night, how sacred I find this place where Allah's children<br />
sleep - it has nothing to do with faith or beliefs...but<br />
everything to do with feeling holy, and when I am here<br />
<br />
That is how I feel, especially as I love the night sky<br />
and she is at her radiant best here - bestowing shooting<br />
stars, meteor showers, the Pleiades every summer;<br />
even the Aurora deigns to dance just for me and you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-47229823422722815532014-11-15T21:57:00.001-07:002014-11-24T17:20:13.818-07:00A FINALITY OF FOLLOWS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fR3EBtCRUGY/S8UZZ0dfPWI/AAAAAAAAEDs/BRi9LxTLV50/s1600/DSCN0946%2Bweb%2Blrg%2Bscottish%2Bpipers%2Bin%2BVictoria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fR3EBtCRUGY/S8UZZ0dfPWI/AAAAAAAAEDs/BRi9LxTLV50/s1600/DSCN0946%2Bweb%2Blrg%2Bscottish%2Bpipers%2Bin%2BVictoria.jpg" height="195" width="200" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There are so many<br />
maxims regarding<br />
the word "follow"<br />
From when you're<br />
very little - you hear:<br />
Follow me, follow mommy<br />
follow daddy, and you do<br />
Follow the leader<br />
Follow the teacher<br />
Follow that tune<br />
Follow the work<br />
Follow the sun<br />
Follow the game<br />
Follow the money<br />
Follow the yellow brick road<br />
Follow the drinking gourd<br />
Follow your dreams<br />
Follow your heart<br />
Follow your head<br />
Follow my lead<br />
Follow that car<br />
Follow the faith<br />
Follow the rules<br />
Until the end of your life<br />
when you're in the lead car<br />
and everyone else is told to<br />
Follow the hearse.<br />
<br />
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<div>
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-59605555642397002742014-11-15T18:51:00.001-07:002015-01-05T15:26:19.932-07:00LIFE, TRUTH, WITH NO OPTIONS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I remember the day you were born<br />
looking at your tiny self<br />
laying in that plastic thing they put<br />
newborns in, all snug and peaceful<br />
Beside my bed in the recovery room<br />
I think I was still in shock from birthing<br />
you - wondering, as your Dad did too<br />
how anything so barbaric could have<br />
produced something so small and perfect<br />
<br />
But I also remember watching to see if<br />
your little chest was moving up and down<br />
Already so protective of you and that was<br />
a wonderment to me also<br />
That these maternal feelings I wasn't sure<br />
would surface in me, came to the fore<br />
immediately, almost without my noticing<br />
<br />
I wanted to tell you that I would I always<br />
be there for you<br />
Because I knew in that moment, it was<br />
true - that there would be no time<br />
You couldn't count on me...that my love<br />
was the unconditional kind<br />
<br />
I also wanted to tell you that life was a<br />
joyous thing, free from pain<br />
But even then, the day you were born<br />
I knew that truth was not optional,<br />
not something I could give you once<br />
or partially<br />
Then take away and give you a different<br />
version some other day<br />
<br />
All these years later and I would love<br />
to be able to soft soap<br />
What's happening, what's happened<br />
if only I knew how<br />
But none of it is easy, and none of it makes<br />
sense; more than anything<br />
Truth is truth as always, and none of it<br />
None of it is optional<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-26204803241685992012014-11-12T22:32:00.002-07:002014-11-12T22:32:16.625-07:00IN THE WHEREVER WHERE YOU AREN'T<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2BloKbWy3BY/VGRCN_cZxcI/AAAAAAAASSM/KfpKSC4laWY/s1600/moonshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2BloKbWy3BY/VGRCN_cZxcI/AAAAAAAASSM/KfpKSC4laWY/s320/moonshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I wake in the nether morning thinking I hear her voice<br />
But it's just the planes leaving for the Middle East<br />
rumbling like peace far above, when really<br />
I know they're loaded for death<br />
<br />
If I squint my eyes to slits I can make rainbows dance<br />
in the bedroom doorway and sometimes I see<br />
her figure shadowing there - a shimmer of light<br />
that disappears if I blink<br />
<br />
How can it be that breathing is still as normal<br />
as this but she's not in evidence anywhere,<br />
not in the now nor in the later,<br />
Where in the atmosphere has she disappeared to,<br />
how can this possibly be<br />
<br />
This child of my own that I carried beneath my heart<br />
and could feel growing and beating her tune<br />
If she still breathes and I know that she does, why is it I<br />
cannot reach her, cannot make her hear me<br />
<br />
A sound not unlike living surrounds me<br />
and beats back my thoughts; I give in to it<br />
Give in to the normalcy I shrug into like a cloak,<br />
slide into another day of pretend<br />
There's nothing else to be done, what difference<br />
will it make after all.<br />
<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-2078178368113001642014-11-11T19:57:00.000-07:002014-11-11T19:57:28.016-07:00LIVING IN A PLACE TIMELESS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vaxc02A1ezk/TTj9pJuAVyI/AAAAAAAAF_o/aErqKWZemrA/s1600/sml%2Bsnow%2Bscene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vaxc02A1ezk/TTj9pJuAVyI/AAAAAAAAF_o/aErqKWZemrA/s200/sml%2Bsnow%2Bscene.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Outside the family room window, winter is wailing,<br />
covering the landscape the way it does, with blankets<br />
of quartz-coloured flakes and ice.<br />
Arctic-scented wind whistles down the chimney, whining<br />
for a way in. but we're ready to beat it back.<br />
Birch logs stacked and eager for the flame, are waiting<br />
in the fireplace grate.<br />
<br />
If you choose to live here in this place older than time,<br />
you accept that Summers are fleeting;<br />
Spring and Autumn, mere brackets of the concise warm one,<br />
Spring is also the muddy release from the grip of short dark<br />
days, and extended nights.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Autumn, the most colourful season, the brilliant overture<br />
of kindness gentling us into the grip of our heritage—<br />
Winter—in Edmonton, it's timeless.<br />
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<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-22771437265941941762014-11-11T19:29:00.002-07:002015-01-05T15:27:45.455-07:00TIMELY TELLS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
She can't help wondering about them<br />
Her grandsons; they are so young<br />
So young in fact, she's afraid they<br />
won't remember her<br />
If much more of their lives escape<br />
without her in them<br />
<br />
She is bewildered to find herself in<br />
such a predicament<br />
Never in her wildest imaginings could<br />
she have foreseen this scenario<br />
That she would be a grandmother<br />
living in the same city<br />
as her grandchildren - three lovely<br />
boys, all under age five<br />
And be denied access to them<br />
<br />
To think the words, never mind<br />
write them down<br />
Makes her feel faint...is so outside<br />
the scope of anything she thinks<br />
of as normal<br />
She ponders her state of mind<br />
Perhaps she has gone crazy and<br />
just didn't notice her brain<br />
falling out of her head<br />
<br />
No, no - that's not it, unfortunately<br />
If anyone's non compos mentis, it's<br />
her daughter, the boys' mother<br />
Maybe her brain's been siphoned<br />
out during the night...<br />
For nothing else comes close to<br />
explaining to where her beautiful<br />
bright girl has disappeared<br />
<br />
As a last resort, she considers going<br />
to a therapist...or a fortune teller<br />
Decides on the latter...either way<br />
it's going to be a crap-shoot,<br />
she knows<br />
Somehow, the latter seems a little<br />
more timely...she's got her fingers<br />
crossed...hopes her heart's up to<br />
the possibility of more risk.<br />
<br />S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3253366949390957344.post-72013026475423223482014-11-11T17:06:00.000-07:002014-11-11T17:06:13.383-07:00IT'S NO TROUBLE, NO REALLY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3AlwmP_JKn4/UOPU1-PgfPI/AAAAAAAAGyI/SyIYdrj3JaU/s1600/NIGHT%2BTHOUGHTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3AlwmP_JKn4/UOPU1-PgfPI/AAAAAAAAGyI/SyIYdrj3JaU/s320/NIGHT%2BTHOUGHTS.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose the lake you visit empties itself of reflections</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose the moon grows creamy and ragged</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose the children on the school-bus are giggling out loud</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose the cemetery stones lean into each other </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose the roadways wind themselves back up into the hills</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose you imagine the light in the sky is not real</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose you begin to carry a basket of madness with you where-ever you go</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose you forget where you're going or where you've been, or why</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose you find a wolf in the woods then realize he's yours and follow him</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose he's lost as are you and you both wander deeper than ever</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose you end up in a cave where it's cozy, and you both settle in for a nap</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Suppose that's all you remember, that's all you know, that's the finish...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><br />
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S.E.Ingrahamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02135141369161538082noreply@blogger.com0