Trumpeteering

i am the proud owner of a $50 trumpet. im gonna oil it, im gonna play it.

your words do not go unnoticed

ive heard there is someone who likes to read this on occasion, but that maybe the increase in my cussing is a hinderance. well, with all foul words aside, i write to you, dear friend, these hopefully free words:

Upon the Elysian fields and slow waves of a shore

Behind the meadow where hearts adore

Below the streams of winter's speed

Beside the wind, cradled in night-

There you will find me

Wondering in a fair skyes words

Whispering to all who would hear goodnight.



Throw not thy pearls to swine

Behind a veiled, winter glass.

Touching the new growth, out of dead.

The air in the valley.

Planting.

What is the most powerful form of communication?

Breathe but an hour.



thats for you, fair friend.

The Ghost of Carl

Wish List updated.

buy me something cheap.

25% of our homeless people in america are military veterans.

I feel like a stranger.

Grow unto me.


I feel like a stranger.

the acorns are huddled in the gutter.

Morning Hymns

MY FRIENDS WHY SHOULD WE LIVE

My friends, why should we live?
Life is an idle war, a toilsome peace;
Today I would not give
One small consent for its securest ease.

Shall we out-wear the year
In our pavilions on its dusty plain
And yet no signal hear
To strike our tents and take the road again?

Or else drag up the slope
The heavy ordinance of nature's train?
Useless but in the hope,
Some far remote and heavenward hill to gain.


NATURE

O nature I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy quire,
To be a meteor in the sky
Or comet that may range on high,
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low.
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.
In some withdrawn unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reeed,
Or in the woods with leafy din
Whisper the still evening in,
For I had rather be thy child
And pupil in the forest wild
Than be the king of men elsewhere
And most sovereign slave of care
To have one moment of thy dawn
Than share the city's year forlorn.
Some still work give me to do
Only be it near you.

Henry David Thoreau