tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55092928281132535312024-02-19T10:59:08.116+01:00PragueWriter Jim Freeman: Poetry, Fiction and MoreNovels, poems, plays, screenplays and travelogues by Jim Freeman, an American writer now based in Prague.Michaela Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14139914151371025517noreply@blogger.comBlogger254125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-10597185503939382092013-02-27T17:13:00.000+01:002017-04-20T18:56:43.757+02:00A Poem from The Smell of |Tweed and Tobacco<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">TULSA</span></i></b></h4>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 67.0pt;">I</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">And you say Tulsa, what's in that?</span></div>
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Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-45144540302210717342012-09-18T23:23:00.000+02:002012-08-29T20:02:37.339+02:00Poem: Mirrored<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
That old buggaboo of finding your worth in someone else's eyes.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Mirrored</h3>
Reflections of my worth<br />
can’t be found in your eyes,<br />
nor yours in mine<br />
Drawn in lines and shades<br />
of subtlety<br />
<br />
There’s danger there,<br />
to find my value in your gaze<br />
Charges it with everything I am,<br />
hope to be, or ever were<br />
If you look away, I’m ravaged<br />
<br />
My love, my worth, is known to me<br />
Endless study of the best and worst,<br />
a feel for the topography<br />
Look elsewhere if you must<br />
I’ll find myself, a mirrored image </td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-21737080667555439472012-09-17T23:27:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:27:42.666+02:00Poem: Quiet Breath<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Oh man, this is a great poem for all those lost loves.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Quiet Breath</h3>
I think of people breathing, as I breathe,<br />
across town, across rooms and continents,<br />
oceans, airwaves, satellites and muddy roads<br />
This singular connection of lives, disconnected<br />
<br />
The common thread of life, lungs moving,<br />
nostrils flared or slim, dependent on the current<br />
of our metered commonality, loosely strung<br />
Inhaling--binding lives and loves--exhaling loss<br />
<br />
His breath comes easily, bending over words<br />
Six time zones west, steel canyons support<br />
a dangling cigarette, smoke tears the eyes<br />
that leap and stutter flame across another page<br />
<br />
Hers comes quickly, building to cry out the gasp<br />
of sudden holding, momentary breathlessness<br />
Collapsing into arms that once were mine,<br />
I hear her even-out like a returning tide, eyes wet<br />
<br />
Thought, scattered like birds circling, each moment<br />
of remembrance seen from different wings,<br />
when only thoughtlessness comes home to roost<br />
And a quiet breath is all there’s left to share<br />
</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-32946196611035462882012-09-10T18:52:00.000+02:002012-08-09T21:52:10.383+02:00Poem: Nigglement<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Looking all too carefully at something without form and trying to give it shape, when its charm is illusion.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Nigglement</h3>
I walk carelessly between fine lines,<br />
some of them drawn by me,<br />
but mostly they are sketched,<br />
laid out and prescribed for me<br />
by others<br />
And yet I’m a grown man, old enough<br />
to be responsible for my choices,<br />
long past parental dictates,<br />
yet not far enough perhaps<br />
from the echoes of requirement<br />
<br />
No, no, that’s not the word at all<br />
So little is required of me anymore,<br />
the word’s shop-worn and yet <br />
there’s that nigglement behind my ears<br />
That creeping up upon me, a stealth<br />
of something far less easily defined<br />
So subtle it leaks away from description,<br />
but it’s there like a duplicitous thought<br />
Something I’m better at avoiding awake,<br />
yet see in the nakedness of sleep<br />
<br />
Expectation, yes, yes that’s a closer word,<br />
catching me when I least expect<br />
and when I thought it all lay well behind me<br />
Like a long dinner, an interminable feed<br />
where the main course was overdone,<br />
but the salad surprisingly crisp<br />
and a spinach soufflé, light as clouds<br />
Still an expectation of dessert<br />
and afterward a well-aged cognac<br />
There’s always something after<br />
<br />
I suspect it’s the something after<br />
that walks behind me,<br />
sniffing in doorways,<br />
letting me know its breath<br />
and ducking from sight when I turn<br />
There’s the difference, in early life<br />
everything is next and now it’s after<br />
Next is an easier expectation,<br />
a ball less punishing to drop<br />
But here I stand, in a life of mostly after</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-91608888899404057412012-09-06T23:18:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:19:01.822+02:00Poem: Jeremy is Back<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
The lucky ones return to Prague.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Jeremy is Back</h3>
Jeremy is back, not expected, but back sure as hell<br />
Wanting it to be a surprise and walking in to play,<br />
like I’d seen him yesterday from a continent away<br />
Knocking me over with throwing arms<br />
around each other, here in Prague again<br />
The long hug of men who love each other easily<br />
<br />
I left twice, he said, as though I hadn’t remembered,<br />
and both times it was a mistake, this city draws me<br />
Here now to write his novel and the songs<br />
that slide off his guitar like water<br />
A rendition of Watching Allison Drown for me<br />
I knew you wanted to hear it, he said and grinned<br />
<br />
Wanted that and more my friend, wanted the energy<br />
you bring to me, even when we don’t<br />
see each other for days or sometimes weeks<br />
It’s that way with some people, they just give<br />
you what you need by being somewhere<br />
in the same city, the same proximate space<br />
<br />
And so he’s back and hanging out on my couch<br />
until he finds a flat, to compute the letters<br />
that make words and the notes of songs<br />
And he’ll be gone again even though he claims not<br />
because that’s Jeremy, drawn to other places<br />
I’ll wait and write him, one day he’ll walk in again</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-83383922973648968102012-09-06T15:15:00.000+02:002012-09-06T15:15:00.639+02:00Poem: The Stove is Elsewhere<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
A personal favorite of mine, a treatise on why it's not a good idea to cook and write simultaneously.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
The Stove is Elsewhere</h3>
Well, to begin with, you can’t mix these times,<br />
the time to write and the time to cook<br />
I was reminded of the truth of this, allowing<br />
just a moment to alter a paragraph<br />
while eggs were boiling hard, then listening<br />
to soft explosions from the kitchen<br />
<br />
Wondering what that was all about<br />
<br />
I’ve put on the coffeepot before and stepped away<br />
for just the smallest moment, noticing later<br />
the strange this smell of rubber burning, a drift<br />
through my window, something from the street<br />
Must be roofers mopping tar and like a dream<br />
just ending, I began to think of cappuccino<br />
<br />
Amazing physics in a pot run dry and glowing<br />
<br />
But there’s soup on now and soup’s forgiving<br />
Lost moments mean not a thing to soup<br />
and I make it thick, not tentatively phrased,<br />
paragraphing rough chopped carrots, peppers<br />
Never a dangled participle in the pot,<br />
three squirts of olive oil, two heads of garlic<br />
<br />
Knowing what I’m doing with soup<br />
<br />
Metaphoric spices, onion tears, tomato paste like blood,<br />
mushrooms grown in the dark like thoughts<br />
Never could keep up with Julia Childs<br />
or writer’s workshops either, too much recipe<br />
and yet somehow the soup is always pretty good<br />
Hot and pungent, thrown together it simmers<br />
<br />
Forgiving enough to let my mind run elsewhere</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-62597420571061629242012-09-02T18:40:00.000+02:002012-08-09T21:51:58.347+02:00Poem: Here and There<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%px;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
It seems my whole life was preparatory to leaving America to live in Europe and yet it's such a singular experience that only one in a thousand would even know what I mean.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Here and There</h3>
Took nine months to learn<br />
the soap in my dish scrubber<br />
runs out too fast when<br />
filled more than halfway<br />
Strange way to spend nine months<br />
Not the only thing I learned,<br />
but it seems significant<br />
and I wonder at that<br />
<br />
Learned to care about myself, that<br />
I may be overfilled and running out<br />
Learned to clean the toilet,<br />
disengaged from television,<br />
stepped down from wanting things<br />
Saw things inside, darker, brighter things<br />
An emerging of the submerged<br />
Funny stuff, great stuff, meaningless stuff<br />
<br />
What’s it like to live in a foreign land,<br />
a city not your own? they ask<br />
Inquiring minds want to know<br />
That’s what they say, but not for long, distracted <br />
by planning dinner, remembering last night’s fight <br />
No lessons there to draw from someone else,<br />
not that mean a damn<br />
You might wonder at that<br />
<br />
Simpler here, but I’m prevented by language <br />
from understanding their take on a <br />
spiritless, dominated life controlled by others<br />
All those heavy boots and heavy years<br />
I smile to write that, examine<br />
the domination of my life, lived free, or so<br />
I thought, we all hear boots imagined<br />
And I wonder at that<br />
<br />
Friends and work here are different <br />
from friends and work back there<br />
Back there is where I come from, home is here<br />
A meaningless distinction to you, it’s not to me<br />
Work here is eager, pulls me,<br />
quickly focused and slowly observed<br />
A city of friends coming, friends going,<br />
a constancy of turnover deprivation<br />
<br />
A lot at stake in friendship, all of us<br />
broke amidst baroque, circling wagons,<br />
writing, wasting time, investing time<br />
Pull of the leash, looking up in wonder,<br />
having coffee and talking it over<br />
Standing in cold, lying in sun, <br />
waiting for a night-tram, enfolded by a city<br />
And I wonder at that<br />
<br />
What about your life, the one you chose <br />
or allowed others to choose?<br />
Does it warm you, let you lie in grass,<br />
shake off the cold, like mine?<br />
Are you lonely out there, or is someone loving you?<br />
Is there a pull at your leash, will you write, <br />
or has distance taken us too far? <br />
I wonder about that, as well</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-40417360537566926302012-08-30T23:13:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:14:26.763+02:00Poem: Guardianship<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
The love of the truly old.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Guardianship</h3>
PThey are ancient,<br />
this couple on the tram<br />
His face the peaceful<br />
of the truly old,<br />
taking whatever comes<br />
with grace, fingers flipping<br />
The head of his cane<br />
reminding him of life<br />
Near blind, cheek bandaged,<br />
handsome even now<br />
A face caught in repose,<br />
he approves himself<br />
<br />
Facing seats, she watches him,<br />
eyes kind with love<br />
Guarding each day left<br />
with all that went before<br />
Given years enough,<br />
all roles reverse like theirs<br />
Fathers now children,<br />
guardians the guarded<br />
His once-strong hands<br />
remember their protection<br />
She sees him through<br />
and thinks of flowers</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-51406552856449127612012-08-29T19:46:00.001+02:002012-08-29T19:50:07.558+02:00Poem: Soft Landing<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
I believe this and so it becomes intimidating in its own way, because its sometimes more comfortable to hide behind words.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Soft Landing</h3>
When mankind outgrows its need of things,<br />
forsaking stuff to move in simpler directions,<br />
remembering from our ancient cultures<br />
the sanctity of leaving not a trace<br />
Leaving space for sun and wind and rain,<br />
someone will have to give up the Calvin Klein’s<br />
<br />
Sunny in San Diego, but half a world away<br />
Europe’s smoky dark and growing darker<br />
A billion Chinese wanting cars and can’t be blamed<br />
for acquiring our taste, no one ever made<br />
a fast getaway in a rickshaw, at least not now<br />
that Bonnie and Clyde have a three-car garage<br />
<br />
It’s a civil right to have it all and set the pace<br />
for homelessness and stock portfolios<br />
Clear cutting with clear consciences,<br />
pointing a finger at someone else’s rainforest<br />
Expecting profit and getting it, a record quarter<br />
Buying markets long and legacies short<br />
<br />
Looking for a soft landing in the last best place</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClcD4rFS3NNy8_XpFNWHd97Dvpb1Cft9DYUM2LNy84Qs_KQhijlSZ8PoKFFajufR7Da8wBfikg8BjsEKrKEpcLf9Q5c8SKfMLQGM8FuhaC8IzIiqOsfl6h6of_Ivpp87du__D-Qvo5Ag/s1600/poetry-broken-pieces.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection<br />
BROKEN PIECES<br />
available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-38925051445865083402012-08-24T00:11:00.000+02:002012-08-15T00:12:06.464+02:00Poem: Uneven Ground<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
The needy against the strong.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Uneven Ground</h3>
Negotiating<br />
Her firm jaw<br />
neither confirms, nor denies<br />
He searches her eyes<br />
from a weak position<br />
<br />
The bargain clearly struck<br />
long ago, from weakness<br />
His neediness<br />
against her strength<br />
Uneven ground</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-3149962359321171752012-08-24T00:07:00.000+02:002012-08-15T00:08:03.487+02:00Poem: The Song Might Play<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
The love of two is never up to one . . . keep that thought.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
The Song Might Play</h3>
A constancy of clinging, finding ways<br />
to get through another day or month<br />
A year, please let it be a year that’s all<br />
A lifetime would be bliss, these promises<br />
suck dry all flowers, leave them wilted<br />
<br />
I was me and you were you, just yesterday<br />
and dawn brought us each another<br />
The moment is the most of us, our history<br />
all past, the future merely hopeful<br />
of two of us or not, when morning breaks<br />
<br />
The only holding on’s in letting go<br />
Always difficult, sounds upside down,<br />
but true enough when all is said<br />
that can be said and all is done as well<br />
The love of two is never up to one<br />
Love is no more than watching colors change<br />
<br />
If only we would welcome strangers<br />
next to us in morning’s rumpled sheets<br />
Know them differently at breakfast coffee<br />
Breathe excitement in their newbornness<br />
The song might play and play and play</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-38381528138152983612012-08-23T23:38:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:39:32.713+02:00Poem: Under the Influence<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
There are those who believe and those desperate to believe.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Under the Influence</h3>
Astrology, it seemed to him was a good bet<br />
Because he was tired of carrying the load<br />
of decisions<br />
Those never ending, endless spending<br />
heart rending responsibilities that love <br />
asked of him and the work required as the bank <br />
raised an eyebrow at the missed car payment<br />
and Visa overload<br />
These days he needed help choosing a breakfast cereal<br />
<br />
So he consulted<br />
<br />
Looked up the hour of his birth to see if today <br />
was rising in his sun-signs<br />
A likely time he thought, for her to open gently<br />
against his kiss, but Jupiter was holding court<br />
with Mars and he was late for work the third time <br />
this month<br />
On Monday, Omar promised him the moon was in <br />
his corner, but the bank called anyway and on Tuesday<br />
the cereal all sank, no snap, no crackle, no pop<br />
<br />
Tarot Cards must rule his life instead</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-87905788728500919322012-08-23T16:40:00.000+02:002012-08-14T16:41:02.458+02:00Poem: From Here<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Love doesn't need a lifetime commitment to be forever and if that sounds impossible, think about it.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
From Here</h3>
What would you ask of me?<br />
It’s yours<br />
To touch you with tenderness,<br />
hear the child in you speak<br />
all of the unspoken words,<br />
of clouds and sun behind your eyes<br />
It’s done<br />
<br />
Can’t give you my foreverness,<br />
it’s not mine to give away<br />
Belonging just to me,<br />
as indivisible as pulse or breath<br />
Expect me though, to love you always,<br />
long past our togetherness<br />
I will<br />
<br />
Settle down on me and rest a while<br />
Take some time for trust,<br />
and when you leave, I’ll hold you<br />
close always, with the letting-go<br />
Conceive only that I love you now,<br />
will love you tomorrow, and tomorrow<br />
From here</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-14973842796100405362012-08-20T20:31:00.000+02:002012-08-20T20:33:04.135+02:00Poem: Writers, Cowboys All<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Trying out a new poem, to see if I can still do it.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Writers, Cowboys All</h3>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I saddle up my morning cup of
coffee</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and slip off on that horse I call Solitude</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Out and on toward the broad
horizon</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that laps the edge of blue-green mountains</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are horses there, wild and free,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
at their ease, heads down and
relaxed from being </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
left the hell alone, grazing, content </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with the endless possibilities of being a horse</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I slip in among them, reins hanging slack,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
easy in the saddle, watching and not watching</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Intoxicated with all that latent and explosive energy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Some days one will raise his
head, suddenly intent on </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
who knows what, snorting, ears
pricked, nostrils flared</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s then I pay attention, gather in my reins, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sit a bit taller in the saddle and urge Solitude </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the direction of that attention I’m compelled to pay</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I may ease closer, hand relaxed
and easy on the lariat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
that lies, loosely draped across
the horn,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
slipping my rope around the neck of this beast, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the fascinating one who called out to me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pay attention he seems to say</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
We ride back together, he snorts
again, easier this time,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
looks back at the herd, stops, stamps
his foot</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and either we’ll drift off as friends or he’ll break free</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not blaming me, but returning to his open-skied herd</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If that wild horse is poetry, he’ll break free and his snort
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
will have been enough for both of us and all there is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If prose, he’ll spend days and nights in my corral,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
calming, reaching out to me while we gentle one another</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But still he looks always west to those skies, remembering, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
knowing, as horses know, one day I’ll set him free </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
when the work’s complete and both our jobs are done </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I will, we’re friends, connected for a while,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but only a while and time runs quickly across open land</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, depending on the drift of the wind, the smells,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the color of the sky and if or not storm clouds are building</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’ll be gone, bucking, careening back where he calls home</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Solitude and I return to the work at hand that day,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
measuring if its labors are writing words or pitching hay</div>
</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClcD4rFS3NNy8_XpFNWHd97Dvpb1Cft9DYUM2LNy84Qs_KQhijlSZ8PoKFFajufR7Da8wBfikg8BjsEKrKEpcLf9Q5c8SKfMLQGM8FuhaC8IzIiqOsfl6h6of_Ivpp87du__D-Qvo5Ag/s1600/poetry-broken-pieces.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection<br />
BROKEN PIECES<br />
available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-91541170307426434462012-08-13T14:57:00.000+02:002012-08-13T14:57:27.813+02:00Poem: Behind the Binding<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
The metaphor of man-as-volume and whether or not he's a good read.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Behind the Binding</h3>
Sorry about the shape this volume’s in,<br />
although it’s held up pretty well<br />
for all the times the pages turned<br />
But there doesn’t seem to be a way<br />
to fit everything you see in me<br />
into a book that better fits your hand<br />
Maybe a slicker cover, more pleasing to the eye<br />
<br />
So take it or don’t, I can’t do otherwise<br />
than promise a pretty good read<br />
It may have taken far too long to write<br />
Cliff Notes can be had for a drink<br />
and it’s more irreverent<br />
than irrelevant I hope<br />
And some chapters just aren’t worth the read<br />
<br />
It’s that way wandering bookstores too, I guess<br />
Some novels need to be stuck with<br />
through the early chapters<br />
and others not worth the nights<br />
spent trying to find a plot<br />
But I’m the author of my work<br />
and hardly clear on that<br />
<br />
Even so, some reviewers have been kind<br />
There’s a sense of style at the center,<br />
a phrase or two well-turned,<br />
a hopefulness about the thing<br />
The cover’s raggedy, a few pages torn<br />
Yet still, I’m at my best I hope,<br />
behind the binding</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-17151627227489124322012-08-11T15:39:00.001+02:002012-08-18T18:11:17.895+02:00Poem: The Next Left Turn<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Overwhelmed by sadness, then over it with the new day . . . but still . . .</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
The Next Left Turn</h3>
Sometimes I’m rocked by sadness<br />
But it passes,<br />
undefined, still creeping<br />
around the edges<br />
If it were a street,<br />
I’d turn and walk another <br />
<br />
Times that find me then,<br />
move like so much smoke<br />
and I need to grab a handful,<br />
make it mine, name and hold it<br />
Smoke is hard to grasp<br />
Sometimes I am too<br />
<br />
It’s gone by morning<br />
and I almost grieve the loss<br />
The part of me that hurts,<br />
needing to be held a bit<br />
Wants the time to feel the pain,<br />
reporting it as mine<br />
<br />
Sadness needs that deference<br />
and I am always unprepared<br />
Eager for the thing to go away<br />
and when it’s gone I’m lost,<br />
to wander peaceful boulevards<br />
Until the next left turn at sadness</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-65602502713724835812012-08-10T23:54:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:58:47.139+02:00Poem: Snapshots Filed<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
That stranger passing spent 25 years becoming a corner of my peripheral vision.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Snapshots Filed</h3>
These streets I walk and walk again, each time<br />
more deeply lost in a constant unveiling of my days<br />
And half the time I’m purposeless and wandering<br />
Wondering as well, lenses all set at infinity, finding<br />
imagery in stranger’s faces, shot quickly in repose<br />
Their unknown, complicated lives, all lived to now,<br />
to serve as background to the camera of my mind<br />
<br />
And me to theirs, together we’re an endless stream,<br />
washing across dark glass, exposing pebbles<br />
of our human grace, the stories written there<br />
in lines on faces, the swift moment of held eyes<br />
Then gone, and passed, foreclosing the exposure<br />
Freeze-frame one another’s lives, the smiles and tears<br />
that brought us here, split-seconded away<br />
<br />
Young and old and short and tall, reflected in the glass<br />
of shops and passing trams, a time-lapse photography<br />
of shutter-speeds that push the capability of film--click<br />
Sifting bits of language, catching but a half a phrase<br />
Mutual unknown lives, developed in scattered images<br />
that need to sit a while, over a quiet smoke and coffee<br />
Until the print is made, defined, comes clear at last<br />
<br />
Any face at random, yes the bent woman with a cane<br />
Tell me your story--the child gone who never writes,<br />
the husband you bring flowers, his rough hands stilled<br />
I know you somehow, have known you both before<br />
You’d recognize me too, if we could spread the album<br />
on our knees, the images that streamed across our lives<br />
Somewhere among them, the same faded photo holds us all<br />
<br />
Another yeah, introduce that young guy with the attitude<br />
I’ve lived bits of his life, he may yet live scraps of mine<br />
There’s boldness in him, overcoming the hidden fear<br />
He’ll miss it all before he’s twenty-two and life’s used up<br />
We ought to have a beer and talk about his girl, the one<br />
who drives him nuts and makes him sweat and grin<br />
But the moment’s gone, another snapshot’s filed away <br />
</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-39287781366849893872012-08-10T23:31:00.000+02:002012-08-14T23:31:42.587+02:00Poem: Smile Fading<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Deeper feeling left to quiet eyes, smile fading, nothing left to prove.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Smile Fading</h3>
Teeth showing, smiling as if<br />
no other sign of recognition worked<br />
Unnatural it seems, and forced<br />
Somehow an expected thing<br />
<br />
An aggression, this baring teeth<br />
in lower forms of life, and yet<br />
there may be evolutionary-lag<br />
The welcoming of flashing canines<br />
<br />
No message in that smile for me<br />
Thin and flat, of little consequence,<br />
deeper feeling left to quiet eyes<br />
Smile fading, nothing left to prove<br />
<br />
Leave it alone, a grin will do<br />
No teeth to prove the pleasure<br />
seeing you--unexpected in my day<br />
We’ll sit and drift, stir our coffee<br />
<br />
Amused at nearby laughter, shrill,<br />
playing no part in what we share<br />
Quiet water, deeper pools of trust<br />
Our contract signed with no negotiation<br />
<br />
Two lives, allowed to touch</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-71213710641544556012012-08-10T18:39:00.001+02:002012-08-10T18:40:52.725+02:00Poem: Priorities<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Yeah well, everything's important.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Priorities</h3>
Don’t be grateful<br />
Be arrogant<br />
and write well,<br />
but wash the dishes</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-63764326057075049802012-08-10T15:11:00.000+02:002012-08-13T15:13:06.526+02:00Poem: Setting Fire to My Life<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Ah, the genesis of my leaving all that comfort for the unknown writer's life and what I thought it meant and perhaps what it actually did. Each poet writes a 'first' poem and this is mine.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Setting Fire to My Life</h3>
Setting fire to my life, the spark of discontent<br />
flares a tinder of broken promises and dreams<br />
A roaring blaze, consuming yesterday<br />
throws all too little heat and not much light<br />
Flames lick, shadows dance against the wall<br />
<br />
It needed to burn out and settle down, this fire<br />
Needed to fall in upon itself in showers of sparks,<br />
turning much that’s gone to powdered ash<br />
Floating up, to drift away in spirals on the breeze<br />
Leaving just a hidden core of warm red coals<br />
<br />
The embers will last, maybe until morning,<br />
when new breath blows them softly into life<br />
Feeding smaller twigs to a more modest blaze<br />
Lower flames, more capable of heat and light<br />
Enough, at least, to make the morning coffee<br />
<br />
It’s come to that, the things I need to know<br />
Strong coffee and the squint of morning sun<br />
An honest taste and promise of another day<br />
Reflections from inside myself and all outdoors<br />
Learning who I am, how to love myself again<br />
<br />
It’s taken far too long and too much pain<br />
Shared by those who cared for me and lost<br />
their friend and lover to a mindless pile<br />
of things and stuff and heaps of promises<br />
Now burned and blown away, well gone<br />
<br />
There’s something here worthwhile to know<br />
Reason to blow those embers into life again<br />
Who can tell, when second chances come<br />
if it’s really worth the cost of all the burning<br />
But the gamble’s taken, setting fire to my life</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-25445230078754233572012-08-10T00:19:00.000+02:002012-08-15T00:20:16.655+02:00Poem: Flowered Fields<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Wanting the freedom to love until you have it . . . and then what?</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Flowered Fields</h3>
Man, I’ve been saying it long enough<br />
A regular evangelist for freedom to move<br />
Relationships should be open and easy<br />
That’s what I said, meant it too, and now<br />
I’ve found a woman who understands<br />
<br />
She takes me on my own terms and knows<br />
my need for time alone, figured out<br />
that love has more facets than need<br />
and loves me and loves others too<br />
So, how come I’m getting itchy with that?<br />
<br />
Why do I wonder where I stand with her<br />
and what it means, when she flashes that grin,<br />
touching the hand of someone else?<br />
Why do I go home with the blues so often,<br />
even though I know she loves me, told me so?<br />
<br />
I love her too, but you see we have this thing<br />
about our freedom with relationships<br />
Recognize that spatial need thing, being her and me,<br />
instead of us, which is just too controlling<br />
Know what I mean, understand my take and hers?<br />
<br />
It’s got to be that way, other stuff just doesn’t work<br />
Never has worked and I’ll be honest with you<br />
this isn’t working either, I don’t think<br />
Does anyone know where this train is going?<br />
Why the connections aren’t in my timetable?<br />
<br />
It’s warm when it’s warm, but man it sure gets cold,<br />
standing on these platforms, dedicated to travel,<br />
on what I was absolutely sure was the scenic route<br />
It might be a journey longer than I knew,<br />
lost among these free-blown flowered fields</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-10009814380490342582012-08-09T00:23:00.000+02:002012-08-15T00:24:14.513+02:00Poem: Celebrity<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Deconstruction is very hip, so why not deconstruct celebrity?</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Celebrity</h3>
Celebrity seems a hungry mouth to feed,<br />
a demanding child that wails, stamps its foot<br />
and screams for its fifteen minutes at the top<br />
We were promised that, expect it now,<br />
even if Lennons and Kennedys must fall<br />
<br />
A mirror-image would bring it all back down<br />
A comforting deconstruction, car bombs to candlelight<br />
The supermodel barefoot in a faded robe,<br />
a Pulitzer Prize for guys who walk the dog<br />
An understandable order, once more from the top<br />
<br />
Agreement to settle for five good friends<br />
to mourn a death or celebrate a birth<br />
No helicopter-headlines, just drop by<br />
A conversation sitting on my floor, don’t call,<br />
your hug is all the celebrity I need<br />
<br />
Without a Script<br />
Not a public execution, I’ve no right to stand<br />
with sword in hand, your neck at my feet<br />
I take the right, make no excuses<br />
Uncredentialed, it’s just the way it is<br />
So many ghosts in life, I’m just one more<br />
<br />
Following from day to night and back again,<br />
there’s no need to slash at one another<br />
My Douglas Fairbanks leaps a balcony,<br />
meets your Errol Flynn, knife clenched in teeth,<br />
somehow never masking that famous smile<br />
<br />
How does he do it? How do we and they?<br />
Without rehearsal, no cut and no retakes?<br />
I don’t want all your life and time, just all of you<br />
when we’re together, but ghosts get in the way,<br />
fighting up and down the staircase of our minds<br />
<br />
Not stumbling, as we do, but coming point-to-point,<br />
thrust and parry, in endless choreography<br />
Your sword nicks me, high across the chest<br />
Blood soaks toward my heart, we come together,<br />
face to face, conceding one another’s pain<br />
<br />
Then spring apart, my blade slits the purple silk<br />
above your breast, exposes, barely touches skin<br />
I’m bleeding, you’re unmarked, catching breath<br />
Am I above you on the stair? Can’t recall the script<br />
Is this the scene, the time you take my life?<br />
<br />
Not your neck that’s at my feet, but mine<br />
How can it be, my hand holds the blade?<br />
Lens pulls back, long shot in soft-focus<br />
One stroke, then just another of the ghosts,<br />
untitled, unrehearsed, without a script.</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-74923498338558513562012-08-07T00:03:00.000+02:002012-08-15T00:04:13.325+02:00Poem: There Should be Rules<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
Another coming-apart poem, but then coming apart is as common as coming together.</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
There Should Be Rules</h3>
That incredibly uncomfortable time<br />
between loves coming and loves going,<br />
when the flame has flickered out<br />
and still some warmth remains<br />
The memory of other times, when<br />
this person lit your life and you theirs<br />
<br />
But now that light is elsewhere and elsewhere<br />
comes constantly to mind over dinner<br />
or, worse yet, while making love<br />
to the one who sees you burning still<br />
and isn’t yet ready to put out the cat<br />
Yet it’s time, and the cat is howling to leave<br />
<br />
There should be rules for this and aren’t<br />
A price to pay that’s affordable to both,<br />
a loan that’s called and all accounts settled<br />
Value received on both sides, an even deal,<br />
where everyone smiles at their profit<br />
Not wealth perhaps, but desire to invest again<br />
<br />
Lovers who remain friends, it’s tough<br />
to make that combination work, <br />
something to do with one not losing <br />
more than they can afford<br />
It comes down to that I guess, not taking<br />
too much more than you’ve given and hoping<br />
that the accounts will somehow settle out</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Corner of My Mind" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxeLAQ4m2NMY4_Muyn91N6ix0pzIkLKpUhhLwgb_c5GMc7-FNr97-orcxZgGTP7Wf5LTKsDMgN4-Mw58OhP6euvIpVdSdjxcBg3lD5I8ulyEgT2eBj7hjnRmrVY3-zaA3vectNEuUekk/s1600/poetry-corner-of-my-mind.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">CORNER OF MY MIND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/love-poem-lyrical-poetry-collection.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-89947047791427834732012-08-06T14:40:00.000+02:002012-08-29T14:40:44.294+02:00Poem: Perfect Child<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
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<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td colspan="2"><h4>
What are we each, if not the perfect children that stun us with their innocence?</h4>
<a name='more'></a><hr />
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td valign="top"><h3>
Perfect Child</h3>
If you would hold a perfect child,<br />
feel its small arms around your neck<br />
and take pleasure from that laugh<br />
that dribbles love of life down its chin<br />
So love your childish imperfection<br />
<br />
In a world that honors surface beauty,<br />
hold close your shyness,<br />
a doorway only sometimes open<br />
An invitation to warm rooms, soft light<br />
There’s shelter there from those more bold<br />
<br />
Drop fear of failure like clothing on a beach<br />
Lie for a while in the warmth of chance<br />
Winning is no more than willingness to lose<br />
Close your eyes, run fingers over jealousy,<br />
explore its contours, things we want to know<br />
<br />
A child trusts until it’s dropped, not caught<br />
Open your arms and learn to trust yourself<br />
Catch incompleteness, balance it on your knee,<br />
watch it giggle, close its hands around your heart<br />
Perfect child, wipe the dribble from your chin</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClcD4rFS3NNy8_XpFNWHd97Dvpb1Cft9DYUM2LNy84Qs_KQhijlSZ8PoKFFajufR7Da8wBfikg8BjsEKrKEpcLf9Q5c8SKfMLQGM8FuhaC8IzIiqOsfl6h6of_Ivpp87du__D-Qvo5Ag/s1600/poetry-broken-pieces.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/poems-poetry-narrative-men-europe.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection<br />
BROKEN PIECES<br />
available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5509292828113253531.post-33883320468838269942012-08-03T15:20:00.000+02:002012-08-13T15:22:29.531+02:00Poem: Wintering<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
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<td colspan="2"><h4>
Even a winter-person has dreams of Madagascar.</h4>
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</td>
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<td valign="top"><h3>
Wintering</h3>
I’d November in Madagascar if I could,<br />
hide out the winter in India’s blazing sun,<br />
sombrero on the sunny side of Columbian walls,<br />
bare-toe my way along a Cancun beach<br />
Anywhere but here, this painted lady’s arms<br />
in winter can’t begin to hold me down<br />
<br />
Ancient distant lands of promise, promising<br />
beginnings that never ended, mysteries<br />
The touch of outstretched longings left behind<br />
for a time in tangled sweat-soaked sheets<br />
I’d remap this portion of the world in finger-sifted sand,<br />
to suit myself and no one else, blown over<br />
<br />
I’ve lived the chilled and wintered life, fingers stiff<br />
Too bone-cold to see past a smoky sun, held low<br />
against a horizon that drives me to steaming soup<br />
All the edges hazy, it’s time now for clarity and warmth<br />
A dawn that jumps, not drags me from my bed<br />
<br />
My batteries may be solar, time to be recharged<br />
An easing back of the throttle, coasting, drenched<br />
in deep blue waters turning green with envy<br />
at un-clustered, undressed lying about<br />
all afternoon to watch a spider on a wall<br />
<br />
Ceiling fans and windows open to the breeze<br />
of all I ever thought or hoped, the speck of someone<br />
seen shimmering on the horizon, walks my way,<br />
arms stretched and golden and I can wait it out,<br />
lying there in the afternoons of endless time</td>
<td align="center" width="193"><a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html"><img alt="Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegqJeNfDvFHy1ATrALnNeIXJI4_q0J4uilNNI_sBmQPSPgG9hCqNvCZrEUO1CKDPm_mwUkmdR2_ViotrjNGQ4CnVFrcgPF2J-nlRXlyjy30srvkBSWJcb9YNJenVlxvsK40fZ8VxzWpg/s1600/poetry-collection-tweed-tobacco.jpg" width="193" /></a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">This poem is included in <br />
Jim Freeman's<br />
poetry collection</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">THE SMELL OF TWEED<br />
AND TOBACCO</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jim-freeman.com/2012/07/relationship-poetry-poems-family.html">available here in print<br />
or as an e-Book <br />
in your favorite formats.</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
Jim Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159643010984140014noreply@blogger.com