tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48409694388765830112024-03-13T19:50:57.866-05:00poetry patter"Better to hug close, wary of rubble and falling stones."peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-51084210708532541642011-08-27T15:44:00.002-05:002011-09-03T18:28:33.099-05:00happy labor day . . .<iframe width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/eUifliF0rBU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br /><blockquote>When I was just a little thing
<br /> I used to love parades.
<br /> With banners, bands, red balloons,
<br /> and maybe lemonade.
<br /> When I came home one May Day,
<br /> my neighbour’s father said,
<br /> “Them marchers is all commies.
<br /> Tell me kid, are you a Red?”
<br />
<br /> Well I didn’t know just what he meant-
<br /> my hair back then was brown.
<br /> Our house was plain red brick-
<br /> like most others in the town.
<br /> So I went and asked my momma
<br /> why our neighbour called me red.
<br /> My mummy took me on her knee
<br /> and this is what she said,
<br />
<br /> “Well ya ain’t done nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red.
<br /> If you marched or agitated,
<br /> then you’re bound to hear it said.
<br /> So you might as well ignore it
<br /> or love the word instead.
<br /> Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red.”
<br />
<br /> When I was growing up,
<br /> had my troubles I suppose.
<br /> When someone took exception
<br /> to my face or to my clothes.
<br /> Or tried to cheat me on the job
<br /> or hit me on the head.
<br /> When I organized to fight back,
<br /> why the stinkers called me Red
<br />
<br /> But ya ain’t done nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red
<br /> if you marched or agitated,
<br /> then you’re bound to hear it said.
<br /> So you might as well ignore it
<br /> or love the word instead.
<br /> Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red.
<br />
<br /> When I was living on my own,
<br /> one apartment that I had.
<br /> Had a lousy rotten landlord
<br /> Let me tell you he was bad.
<br /> But when he tried to throw me out,
<br /> I rubbed my hands and said,
<br /> “You haven’t seen a struggle
<br /> if you haven’t fought a Red!”
<br />
<br /> And ya ain’t done nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red.
<br /> If you marched or agitated,
<br /> then you’re bound to hear it said.
<br /> So you might as well ignore it
<br /> or love the word instead.
<br /> Cuz ya ain’t been doing nothing
<br /> if ya ain’t been called a Red.</blockquote>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-11124268507703913892011-08-19T20:56:00.004-05:002011-08-19T21:34:36.322-05:00yes, we fight for bread . . . we fight for roses, too . . .<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/19bzfhs_flU" allowfullscreen="" width="480" frameborder="0" height="390"></iframe>
<br />
<br />yes . . . we want bread . . . and yes, we want roses, too . . .
<br />
<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tqxiqYGIsWE" allowfullscreen="" width="480" frameborder="0" height="390"></iframe>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-65124154574900981712011-08-11T20:56:00.000-05:002011-08-11T20:57:18.103-05:00song and singer saving the seventies . . .<iframe width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Zis7rtdP0jo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-50891707581970466882011-08-03T18:22:00.000-05:002011-08-03T18:23:36.958-05:00It's Not the Uke BluesI was so sad and forlorn I was going to sing the blues.<br />So I pulled out my Ukelele and tried to pay my dues.<br />I pulled up a few minor chords just because.<br />But...then ...what I didn't know was...<br /><blockquote>You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.<br />No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.<br />You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,<br />But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.</blockquote>I mean how can you be sad thinking of Hawaii?<br />With those palm trees and the ocean all around.<br />How can the plink tink of a Ukelele.<br />Do anything but get rid of your frown?<br /><blockquote>You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.<br />No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.<br />You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,<br />But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.</blockquote>Well Jake Shimakaro plays “while my guitar gently weeps”<br />But he's known for doing the Ukelele impossible.<br />Picking up and singing with my Uke makes me sappy.<br />I suddenly forget all the reasons to be unhappy.<br /><blockquote>You can't play the blues on a Ukelele.<br />No, you cannot play the blues on a Uke.<br />You should try a mouth harp, a guitar or even a banjo,<br />But. you shouldn't play the blues on a Uke.</blockquote>Geneva Fry<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-40330656034209874632011-07-28T18:23:00.002-05:002011-07-28T18:34:47.858-05:00soaked in wine . . .I'll admit that I enjoy a myriad of things soaked in wine . . . certainly home-cooked dark breads of almost any kind, the crust of Italian bread while eating pasta and a good tomato sauce (or probably a white sauce as well), and of course, the finger-tips of my beloved . . . but this was new to me until I saw it in Anna Nicholas' book <span style="font-style: italic;">Kitchen Garden</span> which A. and I both enjoy browsing while waiting (in the kitchen) for something to reach the correct temperature:<br /><break></break><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">Fennel seeds when soaked in wine<br />Revitalize a heart that love makes pine.</span></blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Ecole de Salerne,1500</span></span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-48061261138378909172011-07-27T20:49:00.002-05:002011-07-27T20:53:47.612-05:00Joseph Priestly and mouse poem<break></break>He was just an ordinary mouse, nothing special. He lived, very briefly, 237 years ago, in the laboratory of a great chemist, Joseph Priestley. <a href="http://sguforums.com/index.php?topic=35103.0" target="_blank">Here he sits, in his cage.</a><blockquote><br />OH! hear a pensive captive's prayer,<br /> For liberty that sighs ;<br /> And never let thine heart be shut<br /> Against the prisoner's cries.<br /><br /> For here forlorn and sad I sit,<br /> Within the wiry grate ;<br /> And tremble at th' approaching morn,<br /> Which brings impending fate.<br /><br /> If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,<br /> And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,<br /> Let not thy strong oppressive force<br /> A free-born mouse detain.<br /><br /> Oh ! do not stain with guiltless blood<br /> Thy hospitable hearth ;<br /> Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd<br /> A prize so little worth.<br /><br /> The scatter'd gleanings of a feast<br /> My scanty meals supply ;<br /> But if thine unrelenting heart<br /> That slender boon deny,<br /><br /> The chearful light, the vital air,<br /> Are blessings widely given ;<br /> Let nature's commoners enjoy<br /> The common gifts of heaven.<br /><br /> The well taught philosophic mind<br /> To all compassion gives ;<br /> Casts round the world an equal eye,<br /> And feels for all that lives.<br /><br /> If mind, as ancient sages taught,<br /> A never dying flame,<br /> Still shifts thro' matter's varying forms,<br /> In every form the same,<br /><br /> Beware, lest in the worm you crush<br /> A brother's soul you find ;<br /> And tremble lest thy luckless hand<br /> Dislodge a kindred mind.<br /><br /> Or, if this transient gleam of day<br /> Be all of life we share,<br /> Let pity plead within thy breast,<br /> That little all to spare.<br /><br /> So may thy hospitable board<br /> With health and peace be crown'd ;<br /> And every charm of heartfelt ease<br /> Beneath thy roof be found.<br /><br /> So when unseen destruction lurks,<br /> Which men like mice may share,<br /> May some kind angel clear thy path,<br /> And break the hidden snare. </blockquote>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-67357078889311166372011-07-27T20:33:00.001-05:002011-07-27T20:36:21.655-05:00my life has been the poem . . .<break></break>My life has been the poem I would have writ,<br />But I could not both live and utter it.<br /><br />by Henry David Thoreauperipatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-75229302717873015892011-07-23T05:46:00.002-05:002011-07-23T05:52:29.736-05:00cornbread and beans . . .This world, with all its rooms<break></break>, is my only home.<br />No one leaves without returning.<br /><br />We always meet again, so oil the front-porch swing;<br />prepare the cornbread and beans.<br /><br />But keep it simple - no flagons of champagne.<br />No lengthy discourses, no long sighs of farewell.<br /><br />No need to come in out of the sunshine and rain<br />until we sit down to the cornbread and beans.<br /><br />Bill K. Boydstun<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span><br /><blockquote></blockquote>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-84940170068668306182011-07-04T13:21:00.003-05:002011-07-04T13:34:55.346-05:00Independence Day Service<break></break>By invitation, I read (actually sang some of the lines) this "untitled" sonnet of e.e. cummings at an Independence Day celebration at the Unitarian Fellowship of Houston yesterday. I did not actually read the last line of the poem but instead drank from a glass of water and departed the pulpit.<br /><blockquote>"next to of course god america i<br />love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh<br />say can you see by the dawn's early my<br />country 'tis of centuries come and go<br />and are no more what of it we should worry<br />in every language even deafanddumb<br />thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry<br />by jingo by gee by gosh by gum<br />why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-<br />iful than those heroic happy dead<br />who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter<br />they did not stop to think they died instead<br />then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"<br /><br />He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water</blockquote>e.e. cummings<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used without permission<br /></span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-11448606896551869072011-06-11T21:07:00.002-05:002011-06-11T21:16:14.003-05:00And again from the folder marked "drafts"<span style="font-weight: bold;">Poem for Andrea</span><br /><br />Of all the dreams I've chased --<br />Those caught and those missed --<br />You're the only one I sought more than once.<br />The only time I wanted a second chance:<br /><blockquote>Roses bloom again after an early freeze;<br />Peaches sometimes grow on stubborn trees.</blockquote><br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-65333023097717202482011-06-11T20:04:00.003-05:002011-06-11T20:13:58.472-05:00Again from the folder marked "drafts"<span style="font-weight: bold;">Poem</span><br /><br />A woman stands at a window looking out.<br />The window measures from her middle thigh<br />to six inches above her head.<br />The frame's width is four times the width of her body.<br />She is about to turn to her right, but has not moved.<br />Is there a frown?<br /><br />Is she about to turn to her right?<br />She frowns.<br /><br />Or maybe she should merely sigh<br />and lean against the white frame of the curtain-less window.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span><br /><break></break>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-88782923395329222342011-06-11T14:21:00.003-05:002011-06-11T14:38:12.407-05:00From the folder marked "drafts"<break></break><span style="font-weight: bold;">Der Schmetterling<br /></span><br />Angular,<br />yet grace so unexpected<br />I wince at the raw,<br />randy beauty of such symmetry:<br /><br />Her dance is an invasion of sorts<br />like an assault on Guadalacanal,<br />the total commitment<br />but there is no loss here.<br />Quark to quark,<br />she slices to the quick.<br /><br />There is not so much surrender<br />to such an assault<br />as a dawning -<br />a primordial sun<br />bursting upon a new day<br />filled with colors<br />as subtle as a gauguin landscape.<br />The sky filling<br />with a rainbow of moons<br />waxing<br />strutting -<br />a pungent<br />earthy air,<br />the mixed metaphors<br />of horny bare feet<br />and the lusty lemony nectars of venus.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-39423139686037464622011-06-01T17:55:00.003-05:002011-06-01T18:14:21.437-05:00My Grandfather Ben<break></break><a href="http://www.communityeducationcenter.org/" target="_blank">The American Immigration Council</a> announced the winner of its<br />14th Annual Creative Writing Contest:<br /><blockquote><br />From China sailed my Grandfather Ben.<br />He came to America when he was four plus ten.<br />His Guangzhou village was small and poor<br />And he helped his mother with farming chores.<br />Every morning he gathered bits of firewood<br />And drew water from the well as much as he could.<br />From morning to night he slaved like an ox.<br />But it was never enough to fill the rice box.<br />So his parents said, "You'd better leave home<br />And go to America where you can roam".<br />Until you find a great place of your own.<br />America, Gold Mountain, is the place to go<br />Big and wide, and high and low.<br />Everything is yes, and there are never any nos.<br /></blockquote><br />The complete poem is <a href="http://www.communityeducationcenter.org/my-grand-father-ben-2011-national-grand-prize-winning-entry" target="_blank">on their website here</a>. It is well worth the read!peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-4977784953742862212011-03-31T06:48:00.009-05:002011-03-31T07:13:15.556-05:00April is the coolest month<p>Blustery dawn breeze<br />Andrea's cinnamon coffee <br />Yellow Iris and yawning sun<br /></p> bkb <br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-47330885512306298032011-03-28T09:25:00.002-05:002011-03-28T09:29:07.725-05:00Sometimes,<break></break><br />I can almost grasp what it may be like <a href="http://flylikeacrow.wordpress.com/2011/03/09/the-long-journey-out-of-the-self/" target="_blank">to fly like a crow</a>.peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-21350657885738316172011-03-27T05:54:00.003-05:002011-03-28T07:11:03.220-05:00spring and all (again)April's porous earth,<br />fecund, awaits the amorous probe<br />of sprouting root.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-38273536734537911662011-03-27T05:16:00.003-05:002011-03-27T05:25:12.121-05:00俳句inside the egg a pond;<br />its shell<br /> a continuous shore.<br /><br /><break><br /></break><br /><br />damp rain soaked soil,<br />a pine-cone spits<br /> a tree into the wind.<br /><br /><br /><break><br /></break><br /><br />wearing top-hats of damp mud,<br />mushrooms<br /> assemble in a solemn circle.<br /><break><br /></break><br />Truett Hilliard<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-59133551750260692432011-03-26T06:17:00.003-05:002011-03-27T05:26:56.420-05:00To Li Po from Tu FuMilord, how beautifully you write!<br />May I sleep with you tonight?<br />Till I flag, or when thou wilt,<br />we'll roll up, drunken in one quilt.<br /><br />In our poems we forbear<br />to write of kleenex or long hair<br />or how the one may fuck the other.<br />We're serious artists, aren't we, brother?<br /><br />In our poems, oceans heave<br />like our stomachs, when we leave<br />late at night the 14th bar,<br />I your meteor, you, my star.<br /><br />When autumn comes, like thistledown<br />we'll still be floating thru the town,<br />wildly singing in the haze,<br />I, past saving, you, past praise.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Who wrote this? Carolyn Kizer?<br />used with no permission<br /></span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-18643850603024440542011-03-25T07:13:00.001-05:002011-03-25T07:17:14.227-05:00The RaptureThe net is down now<br />that kept them one or two<br />to a side.<br />They flow between the two poles,<br />ragged with assurance,<br />and mingle<br />in a tattered circle:<br />they expect clowns and lions,<br />a ringmaster to entertain them.<br />But there are no dancing bears<br />and the juggling is crude.<br />The hoopaballoo is gone.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-87288347040182232032011-03-17T07:32:00.003-05:002011-03-17T07:43:03.837-05:00Two Poems - Winter 1973<span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>For My Wife<br /></strong></span>Her body is balloon big, huffed<br />and puffed and growing huge.<br />Taut with sharing, it protrudes<br />into her affairs. Awkward, she is<br />more lovely than the long-legged crane<br />whose flight she admires. Her tears<br />are quicker now, her laugh more solemn.<br />For all of that, she moves<br />in ways a balloon moves:<br />a ballet of expectation.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Pairs<br /></strong></span>She sits ragged<br />with new maternity,<br />with a child at her breast,<br />and those four eyes<br />share secrets<br />that a father's do not.<br /><br />It is a da-da grace<br />of housecoat and blanket,<br />mouth and breast:<br />a total communion<br />that invites no congregation.<br /><br />Oh, I am there,<br />at the table with spoon and fork,<br />my usual self, but fragmented<br />by all that hunger,<br />that grace,<br />that ragtag purpose.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-63911103087924234152011-03-15T12:12:00.001-05:002011-03-15T12:15:16.147-05:00DiamondbackDown the back steps -<br />warned by the cadence of his tail<br />I retreat<br />then reappear<br />through the door<br />jerkily, an imperfect harbinger<br /><br />I measure time down a smooth barrel<br /><br />an infinity<br />of brotherhood between us<br />even after<br />there is nothing more<br />than shattered rubies<br />and grisled diamonds<br />scattered<br />among blades of grass.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-40767676902603879662011-03-14T06:59:00.004-05:002011-03-14T07:05:00.412-05:00Stevens' PicassoDid you learn this in school,<br />this blue on blue<br />of blindness and guitar,<br /><br />or was it what you saw<br />bent through your eyes:<br />that jangled empty sky<br /><br />of fancy: that blue note<br />of light below<br />the shadow of the truth,<br /><br />and was it always new,<br />intentional,<br />bending the strings to fill<br /><br />our dreams with things that truly are<br />when played upon your blue guitar?<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-51040276030700717172011-03-08T07:19:00.003-06:002011-03-08T07:27:45.542-06:00Sometimes, WanderingSometimes, wandering before dawn,<br />my curtains drawn against the moon,<br />I have bumped into you<br />in the long grey hall leading from my bedroom.<br />You stand huddled into the wall<br />scribbling in your yellow notebook<br />as though that could save you.<br />I wonder that you never warned us,<br />or was it so enormous<br />that I in my jerky male youthfulness never saw?<br />But, Love, your poetry was crude -<br />as your death:<br />you were never Sylvia Plath.<br />When they found you - waterlogged, nude -<br />that gaping hole through your head -<br />your parents were embarrased,<br />prayed loudly for your poor lost soul.<br />I was not so bold. Oh, I wept,<br />at home, at night, alone.<br />I slept before and after,<br />and only sometimes, wandering,<br />do I remember you at all.<br />Why have you not let go?<br />Why do you huddle and scribble<br />at night in my long empty hall?<br />Do you improve your verse?<br />Do they let you do that?<br />Sometimes, on dark mornings, I hear you in the hall -<br />so go to you, but you, preceptor of silence,<br />busy, bent to your task, ignore me.<br />Standing over you there in the hall,<br />paternal and guilty, I wonder that we never guessed<br />that such a fragile existence<br />must end abruptly.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-57614255543186247392011-03-03T07:19:00.002-06:002011-03-03T07:25:13.369-06:00<span style="font-size:130%;">Wind Worder</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(homage to Theodore Roethke)</span><br /><br />Sweet Sir,<br />master of the minimal,<br />to meet upon a leaf,<br />make tea from dew,<br /><br />talk for days - you talking,<br />me listening finally -<br />not as though you were still teaching,<br />but mere<br /><br />ly life<br />upon a leaf,<br />beneath a white stone:<br />a moldy earth that holds it all,<br /><br />heals it all -<br />I, as pilgrim,<br />prepared for little - or much,<br />circling that pale stone,<br /><br />you, a part of the white air,<br />the wormy earth,<br />giving,<br />explaining over tea<br /><br />the humdrum<br />necessary existence - the sufficiency -<br />the becoming -<br />life<br /><br />upon a yellow leaf<br />beneath a white stone.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4840969438876583011.post-48608482562341878402011-03-02T06:36:00.003-06:002011-03-02T06:43:22.728-06:00On Hearing Belatedly of a Friend's Death<span style="font-size:85%;"><em>for Ruth Weisner</em></span><br /><br />We grab death at awkward moments,<br />Friends a thousand miles away:<br />Pictures and old poems in the mail,<br />A posthumous volume,<br />Bitter sweet in its delay.<br /><br />Byron's Grotto, Portovenere,<br />An Italian Summer,<br />8 August 1979,<br />A clipped clear photograph -<br />You, brown dress, brown skin, demure.<br /><br />A heap of broken images,<br />Bits and bits of desultory things:<br />February 19, 1981,<br />Your shadow in the morning,<br />In the evening, the rush of wings.<br /><br />bkb<br /><span style="font-size:85%;">used with permission</span>peripatoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07315948551341476828noreply@blogger.com0