biscuit

The Cowboy

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Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was
in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who
it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the
worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so
I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my
house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds
and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of
questions. “What does he look like?’ “What do you feed him?” “How
did you capture him?” And I simply denied the presence of an
extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them
all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around
my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and
parked up and down the street. Roger was really working overtime
on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement.
I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02
last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up
in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them
said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it
myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove
off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now.
I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an
hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen
I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent
fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why
did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You
speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very
hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels.
I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,”
he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me
to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I
don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But
people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following
us everywhere. It would be the story of the century,” I said.
“I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said.
“I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but
they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause
you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said.
I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried
not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I
treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?”
he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,”
I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps
out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came
back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but
very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just
received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous
occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The
Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my
hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must
you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably
my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But
I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s
pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.

 

– James Tate

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Broadway

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What hurrying human tides, or day or night!
What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim thy waters!
What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee!
What curious questioning glances- glints of love!
Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration!
Thou portal- thou arena- thou of the myriad long-drawn lines and groups!
(Could but thy flagstones, curbs, facades, tell their inimitable tales;
Thy windows rich, and huge hotels- thy side-walks wide;)
Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet!
Thou, like the parti-colored world itself- like infinite, teeming,
mocking life!
Thou visor’d, vast, unspeakable show and lesson!

 

– Walt Whitman

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An Ode To Christmas

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When you see lovely lights
Of greens, reds, and whites
You know it is Christmas Time

When snow falls down from the skies
Soft and thick it lies
You know it is Christmas Time

When you hear Christmas jingles
And your skin begins to tingle
You know it is Christmas Time

An Ode for the scent of pine
An Ode to the dainty decorations that are so divine
An Ode to Christmas Time

When you get rosy cheeks
And children dash with squeals and shrieks
You know it is Christmas Time

When the young and old sit in front of the fire and come together
To get away from the cold weather
You know it is Christmas Time

When you warm up with your sweet heart
Unable to keep apart
You know it is Christmas Time

An Ode to Hot Chocolate with marshmallows
An Ode to the Jolly fellows

An Ode to Santa Claus
An Ode to decking the halls
An Ode to Christmas Time

 

– Bronti Phillips

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29th October – On This Day In History

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Born:

1947 Richard Dreyfuss (Actor)

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Died:

1618 Sir Walter Raleigh (explorer)

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On This Day:

1923 Turkey proclaimed a republic

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Have a good Thursday, 29th October

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25th October – On This Day In History

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Born:

1881 Pablo Picasso (artist)

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Died:

1400 Geofrey Chaucer (author)

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On This Day:

1415 Battle of Agincourt (longbowmen defeat French knights)

Illustration from the Battle of Agincourt - archers / www.camelotintl.com/.../ battles/agincourt.html

Have a good Sunday, 25th October

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Foster The Light

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Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman’s brain
That shapes each bushy item of the air
Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.

Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel’s eggs,
Nor hammer back a season in the figs,
But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country;
Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues,
By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow,
In your young years the vegetable century.

And father all nor fail the fly-lord’s acre,
Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker,
But rail with your wizard’s ribs the heart-shaped planet;
Of mortal voices to the ninnies’ choir,
High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud,
And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot.

Roll unmanly over this turning tuft,
O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift
From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile;
Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift
Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds
Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle.

Who gave these seas their colour in a shape,
Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven’s ark
In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles;
O who is glory in the shapeless maps,
Now make the world of me as I have made
A merry manshape of your walking circle.

– Dylan Thomas

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Cozy Rain

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The best kind of rain, of course, is a cozy rain. This is the kind the anonymous medieval poet makes me remember, the rain that falls on a day when you’d just as soon stay in bed a little longer, write letters or read a good book by the fire, take early tea with hot scones and jam and look out the streaked window with complacency.

– Susan Allen Toth, England For All Seasons

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