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bedded down for the night,
and the campfire,
glowing low and dim,
the stars bright over head.

small desert creatures,
scrambling for food,
a distant owl,
listens,
quietly.

a pale light,
on the Eastern horizon,
presages the false dawn.

a shifting of clothes,
in the tent,
as an early riser,
gets up to make some coffee.

a cool breeze wends its way,
into the tent,
as the flap is opened,
the others,
still in there,
shiver from the sudden cold air,
and wiggle down,
into their blankets and sleeping bags,
as the one who got up,
to make coffee exits the tent.

the deep arroyo,
a few feet away,
from the camp,
its bottom,
deep and dark,
in the night,
blistering hot,
during the day.

The Morning Star twinkles,
just over there.

If you look,
careful like,
you can see planet Mercury,
peeking above the horizon,
and just over there,
dimly against the brilliant backdrop,
of the Milky Way,
is distant Saturn and Neptune.

After a short while,
the sun rises,
and the new day begins,
the rest get up,
and someone cooks breakfast,
and their journey,
continues on.

Author
Categories Poetry, happy

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An old dusty-looking cowhand walks into a room,
he sits down at computer keyboard,
and starts typing.

Now, he don’t know where you live,
and sometimes he aint too sure where he lives,
but he knows that some locations,
just have a heck of a time providing food at 2 AM !

He remembers driving over to the Dairy Queen,
before the sojourn to the Drive-In Picture Show,
with a few friends.

having some food for then,
Frito pies and hamburgers come to mind,
and eating again at the Drive-In.

But there was nowhere ‘round there,
to find food at 2 AM.

Oh, there were a few bars still open,
but they had knife fights,
most every night,
and he didn’t go there.

Now, he lives where food stores, gas stations,
and casinos, stay open twenty-four by seven.

The folks sit and talk,
of strange days,
and sealing wax,
and Bob’s poor old dog,
and look what she did to his hair,
but at least there be food,
at 2 AM !

The food isn’t all that great,
them reconstituted scrambled eggs,
are a might uhm flavorful,
but its there,
at 2 AM.

Author
Categories Poetry, happy

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As i sit at my writing desk:

Many long years ago I saw a movie made of an ancient story placed in
China. How an Emperor had enjoyed the songs of a Nightingale. And had
replaced it with a mechanical bird, but its song was not as sweet. And
how the bird almost died, because it had been abandoned by that Emperor.

But this is not about The Nightingale. This story is about The Littlest
Nightingale. Not a baby bird, but the smallest adult Nightingale there
ever was, and the human who loved it.

[ background music: one violin, no more, no less. ]

A few years ago, not in China, but in Europe, there was a young woman
who wanted to skate, and win, very badly.

To win the yearly prize, so she could give her parents a great and
wonderful Christmas present.

For months, and from year to year, she practiced skating on the ice.
A small Nightingale joined her one day, sitting up there on the tree
branch. It sang in accompaniment of the human who made figures in the
ice below the tree.

The young girl shared her lunch with the bird, and then skated some
more. The bird took off, as the young girl said good-bye, see you
tomorrow.

And tomorrow came, and the little girl and the little bird was there
once again. This time the girl had an audio tape, it played a single
violin. Music to skate by. The little bird was slightly upset at first,
yet it wasn’t about to be out done by a machine !

So, it sang, in point, then counter-point to that violin.

The little girl laughed with joy at the bird’s song.

They both practiced every day.

Soon, oh so very soon, the day of the contest arrived.

Yet, there were those who didn’t think the Littlest Girl in class
should be in the skating contest. They couldn’t steal her skates, no one
else could wear hers, so it would be obvious who had done what. But an
erased or missing audio tape, that would fix things.

So, thats what they did. While the Littlest Girl was talking with a
friend, someone reached a hand out of the crowd, and took that music
tape from its pocket in the backpack of the Littlest Girl.

When she went to turn in her tape, she discovered the loss. And, putting
a brave face on things, told the judge that she wasn’t going to use an
audio tape. One wasn’t required, so that was alright.

Other skaters got high scores.

The Littlest Girl became forlorn, well more forlorn than usual. She had
heard the chuckles and the whispered words, about how Little Girls need
not enter skating contests !

It came her turn, she walks to the edge of the ice, and got ready to
perform. Up in a nearby tree, a bird did alight.

The young girl pushed out onto the ice, and the Littlest Nightingale
sang that song they had practiced together.

The holiday crowd became quiet and still.

They won, of course.

The Littlest Girl and the Littlest Nightingale.

Author
Categories Poetry, dream

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[ copyright by me, 2001. ]

To Dream, Dream…

Sitting on the desert floor,
is a woman,
whom is not named,
Lenore.

Nor Becky, nor Sue,
nay, nor Lillith,
Or any of the other many names,
a woman might have,
no,
not even one from centuries past.

Someone somewhen,
had asked her what her name was,
and she had smiled,
and taking up a handful of dust,
and letting it run thru her fingers,
and she said, “This planet,
and all you see,
is made from the dust of exploding stars,
from millenia ago.”

For all Time after,
she was called Stardust.

She would answer to it,
but said from time to time,
it was not her name.

When she was sad,
and sometimes when she was happy,
she would be Not Here,
but There,
and where There was,
was a desert.

Sometimes she would fiddle,
and the sand would swirl into a small grainy sphere,
and sometimes it would form a vague-face,
and you could almost see it ‘mouth’ the notes,
from that thing,
she called a fiddle.

Her clothes varied,
whatever local custom declared,
but just enough different,
no one would mistake her for someone else.

A few times,
there were those,
who declared her clothes to be unacceptable,
but she would just smile,
and answer, “I am called Stardust.’

Sometimes that would save her,
sometimes not.

She always vanished,
before they did her lasting harm.

Woe to the torturer,
or executioner,
who lost her,
and could not account for her whereabouts,
especially in those kingdoms,
leadersquads,
and so forth,
that felt they Ruled the Universe,
or mistakenly,
like Ozimandious,
claimed they and they alone,
ruled a part of it.

Some claim to have seen Her,
as a statue,
near that Ozimandious claim,
taller even,
than anything he had built,
but it was only seen,
by those drunk on dandelion wine,
in the desert heat.

So how could you believe such tales ?

What was she doing in the desert ?
besides fiddling that fiddle ?

Well, I’ll tell you.

She Sang.

Not sang,
with a small ‘s’.

but she Sang.

She sang of Stars,
beyond the sky,
stars beyond the galactic rim,
stars in globular clusters,
stars hidden by interstellar gas and dust.
stars being born amongst infalling stellar dust and gas.

Of civilizations,
vanished,
hither and yon,
some of humans,
some of robots,
some of other various beings.

Of starships,
with their frozen people aboard,
and those other ships,
with crews who were lost,
between galaxies.

Of exploding suns,
shoving the gases and dust aside,
and small proto-stars,
not getting the fuel they need,
to burst forth,
into life,
those saddened her,
most of all.

She had no telescope,
but she knew they were There.

Yes, sometimes,
when she was Not Here,
she was There,
in the deserts,
of another planet,
that is how she knew of them.

Please,
do not think she lived centuries long,
nor outlived those who didn’t like Her.

She did none of those things.

For some years and decades,
she was tall,
some she was short,
others frail or robust.

For while she appeared to be a woman,
of middle years,
She was Life,
for that was her True Name.

And so she lived,
in a fashion,
throughout the Universe.

But, in this instance,
she was an Island,
called Life.

Spanning,
sort of,
the millenia,
as all was swept away,
except her,
by time, itself.

But she knew,
her Presence was felt,
and was the cause,
of some of the beings,
becoming civilized,
for a while,
for a while.

Until their star burned out,
or swelled into Red Giant Phase.

But that didn’t matter,
at least,
she tried to think it didn’t,
that some of those beings,
lasted for what seemed,
only the blink of an eye.

Others blossomed,
and grew,
and spread across their galactic home,
and did not make the journey,
across the gap between Island Universes,
some tried,
and failed,
and others tried, made it, and failed,
but a few,
strove,
and made it, and survived.

For she was an Island,
called Life.

Author
Categories Poetry, science fiction

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[ copyright by me, 2003]

I sit,
in this chair,
imagining stars,
up above the clouds,
many are far away,
some close by,
and a few are in between.
They twinkle up there,
above the clouds,
as our atmosphere moves about.

Oh, how I long to travel there,
up above the clouds,
to forget,
just for a short while,
the millennia old strifes,
down here below.

Author
Categories Poetry, science fiction

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