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This is all I can muster before the clatter of schoolchildren searching for the crooks of guava branches startles all with their expletives and howls; the trailing snot-faced child wailing perpetual— with ritual pauses for breath and pity. How quickly the grandeur fades into a poem, how easily everything of reverie starts to crumble. I walk from the stream.

Within seconds sweat soaks my neck and back; stones clog my shoes, flies prick my flaming face and ears, bramble draws thin lines of blood on my arms. There is a surfeit of love hidden here; at least this is the way faith asserts itself. I emerge from the valley of contradictions, my heart beating with the effort, and stand looking over the banking, far into Kingston Harbor and the blue into gray of the Caribbean Sea.

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I dream up a conceit for this journey and with remarkable snugness it fits; this reggae sound: the bluesy mellow of a stroll on soft, fecund earth, battling the crack of the cross-stick; the scratch of guitar, the electronic manipulation of digital sound, and the plaintive wail of the grating voice. With my eyes closed, I am drunk with the mellow, swimming, swimming among the green of better days; and I rise from the pool of sound, slippery with the warm cling of music on my skin, and enter the drier staleness of the road that leads to the waiting city of fluorescent lights.

It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine, Tugging at banks, until they seemed Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,.

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That the man who erected this cabin, planted This field, and tended it awhile, Knew not the quirks of imagery,. That the hours of his indolent, arid days, Grotesque with this nosing in banks, This somnolence and rattapallax,. Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being, As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.

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To save our fish, we lifted them from our skeletoned river beds, loosed them in our heavens, set them aster—. Coyote too is up there, crouched in the moon, after his failed attempt to leap it, fishing net wet. Just as my own mouth is dreamed to thirst the long desire-ways, the hundred-thousand light year roads.

Who will show us the way? Teach us our songs? Hollow places Will become hallowed ground Where trees once stood Listen now While they still stand While they still sing. Summers spent practicing in the apartment stairwell: hand on the bannister, one foot after another. That burgundy carpet. Oak leaves so full of late summer. My God. The urge to rest like the birds on the phone wires, chatting like barristers.

Myself the useless Ambassador from the third floor. I was the last one up so the door was left open. I can still see it gaping. Sometimes music played. Neighbors stopped to say hello. Achingly beautiful how the sky. Nicer somehow in the middle. All the trees tucking blackbirds into their darkness. It really did take this long. Ten years of driving the same highway, past the same tree, the picture is at last complete.

The eucalyptus tree and narrow birds above a blessed steel sea with no thoughts of yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

Black cormorants on bare branches spread their wings as if in prayer. A sunny day in Summerland and the tree, visible only from the highway, hides its penitent perch from cars racing by too fast. Four wheels swerve to avoid a sheer cliff, southbound on the The fat sun slides its yolk into the glass ocean. Slow down, see an empty nest of woven round sticks in the praying tree.

Birds soak in rays without fear of melanoma or the nature of forgiveness. Slick imperfections, wet wings open and close in Morse code for goodbye. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

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Once I saw the Swedish woman who raises her own food foraging for them, two blond boys quarreling near the pickup, and the next morning they were selling them from their stand beside the road. Today the sun is breaking through the wet branches, revealing a clean sky, brilliant, cerulean.

Then, suddenly, a raft of scudding clouds. Maybe the earth was meant only for this: small comings and goings on the forest floor, the understory astir with its own secret life.

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If I sit still enough among the damp trees, sometimes I see the world without myself in it, and—it always surprises me— nothing at all is lost. The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters. The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass. I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.

From school days, I always had the desire to write, but once diagnosed with cancer now in remission all fear of failure went out the window and I wrote, although the practice and planning had been going on for four years before publication. Also, I like humour in my life and this is reflected hopefully in my website postings. Is this book no longer free? Sign up for our email and ensure you never miss a free book again!

Book Description: Marion just wants to land the role and crush her audition. Can she turn them from friends into lovers? Or… are they even friends in the first place?! Prices are subject to change without notice. Please always check the price of a book before downloading. Elise Sax worked as a journalist for fifteen years, mostly in Paris, France. She took a detour from journalism and became a private investigator before writing her first novel. She lives in Southern California with her two sons. She loves to hear from her readers!

Thomas Wolfe

A cheating husband! Dating at 40… ish! I wondered what they were saying, who they were talking to. This led to an idea about a woman whose marriage is on the rocks, and she starts to use her iPhone as a confessional. But when she makes an exception for handsome musician Trevor, she finds herself caught between two delicious men in this fun-filled, steamy New York Times and USA Today bestseller!

I used up five of them in this book. There is naught can show A life so trustless! Proud be thy crown! Ruthless, like none, save the Sea, alone! And pray that a wreath like a rainbow May slip from the beautiful past, And Crown me again with the sweet, strong love And keep me, and hold me fast. The light came through the window, Straight from the sun above, And so inside my little room There plunged the rays of Love. The daily actions of religious people have accomplished uncounted good deeds throughout history, alleviating suffering, feeding the hungry, caring for the sick.

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Religions have brought the comfort of belonging and companionship to many who would otherwise have passed through this life all alone, without glory or adventure. They have not just provided first aid, in effect, for people in difficulties; they have provided the means for changing the world in ways that remove those difficulties. As Alan Wolfe says, "Religion can lead people out of cycles of poverty and dependency just as it led Moses out of Egypt".

There is much for religion lovers to be proud of in their traditions, and much for all of us to be grateful for.

The Last Page

The fact that so many people love their religions as much as, or more than, anything else in their lives is a weighty fact indeed. I am inclined to think that nothing could matter more than what people love. At any rate, I can think of no value that I would place higher. I would not want to live in a world without love.