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Friday, May 24, 2013








I read your name on every wall, on every wall - tell me
Is there a cure for me at all, for me at all? - tell me
I read your name on every wall, on every wall - tell me
Is there a cure for me at all, for me at all?







Wednesday, May 15, 2013

In the dismal darkness of the night
the moon hung low, and the stars shone bright.
Wild flowers passing time
sharing vision, sharing sight.

Tattered dresses swell with wind
stained berry blue and valley green.
Her eye's met mine while we kept time
counting minos and wishing rhymes.

Speckled light, dips from leaf life.
Seaweed mirmaid's minding
emerald castles in the sky.

Posing questions beyond why.
Amid contrasting heights
we were still eye to eye.

Time can not erode these roots.
Seeds fall soft beneath our boots.

Wild flowers kissing bee's.
Without her, there wouldnt be me.


Steffanie Bowering

The hills were alive with wildflowersAnd I was as wild, even wilder than theyFor at least I could run, they just died in the sunAnd I refused to just wither in place
Just a wild mountain rose, needing freedom to growSo I ran fearing not where I'd goWhen a flower grows wild, it can always surviveWildflowers don't care where they grow
And the flowers I knew in the fields where I grewWere content to be lost in the crowdThey were common and close, I had no room for growth
I wanted so much to branch out
I uprooted myself from home ground and leftTook my dreams and I took to the roadWhen a flower grows wild, it can always surviveWildflowers don't care where they grow
I grew up fast and wild and I never felt rightIn a garden so different from meI just never belonged, I just longed to be goneSo the garden, one day, set me free
Hitched a ride with the wind and since he was my friendI just let him decide where we'd goWhen a flower grows wild, it can always surviveWildflowers don't care where they grow
Dolly Parton

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Oh you girls, with your sad eyes and your visions
of fortune-tellers floating in the pond of the crystal
or breathing on your palms in the electric
moment of seeing marriage written surely,

dreaming the silent room where the gypsied woman
flicks dirty cards by the cluttered paper roses,
juggles with love and conjures up initials --

girls in your leisure hours, awkward at parties,
gaming with sugar dice and casting caution
into the cockle-shell of the secret cauldron,

there is no private world, I tell you truly,
no single room for you except the lonely
room of yourselves. I can predict your futures:

bandstand your bacchanals, the blackened alleys
bright for you, cock-crow your reveille
and darkness your desired and nimble dodger;

you'll walk like crow along the winter furrow
wild in a world of day and mean with terror
while hips and cheek-bones squeak and totter narrow

then run from news-reel, strike and strychnine street
into the room of you and die in mirrors
for click and close the camera covers lovers.


P.K. Page