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e-book Wandering. Not Lost: Stories For The Vagabond Hearts

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Put on yer best steely-toed, most comfortable blues sueded shoes, and hike along the Homeless Trail fer a spell an REELY listen, ta some uv our Tales…. Who knows? Maybe one day you can now Wander comfortably around and amongst us, not worrying about getting Lost. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account.

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You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. Notify me of new comments via email. Notify me of new posts via email. How can we wring the most good out of the collective and not be Borg? RSS - Posts. RSS - Comments. Blog at WordPress. Listen to the heart God blessed you with and not the mind that the world helped program. Animals, peace, war, civil liberties, science, social justice, women's issues, arts, more. Follow: RSS Twitter. Tales from along the Homeless Trail.

Rate this:. Like this: Like Loading Vagabond Ted permalink. Your feedback and insight is much obliged. Cancel reply Enter your comment here Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. Cyboratory Babliography How can we wring the most good out of the collective and not be Borg?

Lusting, You reach out. Mourning, You're left without. Now nothing To do or say, How charming My hollow grave. Dimitris Dec Like a vagabond. I wander around in Athens like a vagabond passing by the house that I rent to be with you, almost three years ago. Before that we were both still living with our parents. You see, we needed some space. Some space from the others, not from each other. We needed some time, for us. Almost three years later and I've lost count of the nights I looked for you in empty bars on stranger's faces at university parties in the train, where we first met Still, I don't regret leaving you.

It was the right thing to do. But I am in pain, after all these years I'm still in pain And no one knows. Not even you. Daniel Irwin Tucker Dec I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses that is in all of us. A vagabond never quite understands the working-class woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land.

I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news.

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They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze. Work ethic Family hearth and home? Days of scent of freshly mown grass? TV and music blaring? Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing but going deeper into the trees and bush burning speaking to our primeval consciousness. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses swishing. The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand?

I think I now understand. I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare. LexiSully Apr The Quad. Sitting out on the fresh green grass awakens something inside me. The dampness of the ground slowly seeping through my blue jeans, the fresh aroma telling me that although the grass was freshly cut, it lives, breathes, and grows Around me are ancient buildings, housing thousands of students, whose minds are alive—or, to be honest, are most likely half asleep The mountains stand softly in the background, somehow still partially snow capped. Freedom The freedom that allows me to be whatever and whoever I want to be.

It beckons me to explore every land and swim in every sea. It shows me who I truly love and who I desire to become This magical place—has allowed me to find me. Mark Penfold Sep The Pigeon Gent. The Pigeon Gent, He woos and coos around the river bent. Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance, With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent. He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance. Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.

Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce, The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.


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At once he knows he must respond, And force this illbread vagabond to abscond. At once chest puffed and muscles flexed, With wild eyes he jabs and pecks. To teach this ruffian respect, So on his actions he may later reflect. He stands his ground both large and proud, To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds. For several rounds they fight and scuffle. With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.

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Then bested suiter fairly parted, The quarrel ends as fast as started. The vanquished victor displays and grooms, As peace and honour now resumes. Soon the ripples upset the green, An armada of ducks come on the scene. Alerted by the heightend coos, They race to see what act insues. The mighty mallards, Kings of the river, None contest their right of way. Their ways of conduct such generous givers.

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Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say. On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been, They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene. There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens, reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens. To their mates for life and lady lovers, The mallard gent is like no others. Such loyalties are seldom seen, In modern times and different dreams.

Fine and lean with striking features, Best examples of river teachers. But at any moment no matter how abrubt, A river duel may easily erupt. Battle can ensue and rage, As both apponents approach and engage. For they mate for life as duck and wife, A rarity in any age or life.

Anne In Wanderlust Apr A Wanderer's Heart. He felt like home The other half of my soul My heart has always been homeless I held a nomad's heart Unable to take part In settling for a love that was fruitless Yet with him, time stood still Leaving my fate unfulfilled With him, I found no need to wander Because of him, I stayed He consumed more of my days In him, I found safety and comfort Then one day I realized I became spoiled with vice For I was a vagabond who stayed What use are my wings If I am not exploring My heart was simply led astray As though I was caught under glass Because I had trespassed In a home that was not meant for me He felt like home When I did not have my own I was not looking for one initially I explored love's territory Leaving my own love's story As I resume my journey again There are times I still wonder On those days of endless ponder If I had made the right choice in the end.

Akhiz Munawar Mar Arianna Nov Snow White: A Wordsplatter Ballad. Shall we?

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Shall she? Away to the woods? Ah, to the woods! To the woods we'll away, To the woods, she Though many still aspire. Sneakers changed for boots, Nice skirts for petticoats patched and worn. Now, to the woods! To the woods And away! We shall, She shall Well now, I'll pour ya a glass!

To the west! To the woods, And away Snow White?

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More like "Off-White"! White Snow? White Wolf? Snow White Wolf? City girl gone vagabond, A camp one day she stumbled on: Seven bandits therein, Drinking whiskey round the fire. And so they lived Happily In an ever-after Beyond The borders of "forever-after", Free from the times' a-changin'.