Hey, saddle tramp, said Vernon. I dont think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men. Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. Ive had just about all the crap Im going to take from a local loudmouth like you, Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldnt back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didnt even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adams apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldnt swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, Ohooo, shit. .
Whatever Touches Your Life 1983 By James Richard Langston Listen . . . hear the cricket, In the softness of the night, Stand quietly by a meadow, See the birds taking flight. Hear the whisper of a breeze, Blowing through trees of pine, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Touch the velvet of a rose, On an early summer’s day, Smell the sweet aroma, Of a field of new mown hay. Throw caution to the wild wind, Play it loose just one time, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Blink your eyes at the sun, As it sets behind the hill, Skip a rock across the pond, By the old rustic mill. Cheer your team on to victory, As it comes from behind. Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Taste a frosty snowflake, As it falls upon your tongue, See a mother hen fret, As she hovers o’er her young. Stay in tune with mother nature, Give her reason, give her rhyme, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine.
The whistle of the train sounded, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He turned to see if the sound of the whistle had disturbed any of the other passengers. The only one that seemed to be awake was the woman with PC sown on her luggage. He still didnt know what the initials stood for. "Are you restless too?" she asked. A polite smile was written on her lips. Jim tried to warm up a smile and send it back, but he only managed to put one kink in the corner of his mouth. It wasnt that he was not attracted to her; just the sight of her burned him to the core. It was just not the time and, mainly the, place to vent the heat. "If a man wasn't restless every now and then, he said, he would never get anything done, that is, anything worth doing." Well said, Ive always heard that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well, she said, again with that fantastic smile that penetrated Jims very soul. Is that your aim, to do what you do well, I mean? If it gets done at all, I intend to do it the best that I can, he said. This time, he managed to stretch a smile all the way across his lean face. She smiled again, very small, then turned away to continue her fruitless effort to sleep. She turned once more to glance the man. He looked tight and strangely savage in a gentle way. Pamela Cross was confused. Something about this man disturbed her as if they were destined to meet again. She watched as he went to the door, rubbed the fog from the glass and peered out into the darkness. Then he returned to his seat for a time and sat with his saddlebags and .44-.40 Winchester lying across his lap. The train was in an easy run to the springs. He listened to the chugging sound of the engine as it did its work; looked at the woman and felt a strong stirring in his loins.
Cherokee Teardrops 1985 By James Richard Langston Cherokee teardrops, Soft, dark and deep, Shed by Cherokee women, Every time they weep. The tears of Cherokee women, Rolled down their cheeks, They cried for their nation, Their braves lay at their feet. Their homes all in ashes, Their children standing bare, They wiped Cherokee teardrops, With their long raven hair. A defeated Cherokee nation, Submitting to their fate, Were moved to Oklahoma, In the winter of thirty eight. Proud Cherokee teardrops, Shed on every hand, All because the white man, Found gold on Cherokee land. Cherokee teardrops, From southern mountains grand, Spread across this nation, To a wasted, dusty land. Cherokee teardrops, Falling on two stones, Left a trail of sadness, From their southern mountain homes.
Bert Rawlings, he called. Rawlings turned in his seat and slowly rose to his feet. He knew he, himself, was fast with a gun and it had come down to who was faster, him or Johnson. When he was fully erect, he kicked the chair from him. With a smirk of a smile on one corner of his mouth, he spoke. Well, what can I do for you Mr. Johnson? There was a mocking tone to his voice. Ive come to settle a debt with you for killing five of my men and for your violation of a good woman in Amarillo. The room became so quiet you could have heard a bug burp. All eyes were moving from one to the other of the two men facing each other. Sweat beads popped out on the forehead of both. Finally Rawlings shrugged his shoulders as if giving up the fight when his hand swept for the butt of his gun. He was fast. Like lightening he had his weapon clear of the holster and coming up to face a .44 that was more like greased lightning. JBs first bullet tagged Rawlings just above the belt buckle and his physical reaction was just enough to pull his shot off and his slug hit JB in the upper left shoulder. JBs second shot punched a hole in the center of Rawlings breastbone exploding bone fragments all through his lungs and upper body, ventilating his heart. The chunk of hot lead continued on, taking out Rawlings spine as it zinged into the wall behind. Rawlings was dead when he hit the floor. JB stood there for a second to make sure, Rawlings was through. He replaced his empties, holstered his gun and held his shoulder. Joe rushed over and helped JB to a chair. He looked up at the barkeep and asked him to send for a doctor. By the time the doctor arrived on the scene, JB had passed out from both shock and loss of blood.
Bert Rawlings, he called. Rawlings turned in his seat and slowly rose to his feet. He knew he, himself, was fast with a gun and it had come down to who was faster, him or Johnson. When he was fully erect, he kicked the chair from him. With a smirk of a smile on one corner of his mouth, he spoke. Well, what can I do for you Mr. Johnson? There was a mocking tone to his voice. Ive come to settle a debt with you for killing five of my men and for your violation of a good woman in Amarillo. The room became so quiet you could have heard a bug burp. All eyes were moving from one to the other of the two men facing each other. Sweat beads popped out on the forehead of both. Finally Rawlings shrugged his shoulders as if giving up the fight when his hand swept for the butt of his gun. He was fast. Like lightening he had his weapon clear of the holster and coming up to face a .44 that was more like greased lightning. JBs first bullet tagged Rawlings just above the belt buckle and his physical reaction was just enough to pull his shot off and his slug hit JB in the upper left shoulder. JBs second shot punched a hole in the center of Rawlings breastbone exploding bone fragments all through his lungs and upper body, ventilating his heart. The chunk of hot lead continued on, taking out Rawlings spine as it zinged into the wall behind. Rawlings was dead when he hit the floor. JB stood there for a second to make sure, Rawlings was through. He replaced his empties, holstered his gun and held his shoulder. Joe rushed over and helped JB to a chair. He looked up at the barkeep and asked him to send for a doctor. By the time the doctor arrived on the scene, JB had passed out from both shock and loss of blood.
The whistle of the train sounded, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He turned to see if the sound of the whistle had disturbed any of the other passengers. The only one that seemed to be awake was the woman with PC sown on her luggage. He still didnt know what the initials stood for. "Are you restless too?" she asked. A polite smile was written on her lips. Jim tried to warm up a smile and send it back, but he only managed to put one kink in the corner of his mouth. It wasnt that he was not attracted to her; just the sight of her burned him to the core. It was just not the time and, mainly the, place to vent the heat. "If a man wasn't restless every now and then, he said, he would never get anything done, that is, anything worth doing." Well said, Ive always heard that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well, she said, again with that fantastic smile that penetrated Jims very soul. Is that your aim, to do what you do well, I mean? If it gets done at all, I intend to do it the best that I can, he said. This time, he managed to stretch a smile all the way across his lean face. She smiled again, very small, then turned away to continue her fruitless effort to sleep. She turned once more to glance the man. He looked tight and strangely savage in a gentle way. Pamela Cross was confused. Something about this man disturbed her as if they were destined to meet again. She watched as he went to the door, rubbed the fog from the glass and peered out into the darkness. Then he returned to his seat for a time and sat with his saddlebags and .44-.40 Winchester lying across his lap. The train was in an easy run to the springs. He listened to the chugging sound of the engine as it did its work; looked at the woman and felt a strong stirring in his loins.
Hey, saddle tramp, said Vernon. I dont think I like a bum like you coming in here to drink with us men. Matt turned to face Guthry, spread his feet shoulder wide with his gun hand thumb still hooked in his belt, still three fingers from his .44. The men that stood along the bar, drifted to one side, out of the line of fire. The room grew deadly quiet. Ive had just about all the crap Im going to take from a local loudmouth like you, Matt said. There was a deadly chill to his voice and Vernon shivered slightly from the feel of it. All of a sudden, he realized that he might be biting off a little more than he could chew. Being the braggart that he was, he couldnt back down from the step he had taken. He crouched and went for his pistol. Realization that he didnt even have his gun half way out of leather, and was already looking into the black hole of a barrel, that looked three inches in diameter, he froze and in no time at all he felt the sting of salty sweat in his eyes from the large beads that had popped out on his forehead and trickled down. He swallowed hard, his Adams apple moved up and down but the lump in his throat was just about to choke him and he couldnt swallow it. He lost control of his bladder and pissed down his leg, the warm fluid trickling into his left boot. Dawning on him that he had just pissed in his own whiskey, he sucked in a mountain of air and said with a high pitched, fine toothed comb, squeak, Ohooo, shit. .
Cherokee Teardrops 1985 By James Richard Langston Cherokee teardrops, Soft, dark and deep, Shed by Cherokee women, Every time they weep. The tears of Cherokee women, Rolled down their cheeks, They cried for their nation, Their braves lay at their feet. Their homes all in ashes, Their children standing bare, They wiped Cherokee teardrops, With their long raven hair. A defeated Cherokee nation, Submitting to their fate, Were moved to Oklahoma, In the winter of thirty eight. Proud Cherokee teardrops, Shed on every hand, All because the white man, Found gold on Cherokee land. Cherokee teardrops, From southern mountains grand, Spread across this nation, To a wasted, dusty land. Cherokee teardrops, Falling on two stones, Left a trail of sadness, From their southern mountain homes.
Whatever Touches Your Life 1983 By James Richard Langston Listen . . . hear the cricket, In the softness of the night, Stand quietly by a meadow, See the birds taking flight. Hear the whisper of a breeze, Blowing through trees of pine, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Touch the velvet of a rose, On an early summer’s day, Smell the sweet aroma, Of a field of new mown hay. Throw caution to the wild wind, Play it loose just one time, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Blink your eyes at the sun, As it sets behind the hill, Skip a rock across the pond, By the old rustic mill. Cheer your team on to victory, As it comes from behind. Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine. Taste a frosty snowflake, As it falls upon your tongue, See a mother hen fret, As she hovers o’er her young. Stay in tune with mother nature, Give her reason, give her rhyme, Let whatever touches your life, Be in tune to touching mine.
The New Red Negro surveys African-American poetry from the onset of the Depression to the early days of the Cold War. It considers the relationship between the thematic and formal choices of African-American poets and organized ideology from the proletarian early 1930s to the neo-modernist late 1940s. This study examines poetry by writers across the spectrum: canonical, less well-known, and virtually unknown. The ideology of the Communist Left as particularly expressed through cultural institutions of the literary Left significantly influenced the shape of African-American poetry in the 1930s and 40s, as well as the content. One result of this engagement of African-American writers with the organized Left was a pronounced tendency to regard the re-created folk or street voice as the authentic voice--and subject--of African-American poetry. Furthermore, a masculinist rhetoric was crucial to the re-creation of this folk voice. This unstable yoking of cultural nationalism, integrationism, and internationalism within a construct of class struggle helped to shape a new relationship of African-American poetry to vernacular African-American culture. This relationship included the representation of African-American working class and rural folk life and its cultural products ostensibly from the mass perspective. It also included the dissemination of urban forms of African-American popular culture, often resulting in mixed media high- low hybrids.
Discover Idaho with Moon Travel Guides! Whether you're hitting the slopes, paddling glacial lakes, or sipping your way through the Snake River Valley, explore the best of the Gem State with Moon Idaho. Inside you'll find: Strategic itineraries for any timeline or budget, including the best scenic road trips, a wine country weekend, and a winter sports getaway Activities and ideas for every traveler: Spend a day sipping local vintages in the Snake River Valley wine country, or relax at a ritzy Sun Valley lodge after a day of skiing and snowboarding some of the best slopes in the country. Hike through the Rockies to alpine lakes and waterfalls, marvel at the bizarre landscape at Craters of the Moon National Monument, or go white-water rafting on the Salmon River. Explore Boise's hip downtown area, browse unique antique shops and used bookstores in historic Nampa, or grab a drink at a rustic saloon in a Victorian-era mining town Where to find the best outdoor recreation, including cross-country and alpine skiing, rafting, kayaking, mountain biking, fishing, golfing, rock climbing, and hiking, plus essential health and safety tips Expert insight from Boise local James Patrick Kelly Detailed maps and handy reference photos throughout Honest advice on when to go, how to get around, and where to stay, from historic inns and B&Bs to budget motels and campgrounds Thorough information including background on the landscape, climate, wildlife, and local culture With Moon Idaho's expert advice, myriad activities, and local insight on the best things to do and see, you can plan your trip your way. Exploring more of the West? Check out Moon Montana & Wyoming. Headed to the parks? Try Moon Yellowstone & Grand Teton.
Richard Connell is happily married to his wife Kara in 1880 Utah Territory. Then his Mormon ecclesiastical leader calls him to take a second wife, completely scrambling his world. The shock is multiplied by the choice of who is to become that second wife in acceptance of Gods law. Further complicating his life is the assignment of U.S. Deputy Marshal William Baker Alden to enforce federal anti-polygamy laws by arresting and helping prosecute offenders. Aldens task is difficult as Mormons have created all sorts of defenses and diversions. Among Richards challenges: choose which law to obey, successfully court a second wife, keep household peace, hide one wife, avoid an apparently inevitable confrontation with federal law officials. An interesting, personal, historically accurate inside look at Mormon polygamy.
Thank you for visiting our website. Would you like to provide feedback on how we could improve your experience?
This site does not use any third party cookies with one exception — it uses cookies from Google to deliver its services and to analyze traffic.Learn More.