Thursday, April 19, 2012


When you find that you're in danger
When you're threatened by a stranger.
When you think that you might take a licken
There is someone you can call
No matter what the time at all
Just bwaaak for Super Chicken
Bwaaak for Super Chicken.


Work in Progress

I feel as if I'm in the dark with my eyes wide open but I can not see

It's not a frightening dark

It's a soft, liquid, slightly out of focus dark

As I move through your mind


Everything is soft

Like down pillows and down comforters


Like feathers falling from the sky

Snow flakes


Like a whisper of a wisp

When I stumble and I fall?

I fall into clouds



Wisps of clouds like dust swirl up around me as I fall into the emotion

That's how this afternoon felt

Words like






Sad...because a friend was leaving

A smile -- because another friend had stayed

The day soft


I wrote the sorrow away from my heart

The emotions coraled into a box of words

Put back into Pandora's Box

Only this time Hope

Outside the box




Falling up

As I move through the soft in slow motion

Soft word on the lips

My mind's eye comforted

Writing in slow motion

My heart sings

Please don't be angry with me

All unintentional

I have to write



Author Ann

21 October,2008



a Haiku.

Dogs bark this morning.

Telling of a guest to be;

Good story at supper.


Flutter of a dove's wing.
Snow falls softly on her lashes
Dogwoods bloom in May..


Imagine Spring in a Kook-a-licious Pink.

a butterbean seed in the dark


a tiny white shoot begins

two halves begin to move


a seed grows to a lovely young plant

a butterbean seed

Coming into its own.



My heart walked alone to get here.

Across deserts and time.

Waited like the seed of the Rose in the Desert.

Waited until the rains to bloom.

This world makes me fierce to survive

But my head on your shoulder

Your kiss on my cheek?

I am soft and new again.

My breath, your laughter

Alive in my heart

Husband of my Heart c anne ford


Walk of The Free

At the end of the road.

Two steps past the Budweiser can.

She does the Dance of the Free

Behind the Deadend road sign.

And next to that patch of Shasta Daisies going to seed

The one with the beginnings of those new yellow flowers that look like Coreopsis next to it

Just two steps further



3 years, 11 months, 2 weeks, 6 days, 8 hours, 45 minutes, and assorted seconds ago.

When two steps past the door seemed like miles?

She had no idea what two steps past that dead end sign looked like

Now she does.

On short walks.

Then longer walks

Then hikes

In the sun, the heat and the rain,

Just so she could find out what was two steps farther.


He told her she could go further than that if she wanted.

It took a while for her to believe him

Then one day she did

Believe him

So she did.

Walk two steps more

Then two more after

To the end of the other road.

And then back pretty quick because the ligtht there was so bright.

And the freedom was so much.

It kind of scared her.

Like the Mockingbird she saw flying out of the nest one morning

The baby one that was fledging

The first flight where intuition took that bird futher than it's mind had gone.


Flying higher and higher,

Then nearly falling when it realized where it'd gone to.

A bumblebee who'd just been told that by all the laws in science?

It shouldn't fly

So it makes a beeline back to the nest

To sort it all out

She runs back.

"Too much."


He was right.

Just two steps further.

Just two steps further than what the map said was a dead end?

Wasn't a dead end at all.

It was a beginning.

for Joseph

"Read me."

It said.

So Alice did.

Scratched her head,

Closed her eyes,

She raised a kid,

She couldn't see,

So she thought she hid.

Said the strange, furry cat,

"Well she sat quite still.

(Fell to the bottom of her glass.)

Found wisdom in a pill."

Left what was "left" of her mind

on the top of a hill.

And promptly became

a Republican?

"Strange days." sighed the cat.

To which the Blue Footed Booby of Time said,

"Pull my string. Please"


For Elizabeth G and her Mooses

The words do come fully formed

Like a lovely yet sometime weedy garden

Only I get to decide what are the weeds

And which are the flowers.

So I caught that poem by it's tail

I swug it round and round

Threw the words against the wall

Then stomped them on the ground

No pit of dark and deep dispair

Would beat my story down

Gentlly it would rise up

From the mire upon the ground

The words they rose like the butterfly wings

Round and round my head they'd fly

To live in some enchanted land

Then come back. I don't know why.

Then weave themselves into a cloak

The color of a summer sky

Or deeper blue. A blue berry blue

From the oceans of tears I'd cried

So here -- it's yours to keep you warm

Traveler's coat with faery wings.

To fly you to ephemeral lands

Where imaginations sing.

c ford 2-11-09

Something written for Aunt Elsie.

Shadow Bird

I could see the shadow of a bird outside my door

fragile bird yet strong enough

not frightened of human form.

I wondered what was in your heart

on this cold, grey winter's morn

by IC/ 3.3.08

For Court Street Fountain

From Good Moring Starshine

Songwriters: J Broussolle, Galt Macdermot, James Rado, Gerome Ragni

"Good morning, Starshine
The earth says, "Hello"
You twinkle above us
We twinkle below

Good morning, Starshine
You lead us along
My love and me as we sing
Our early morning singing song..."

Morning Symphony

The time between when the Moon sets and the Sun rises.
It is a good time of day.
To watch the day unfurl gently.
Like music.
A flute.
A gentle violin.
A question by the flute.
An answer back by the violin.
A playful oboe opens it's eyes then closes and yawns.
An industrious trumpet.
Then another as they wake and head off to work.
Then quiet with a very soft tympani roll that builds to only a soft yawn. Again the violin and flute duets.
They drink their coffee and get ready for the day.
Picolos underfoot funning round in a frantic.
Collecting books
And boots.
A quick bite of something on their way to school.
End the first movement.


c ford

For Cool Beans

Romance at our house

Roses are expensive

And violets are too

Here's a dozen fence posts.

Happy Valentine's Day to you


My Right Toe of Ann is inflamed.

I just went out in the yard and got red ants on my Tao.

Kind of pizzed them off so they bit it.

Tomorrow? I'm going to explore the Tao of Amdro..

Stings like heck.

May the force ( of Amdro) be with you.

Author Ann

The Neti Pot and me.




If my nose drips one more time I will scream.

Mucus from my nose doth stream

I can not take another day

From allergies that come from hay

I live beside a great big field

With tons of pollen it doth yeild.

All conspire to bring me pain

Unless perhaps the sky will rain

Oh hurry rain do not delay

Rid my air of pollen hay

If you don't then in misery I

Will be with out the rainy sky

If it don't rain I'll have to choke

On saline water from this little boat

Shaped Netie pot. Which is all I have.

This durn Netie pot is just as bad.

As the post nasal drip I have.

The only difference I can see

Is the length of my allergy misery.

We aren't sure why this is happening.

But there is alligator in my toilet."

Channel 5 News @ 10

Silly Season for Tryork


Do we keep her?

Do we feed her"

Do we give her to the zoo?

She's really very special.

She's playing a kazoooo.

We aren't sure how she got here.

Yes we're sure she is a she.

I remember clear Wild Kingdon.

Where they "sexed" them on tv.

Well that and she has a girdle

And she is dressed to impress

And there's lipstick on her lips

And she is wearing a frilly dress

Yes I know that doesn't make our lovely alligator female.

I learn from watching Late Late show

There are also folks called "shemales"

But she says her name is Allie

And she's most definate a girl

She just made a wrong hand turn

While out in our human world

So we aren't sure what to do now

You see we're used to cows

So we thought we'd call you zoo guys

Yes we thought you'd tell us how.

To remove this Allie from our toilet.

See it's causing quite a mess

And well it's not doing great things

For Allie Alligator's dress.

The End

For Tryork

From Haiku Kudzu

Poems like butterflies.
A hand full of life.
Flutter in my heart.
Drift on the breeze.
Flash color like the cardinals wing.
The words.

c anne ford

We were out on the fence line. One of the guys building the fence asked me what I did. "I write. I write poetry - short stories." Next thing I knew we were talking about poetry. I mention Hiaku and he asks me what that was. It took a while to find the answer.

I found out that hiaku's Americanized format suited my life out here in the country.

The following were written about life here on the farm.


Acres of open pasture

Cresote posts, t post, and barb wire--

Civilized meets the free world


Fingers fly on strings

Notes fly on a spring breeze-.

A string breaks mid song.


Why I Like Poetry And Know How To Spell The Word "cacophony"

by Ann 5 November, 2008

The words.

Even the dark angry ones.

Are music.

A storm out in the Gulf.

They swirl around me like the wind.

They wet me like the rain.

I'm soaked to the bone with the thought of it.

I dance to the music wild.

Thunders loud in my ears.

I vibrate.

The air alive.


I dance in the middle of all this sound.

Thrill to it.


One day I will be drawn up into the vortex-- this cacophony of life

And be delivered into the heavens.



CACOPHONY (cack-AH-fuh-nee or cack-AW-fuh-nee)

Discordant sounds in the jarring juxtaposition of harsh letters or syllables which are grating to the ear, usually inadvertent, but sometimes deliberately used in poetry for effect.
so okay I might could have used the word


More Haiku Kudzu

Cucumber's new leaves.

Smell of garden soil in March

State fair prized pickles


Young dogs tend cows.

Fast and sure they herd the flock.

Old dogs run in dreams


Jonquils sway and birds sing.

Sunlight dances through Spring rains.

Winter memory.



Regret Hannah Murphy 15 June 2008

My life is flowing past you.

What will you do if there is no more me?

What will I do if there is no more you?

We do grow older.

And life can be so unexpected.

I watch you grow older.

Your river flowing past me.

Someday a memory of things past is all I'll have.

The ability to form new memories gone.

The ability to heal old wounds gone.

Snatched by senility or death from our hands.

Regret and loss are inadequate companions.

Talk to me again or not.

Remember me again or not.

That's up to you.

But forget this lesson?

Of loss.

Please do not.

I wouldn't wish regret of things unsaid on you for all the tea in China.\

Swallow your anger and pride.



Author's note (Regret by Hannah Murphy, 15June,2008

The poem, Regret, is written to be both from the point of view of the parent and child who are estranged in the parent child relationship.


So I took a walk just to clear my head.

It didn't help.

I made a list of the pros and cons.

I tossed the list.

I waited on the side of the road for enlightenment.

But in the end all I got was a numb butt.

I did what my mama always says a person should do in this situation.

I stayed out of trouble, stayed home, and cleaned something.

Sure enough I had something to show for my time spent only I didn't have an answer.

A clean closet?


An answer.


I watched The Devil Wears Prada and Because I Said So

It was entertaining and got my mind off of it for a bit

But still?


Then I did what I should have done in the first place.

I wrote about it on the internet.

I asked complete strangers what I should do.

Put the comments in the "on" but hidden mode.

Then I took another walk because it really was lovely outside.

I waited for the answer.


I wish that I could show you.

All our moments together

Points of color

They take flight like birds on the beach.

Points on a computer screen.

A swirl of color with no rhyme

Then like birds they settle down to form a picture.

A memory

If only I knew how to say

Then those restless colorful birds are points again

Taking flight.

Only to settle down into another pattern

Another picture

Another memory of our life.

We'd walk though the maestrom.

Those birds minutes flying around us free.


A friend told me along time ago about his walk on the beach. He was walking along the beach at night. He could hear the Irish sea but what he saw was inky black. No moon or light. That was how he came upon what happened next. One minute he was in his thoughts and the next minute he was in the middle of whirring. All around him the sound and feeling of birds flying. All around him? Confusion.

He was roused from his waking dream *


Good slumbers and happy dreams
With faery kisses bring soft breezes
May your worries be less than they seem
And may tomorrow bring a day that pleases


Twilight at the Gate


The dogs barked.

And there he stood at the gate

Like magic

Grey hair and older

His eyes still the same colour

When he laughed

Or told a story

I could see him there inside

Like yesterday

Younger and full of it

When I could stand close and hear his breathing in the dark

But for six feet I could be there again

His heart next to mine

Such a long way six feet

Decades in the measure


The path divided.

Common sense standing at the gate


"This way is folly.

The wind sings wicked here

These songs should sound of breaking glass and hearts to you.

Go home to your responsibilities and leave this place."

And yet I measure the distance between the here and there

Consider the possibilities.

Look for any purchase.

Measuring the joy with the peril.

Distance measured in years of loss and regret

Refugees in our on skin

No home till the moment

You once again stand at my gate singing ...

"We're on our way home."

Who could after all this time

After all those years of being true and honorable to our responsibilities?

Deny us the last rays of this sunset. *


Stranger in a Strange Land

I am a stranger in a strange land.
And now I sit here wondering what to do.
The world that had before been my home-- forever changed.
I am now not belonging anywhere.
But there are no tlethons for me.
No actresses or actors with my cause on their wrist.
Only bills and more bills
And children to be fed.
It was just yesterday that the world was warm, and I
had a home to go to.
Now I don't recognize the world anymore.
A stranger in a strange land.

c ann ford


We Are Nomads Of The Sea.

Hannah Murphy. 17 August, 08

We are nomads of the sea.

Restless souls looking for peace

Never putting our heart's feet on dry land

Like a stone our spirits skim across the salty Gulf

The songs of Wind lull us to sleep

Rocked in the arms of the wreckage

The souls of waterbabies rocked in the waves...

The tears of angels rain down upon us all.

As they look into the eyes of God


"Give them back their home."


Looking into a hurricane sky

is like looking into the eyes of God.

Hannah Murphy

17 August, 2008



I've been trying to remember.
Trying to put my memories into words in this journal.
Imperfect snap shots of barely tangible emotions
Graceful like the smoke from a candle
I watch the words bend and form
Gentle swirls
But when I try to hold them?




What breath have I drawn that didn't have your name on it?

Today I wrote to you and it vanished into air.

Stolen words. My words. Taken by one who Fate says is more deserving.

"Stolen words...."

I am here.

My words.


Bent in ways to satisfy another

Like a bent paper clip.

Well hear these words.


You don't steal words and then be deserving of them.

You aren't a prize to be won at the carnival.

You are the extrodinary man who I love.

You are the sound of snoring from the other side of the bed.

Or you should be.

You're where the road leads.

Where my feet trod.

Where my heart lives.

I stand on flat feet


The dogs of war howl outside my heart.

The dogs who are relentless.

The dogs of war and hell.

Do you hear them?

They are feet mired in the mud of Earth.

They could wash the mud from their feet.

But instead they chose to stay mired.

My father did not raise this woman to be prisoner of the mud.

I washed the mud from my feet long ago.

Washed the mud from my spirit.

From my heart.

I won't look down again.

Fierce I am.

Fierce I'll be.

Your love is in my heart.


Insult in 5 languages
Ode to the values of polite discourse
by IC 5/12/2008

He can insult in 5 languages

Such a skill is sure to impress

To belittle and make feel small

Is certainly a skill to posess

At least in salons and cafe society

He's thought of as quite urbane.

No matter which language he insults in --

To me?

He's a jerk all the same.


From The Time of Huricanes

The Next Day

Hannah Murphy August 18, 2008

He rolled over

Stood up


Everything hurt.

His head, his side, his heart.

Night long and sleep short.

Passing the night

Waiting for the world they knew to pass away

Without really "seeing" just how bad it could be

Only darkness, flashlights, and candles in the wind

While outside the wind roared

Like some banshee in labor

Her nightmare child born


A poem for my Uncle


I knew a man whose wife and children left him.

Their hearts poisoned like a well.

For the rest of his life he kept moving.

Oh the stories he could tell.

But all of his posessions.

Everyone of them he'd sell.

For just a little kindness

A little happiness as well.

Under the trees we sat there.

I asked him, "What's your name?"

He looked at me with sad, sad eyes.

The pain it was quite plain.

"I've walked a million footsteps

I've sailed the deepest sea

I never have stopped running

From the pain tha's after me."

The devil of it all

What don't seem to set him free

The life that he's been running from

Is the life you want for me.

So get away you old devil

Get far away from me

I've no time for all your nonsence.

Keep far, far away from me.

AuthorAnn 1-12-09

.The next poem is about being far away from home and missing your home.


I'm dreaming of tomatoes and summer.

I'm dreaming of the Gulf of Mexico.

I'm dreaming of the sailboat.

The sky blue.

The sails full.

My father at the helm.

Everyone happy.

Everyone's hearts free.

I want to go home.

To my home.

This is not my home

Everyday I will say this




It's not cozy.

It is cold.

It is wet.

It is dreary.

I'm not ungrateful.

Yes, there are worse places I could be.

Famines. No water at all.

I count my blessings. But...

It's not right to tell a lie correct?

I can function and have functioned in all kinds of places.

Have been through great storms and known dark loneliness.

I am lucky to have survived such things.

I am grateful to have a kind place to be.

But still when the sky is blue or a breeze picks up.

When I close my eyes and hear my father laugh.

Even in the midst of great beauty?

When I dream?

I dream of home.




Flowers in Summer
by hannah murphy 7-12-08

Flowers in summer
The heat of noon
Ice tea and salads
The smell of roses fills the room
Ladies drift in cool summer dresses

Hat and gloves

We speed through this life in armor and steel
Hardened and wise in steel high heels.
But ladies who lunch in those cool summer breezes
Haunt like a ghost
Gosemer ghosts who float on the breeze.
Glide through my mind
On this hot, dusty road.
Like the ghost of a gentle mirrage


Orange Skies of Mars

Thought any other way and my heart grows green

Sickly with the forced responsibility of this love.

Chained to a rock my heart. Dusty relic on the shelf.

Each rare laugh the efforts of Hercules.

The sound shatters and falls to the ground.

Shards of brittle laughter are all around me.

My body in turns hurling and creeping towards death

Towards the edge of light and shadow

My mind. banshee, howling cross oceans

Waiting for the sound that doesn't come.


Waiting and calling

Longing for the soul that long since found it's home elsewhere.

Crying for husband

Still waiting like a ghost trapped in twilight.

Banshee cries home.

Hannah Murphy 8 July, 2008


Its a Monday morning thing

You and me

The nuts and bolts of love

The work horse of emotions

As in the world we go

To our lives and jobs

Separate in our lives

And yet I know

You're there.

Not a Friday night adventure

Or a Saturday night affair

Those fleeting, flitting creatures

Who shun the light of day.

Capricious, ephemeral


But not much in the long run

Momentary silly things.

But Monday morning relationships

Stalwart grown up things

Like good friends.

Don't flit like silly Saturday

But dance elegant through our life

They waltz us through

The drudgery

Of our Monday morning days.


Hannah Murphy. 6/10/2008

Hannah in Blogland

c2008 Ann


Poem for my son

My son asked me what is Love. To explain I wrote this.

What is love?

He asked me in such a serious tone

Had to close my eyes to think.

How to answer?

Then in my mind

I saw him 5 years old again.

He was eating oranges on a bright blue beach towel.

Covered in juice

Sand on his feet.

Sticky sweet in his hair and on his face

There were watermelon slices on his plate

But he would only eat the oranges

Used the rind for yellow orange "teeth"

Said that the wedges made his eyes cross

Because they were sour as well as sweet

"Just like you Sunshine"

I told him and then ruffled his hair

He laughed

And the sun shone brighter because of it

What is love?

I looked into his somber eyes

Many miles and years later.

"Love is sticky sweet oranges on a bright blue beach towel."

"Love is you."


One Day

Kids grow up.

They out grow the careful construct that we've spent year assembling

They look us dead in the eyes.

Inform us of all the things we've done wrong.

Without one word about what we've done right.


I hide in the bathroom and do grown kid Lamaze

Breathing to deal with the stress.

It's like labor.

Only this kid is bigger than 9 pounds.

I keep breathing while he's outside the door,

Then I faint.

The last word?



c anne ford



At sunrise we begin.
The journey at times light but often not.
The craftsman measures the journey.
With skill honed with years of practice.
In earnest he builds his legacy.
Working to see
That at the end of the day his life is square with his brothers.
But at the end of the day all is not work.
For there in the twilight.
He lays down his tools of work.
And begins to sing of company and joy.
So sing and be merry this night.
Sing of a day well lived.
Drink a toast to the kindness of the days before.


A toast.


One look at you and I know for certain God exists.

For only an artist with divine talents could create.

Fair face.

Quick step.

A flash of eye and intellect that moves mountains with a brief wink.

Man crashes and thrashes about the Earth.

While you?

With one whisper, quiet the beast and humble him.

Iron wills in velvet.

We are blessed with your company.



Poem/toast two

Man, how does one tame the wind.

Civilizations rise with you might.

The sound of your fierce nature trembles in the mountains.

Blessed with your noble call.

We answer.


three toasts by c anne ford 25 Jan, 2012 in honor of Robert Burns night.


My love is writ on her face.

The pink flush of new roses on her cheeks.

The blue of her eyes?

Is it wisteria or violets?


Rare does she stare into my eyes.

Soon as the rose blooms.

She looks away.

In Spring she's dressed in periwinkles and the green of clover.

In winter?

Soft fluzzy sweaters like snow.

C Ann Ford


All rights to this poem owned by the author which means if you rip it off with out giving credit you are either going to get diseases OR you're going to go blind, it's going to shrivel up, and then?

Fall off.

So pay up or give credit.


Ms. Burnside's Ode to a Stinky Rose

Ah love, you're like a big red nose.

On a clown.
(You are a nutter.)

Or maybe like that Brando scene.

The one with all the butter.

Big it is.

Your sorry azz.

What brays it's delusional song.

It brays and brays and brags it's length

While in fact it's short not long.

Oh I will sing a song my dear

Until the seas go dry

It's not the length nor breadth

My dear

It's the humor of the guy.


I love poetry.

Another Day In Denial - dise

tee hee

tee hee

oh woe

Is me

I think

That I

Should single be

For I have seen

The "promised land"

And I'll tell you ladies

It's ain't that grand.

I hear the tales.

Of length and breadth

That rival oceans.

Deep, deep depths.

But truly

Bring a microscope

If you're to have

Any hope

of seeing this

supposed wonder.

Heralded by all this thunder.

It's not that grand.

This boastful plunderer.

Please, don't blink.

Or you'll miss what's under.

c anne ford


for RBurns' night revels.



I hear that soon t'will be Valentine's Day or as I like to call it VD

And so?

An Ode to Valentine's Day

It tells us all.

How it pleases?

From what I hear?

It spreads diseases..

I think -
No I'm sure that it's Eve's fault.

And Adams.

Stupid apple.

Stupid Snake.

On second thought stupid Eve.

Whomever? We've been paying for it ever since.

Maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe the cold has me sullen.

I've always been a Optimistic Pessimist.

Will think on it.

written by

c anne ford

January 22, 2012
Strong women open their own doors.

They open their own jars and squash their own spiders because no one else will.

Because the world still turns and someone else has to.

They pick up hay bales because they can and they've too much integrity to con a guy into doing it.

Then they wonder why they spend Saturday night watching a rental movie with their dog.


Kind of makes me sad.

Such lovely independent souls with rough hands.

Sightly disheveled and frayed around the edges.

Telling lovely stories about the adventures they've been on.

They live interesting lives and tell interesting stories.

Then they die alone.
I'm sitting here in the middle of all my failures.

They're "screaming" from all points.

The untidy parlor.

The dishes in the sink.

The un made bed called "My Life"?

My husband sits sullen in his chair.

Then it's upstairs in bed with the lights out.

He pretends to be asleep but I know he's not.

Better for us both that I keep up the ruse.

Lest we fight.

My daughter.

Fruit of my loins is somewhere.

She asked for money and I said no.

So she shut her "door" too and went into the night.

Bonnie girl.

I sit here on the couch in the dark and listen to all my failures screaming "You idiot."

It changes from my mothers voice, to my husbands, to my daughters, and then -

Into mine.

I cry.

Because I read in a poem that strong women do.

But in my heart I know.

That while these may be tears of failure,

They are not tears of strength.


c anne ford

all rights reserved by the author.

I think -

No I'm sure that it's Eve's fault.

And Adams.

Stupid apple.

Stupid Snake.

On second thought stupid Eve.

Whomever? We've been paying for it ever since.

Maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe the cold has me sullen.

I've always been a Optimistic Pessimist.

Will think on it.



Except where noted, all work in this post by the author and poet, c anne ford, 22 January, 2011, all rights reserved by the author.


LOL. I can write. Just have alot of that life stuff happening.

And it's Friday the 13th.

And my feet are cold.

Really and truly cold.

I haven't had sex in forever.

I do not like being celibate.

It's sucks more than having cold feet.



Crap, out of buttermilk, have to add get butter milk to today's to do list.

I hate to do lists almost as much as putting "" around things.

Yes, I do know better.

No, I'm not. I'm supposed to be slacker. See. Up there in the title. It's says, The Slacker Chronicles. That's me. Slacker.

I'm suposed to be slacking not running round checking things off my "to do" list.

Again ack.
"...John has eyes.
Not like limped pools.
Not like jade or cinnamon or the blue skies of a June day.
These eyes are small.
The color of
And they change colors like a mood ring.
You do know what that is? A Mood Ring? ...."
Sons and Daughters of Panarchy v.2

Unicorn pandemic and tales of panarchy?
Flame throwing tanks and nekkid peace nicks?
All ending up around the pheonix fire?
Tales of paying forward and random kindness.
While economic disaster howls at the door.
Peace nicks clutch tickets that cost more -
More than rent.
More than a weeks groceries.
More wear and tear and cost of fuel to get there only to find that the only cars allowed are in the art work.
All on a piece of land with the same name as a security contractor in Iraq.

Imagine that.

Burning Man.

c anne ford 9-13-11, from Sons and Daughters of Panarchy. A Collection of Stories and Poems the New Millenium
Si iff ti bed my dear sweet one.
Smile a smile.
No be so glum.
The star horsers swim in the moonlights reflection
A pale recollection of our own dear Sun.

Tommy horses winny.
Impatient for sleep.
Sea stars shimmy.
In the milky way deep.

I love you.
I love you.
One million times penny.

I love you til stars
There's not a one. Any.

Close please your eyes.
Until the morn comes.
Then it's up and a ridin
With morning Sun.

Good night, I love you. Sleep tight. Little one.

c anne ford
from Sleepy Sleep Hey O

"...The next day the Sun shone bright.

Brighter than the day before

The birds sang and the morning sky was blue.

How could they be so mean.

Didn't the Sun know that the world had stopped.


Hold still your voice.

There is a shadow on my feet.

A hole in my heart.

Dark cataracts cover my eyes.

I tear my hair and throw myself to the ground.

Cover my ears to the sounds of life.

How can you sing
when my heart lies in the ground with the ones I love."

c anne ford

September 11th


We turned off the television.

It wasn't because we wanted to forget.

It was because.

The thing is.

In our heart?


Is the only antidote for the sadness of this world.

A little candle.

Sometimes it flickers in the darkness.

But it's still there for someone to see.

Just in case someone needs a hand.

So we turned off the tv.

And we went to get some ice cream.

Trying hard to block out the world of sad memories.

But life happens.

As it will.

Yesterday, I stopped trying to block out the Sun and the rain.

Yesterday, I entered the river and did my best to help.

Sons and Daughters of Panarchy

Unicorn pandemic and tales of panarchy?
Flame throwing tanks and nekkid peace nicks?
All ending up around a pheonix fire?
Tales of paying forward and random kindness.
All for tickets that cost more -
More than rent.
More than a weeks groceries.
More wear and tear and cost of fuel to get there only to find that the only cars allowed are in the art work.
All on a piece of land with the same name as a security contractor in Iraq.

c anne ford 8-29-11, from Sons and Daughters of Panarchy. A Collection of Stories and Poems the New Millenium
Be. Here. Now

In this moment.

Not in the future time.

Or in the past.

But now.

Right now.

No. I don't care if it sounds willful.

i only care that it sounds.

That it makes the sounds that you will understand the urgency of the message.




I can hardly see the words on the page and even the subconscious in my fingertips is trying to shout the words.

I'm tired of "maybe's" and "some days".


time to get some sleep.

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