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I long for my soul
that travels with you
as I am with hunger
that just you can fill.
I imagine you thus, my completion
when in truth I perceive only me
in my dream my delusion of lack.
While we are intact our creation
with stories of struggle revival and pain
as we meet and remember and dance with each other
learning and playing this journey again....
a poetic collaboration
with Elizabeth Squires,
(thank you for the privilege)*


high in the infinite skies,
above the clouds.
where no, naked eye can see 
particles in the ozone layer,
bounce around.
in a manner, most carefree. 
these minute, wee, little things,
e'er bobbing and moving,
so happily. 

we on the ground,
would delight,
in their existence of joy.
but we're tied to the prosaic, daily grind working,
in our nine to five,
coalface coal mines.

with axe and pick,
we chip and hack away...
whilst our minds delight,
in front-lobal play.
of waxed wing-ed flight,
of acrobatic, aerobatic display.

whilst working,
in the cramped and dubious
spaces we inhabit....
we dream, of spaces, blue, boundless and arcing-wide, forgeting, forgoing, forgiving the mindless, daily grind...
we leap,
with fragile hope,
into fledgling flight....
up to the ozone,
up toward the light...

there, in the freedom,
of this spacious playground,
we're at no command,
of employer's tools,
of work.

on our faces, we'll wear 
those  effervescent, unfettered smirks
hopping in rambunctious 
fun 
in the ozone's air,
upon the weary brow of labor release, is found.

in it's mirthful atmosphere,
which eliminates, our obligations, to our bosses.
we then farewell,
with liberating tosses.

and so we soar
in insouciant grace, unfettered,reckless,feckless 
freedom, sliced and pared, away across our wings
and faces,
joy ungaurded,
is this moment's prey
unbidden, unbound.

no longer hearing,
the sound of the grinding axe.... at play
we soar eagle high...
we soar to the sun's eye
but we are not made
for such undulterated bliss our wings of feather
and wax....
become, around us mist  
and to the ground
we do spiral....

into our adult occupations,
where there is little time.
for us to be engrossed,
in exuberant glee.
we're shackled 
and yoked to,
our heavy work day shrouds.
but our dreams of play,
with those ozone particles,
seem too impractical.

happy little vegemites
we'd be,
if our days were free.

take heart, our days off,
are nigh and on the lounge
we'll sigh, 
a well earned sigh.
It seems that
arrogance and ego
have a way
of
blowing-up
in our
faces.
-Andrew Durst
6-11-14
There was a war, armed civilians dressed for disaster.

I was the prey. looking at the competition preparing myself for the attack. I watched everyone drool as my scent traveled beneath their nose.

-They’re ready for me; clawing and growling at me, pacing back and forth as they plan their first move.
But, I’m the predator, I came for them.
And I’m ready, I’m prepared to take on anyone and anything.
I’ll fight for myself. I’ll fight anybody for myself.
A monster, day and night I’m a vicious animal.-
There was once a war,
them versus me.
What were we fighting for?
Liberty was the answer, but respect was the trophy.
In the jungle we are all alone,
In the jungle it’s you … or me.
It is the kingdom of salvation, of identity and fear.
What are we afraid of?
an intimate dance with the devil and the person I am to be;
the predator ..or the prey,
or myself.
There was a war, between who I am, who I was and who I will be.
I was prepared for battle,
armed and dangerous.
Killing the competition, survival of the fittest ..and it was all for my own self-defense.
SilentJove.tumblr.com
Anger is the rocket missile that launches without your privilege. Anger is the explosion that kills peace and births tears.
Controlling anger is a mental state, you have to breath and clear your mind of all hate and release the heat that fumes up within you.
If you’re not strong enough to ignore or forget what made you angry then you lost the battle.
It’s a war between your mind and your emotion; what you know and what you feel. You have complete control over your emotion, don’t let anyone influence your emotion into something that you don’t want it to be.
It’s a brain exercise that requires very little power. When you feel anger begin to build and take over remember to close your eyes and inhale long slow strides of air. Think of the last time you smiled, think of the person who’s face brightens up your eyes. Just relax, loosen up your muscles and wash away all the fire that’s raging up within.
SilentJove.tumblr.com
Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ******. The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my ***” in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.

Intimations of Fairway Play

I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.

I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.

I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.

I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.

I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.

I'd rather shank or stub my ****,
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.

Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.

Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all *******.
NINETEEN

We walk together through scorched ravines.

Cutting paths through ashen yellowed undergrowth.

Beads of perspiration, our faces flushed,

The gusting wind embraces us as if to hold us back from completing our objective.



Six minutes of Safety our mission, premise clear,

We attack the fire with grit & opposing force.

Smoldering vegetation extinguished beneath our feet

And a Jack Rabbit makes his move to escape the approaching flames.



And in the distance, the Demon ‘Fire’ & his accomplice ‘shifting winds’ plan their conspiracy,

They look down upon there victims with malicious contempt.

Hands clenched as if to enjoy their fatal actions….

And with swift exploit they entrap the men.



As the men peer through the flames they see what seems to be Angels on the Horizon.

And they arrive to carry off their heroes to paradise.

Making their way through the Milky Way……. past Jupiter & Mars,

Bound for a place called “The New Jerusalem”.



A welcoming carpet of stars marks their arrival and the Son shone bright!

And as they approach the city, their smiling faces are welcomed by oceans of loved ones & friends afar.

No more tears, no more pain, no more worries…only happiness abounds

Because the hotshots from Granite Mountain have arrived home, safe and sound.
On June 30th The death of the 19 Granite Mountain firefighters hit me very hard. All I could think about was how fortunate I was to have my son Kyle who is a Captain with Tempe fire. I felt compelled to write something from my heart for all the family's. Firefighters, 911, Ladder, Engine, US Forestry
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