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Post by beth on May 13, 2010 14:49:44 GMT -5
The Rope Escape of hope
Or, hope of escape
.. at dawn
It all depends on
How you're fastened on. Kyle Griffith
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Post by fretslider on May 13, 2010 15:34:32 GMT -5
This is an old favourite of mine and it is the 'unofficial' anthem of England.
Jerusalem
by: William Blake
And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills Bring me my bow of burning gold Bring me my arrows of desire Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold Bring me my chariot of fire I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land.
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Post by beth on May 13, 2010 22:47:31 GMT -5
A long time favorite.
The Song Of Wandering Aengus
by: W.B. Yeats
WENT out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
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Post by Wonder Woman on May 14, 2010 7:47:04 GMT -5
My favorite:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
-- written by Max Ehrmann in the 1920s --
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Post by Deleted on May 14, 2010 9:02:38 GMT -5
This is one of my favourite poems and IMHO will be read as long as the English language still has meaning.
'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,' by Robert Browning
I.
My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
II.
What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
III.
If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be.
IV.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
V.
As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith, ``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')
VI.
While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.
VII.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among ``The Band''---to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?
VIII.
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
IX.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do.
X.
So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.
XI.
No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See ``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly, ``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: ``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place, ``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''
XII.
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
XIII.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
XIV.
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
XV.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
XVI.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
XVII.
Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
XVIII.
Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
XIX.
A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
XX.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of route despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
XXI.
Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! ---It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
XXII.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage---
XXIII.
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
XXIV.
And more than that---a furlong on---why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
XXV.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood--- Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
XXVI.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
XXVII.
And just as far as ever from the end! Nought in the distance but the evening, nought To point my footstep further! At the thought, great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought.
XXVIII.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains---with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case.
XXIX.
Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when--- In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den!
XXX.
Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight!
XXXI.
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counter-part In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
XXXII.
Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,--- ``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!''
XXXIII.
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,--- How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet, each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
XXXIV.
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''
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Post by beth on May 15, 2010 8:33:09 GMT -5
Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace The soul that knows it not, knows no release From little things: Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear The sound of wings… Amelia Earhart
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Post by fretslider on May 16, 2010 8:41:05 GMT -5
From my schooldays.... The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair - (They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!") Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all - Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all - The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all - Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet - and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" - If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: "That is not what I meant at all." That is not it, at all.
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - And this, and so much more? - It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all."
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous - Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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Post by beth on May 20, 2010 18:08:40 GMT -5
I lost this one for years. Could only remember a couple of lines. Then, one night, I had speaks with Google for almost an hour and found it again. I think some of the names are taken from a Gaelic Pantheon. Correct me if I'm wrong. *** Elegy: James Douglas Morrison Deirdre and Eogan and Conchobar Ride the King's Road in an open car. Deirdre stands proud as the car scrapes the walls. The clearance is low; the bright lady falls. Swept to the road, she's gone for a ghost, Gone in the night on the Golden Coast. Who, now, shall mourn for Usna's dead? Who will drink poteen o'er Deirdre's fair head? Her sorrow is spent, her howling is done, For Alan and Arden and Naoise are gone. Swept as if mines, they're gone for a ghost, Gone in the night on the Golden Coast. A spirit in frenzy arises from flames, A poet out seeking the elder gods' names. A swan in a duck-nest, a bow strung and drawn, A druid a-singing to greet the pale dawn. Swept by a vision, he chases a ghost To exile, out on the Golden Coast. Shaman and singer, he screams to the skies His pain and his vision. An arrow, he flies Attended by Serpents, by Lizards, by Pan-- Fair Deirdre's returned in the guise of a man. Swept by her spirit, possessed by a ghost, He leads the fey young of the Golden Coast. In Eogan and Conchobar's car they now go, He stands proud, defiant, where clearance is low. The arrow has fallen, the sorrow has burned. Who, now, will mourn the grave howler returned? Swept by her darkness, he's gone for a ghost. The Druid, the Changer, the Poteen-mad Host Is gone in the night on the Golden Coast. --Copyright (c) 1988 by Sourdough Jackson
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2010 20:33:25 GMT -5
The Wrong Reason by Merrit Malloy:
It is not always the absence of love That makes me seem alone. Often it's been too much love Given to me by the wrong people For the wrong reasons That keeps me here. Gladly alone. Rather than have the life sucked Out of me by the violent needs Of other minds and bodies. That does not mean That I'm not grateful But I am sad. Not to be able to put my arms Around those who truly love me And give them something more Than polite indifference. Oh, how I tried. I think they should know I tried. And I choose to be alone Rather than wrapped in arms I could never need.
If you want to know me at all, this poem pretty much says it.
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Post by Deleted on May 20, 2010 20:34:54 GMT -5
Epitath by Merrit Malloy:
When I die Give what's left of me away To children And old men that wait to die. And if you need to cry, Cry for your brother Walking the street beside you. And when you need me, Put your arms Around anyone And give them What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something, Something better Than words Or sounds.
Look for me In the people I've known Or loved, And if you cannot give me away, At least let me live on your eyes And not on your mind.
You can love me most By letting Hands touch hands, By letting Bodies touch bodies, And by letting go Of children That need to be free.
Love doesn't die, People do. So, when all that's left of me Is love, Give me away.
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Post by fretslider on May 22, 2010 10:03:38 GMT -5
Magpies - This goes according to how many you see at one time - I dedicate this to Sadie - our very own fledgeling eater One for sorrow Two for joy Three for a girl Four for a boy Five for silver Six for gold Seven for a secret, never to be told Eight for a wish Nine for a kiss Ten for a bird you must not miss
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Post by beth on May 30, 2010 22:01:24 GMT -5
I don't like everything Rod McKuen has ever written, but 3 or 4 are choice. Here's one of those.
THE ART OF CATCHING TRAINS
1.
I came through the clothesline maze of childhood in basketball shoes. Up from the cracked cement of sidewalks. Long hair blowing in the breeze from barber-college haircuts. I moved into the country knowing love better than long division.
Tricking out with women twice my age we acted out our own French postcards. Dr. Jekyll in the schoolyard, Mr. Hyde behind the barn.
After school the trains, their whistles known by heart. Pennies flattened on a rail and dresser drawers with matchbooks from every northern town - thrown by unknown travelers who never waved back.
I knew the U.P. right of way so well that gandy dancers called me tow-head till they learned my name and engineers would sometimes whistle down the scale on seeing my arm raised.
Baseball's just a sissy game to anyone who's waved at passing trains.
You learn from hobos the art of catching trains. Locomotives slow at trestles and whistle stops to hook the mail.
Diving through an open box car you lie there till your breath comes back. Then standing in the doorway you're the king as crowns of hills and towns go by and nighttime eats the Summer up and spits the stars across the sky.
How did I come to know so many lonesome cities with only pennies in my pockets ? I smiled a lot and rode a lot of trains and got to know conductors and railroad bulls by name. From Alamo to Naples is a ride that took me nearly twenty years. But here I am, my cardboard suitcase traded in for leather.
2.
Now a traveller under the gray-black Winter sky moving down the mountain by torchlight, I've come to find a gathering of eagles. Not for the sake of mingling with the great birds, but only to justify a thousand streets walked end to end. Ten thousand evenings spent listening to the small sounds of the night in station after station.
Not every town in Switzerland has a golden Gondelbahn, but there are other ways to climb the hills and reach the lonesome cities of the world.
Riding friendly bodies you can inch your way to Heaven let alone the far side of the room and who'd deny that brushing elbows in certain streets has not produced for every man at least one vision of Atlantis.
For me old habits don't break easily I wait for trains.
Sometimes I feel I've always been just passing through. On my way away, or toward. Shouting alleluias at an unseen choir or whispering Fa-do's down beneath my breath waiting for an echo not an answer. Everybody has the answers or they'll make them up for you.
Just once I'd like to hear a brand-new question.
What about the trains you ride do they go fast or slow would I recognize your face clacking past the poplar trees if I were stationed on some hill ?
If I did I'd know you by the look of nothing in your eyes, the kindred look that travellers have, the one that says a tentative hello.
If while riding down the rails you see a boy in overalls along the railroad right of way, wave as you go by. Signal with a frown you too are going down the same road.
Small boys need encouragement the freight trains in their minds will only take them just so far. Be kind for small boys need to grow.
- from "Lonesome Cities" © 1967, Stanyan Music Group & Rod McKuen
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Post by Erasmus on May 31, 2010 0:08:52 GMT -5
Not necessarily my favourite but from my favourite poet able to laugh at himself as just as bad as the woman he's chafing. The last line is the killer - "You're a bitch - but so am I" It suggests that early 17th century women were no feeble pushover ready to cling to any man just because he made himself available - he had to offer her something to make him worth hanging on to as much as she did him. That's the kind of strong woman I respect.
WOMAN'S CONSTANCY. by John Donne
NOW thou hast loved me one whole day, To-morrow when thou leavest, what wilt thou say ? Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow ? Or say that now We are not just those persons which we were ? Or that oaths made in reverential fear Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear ? Or, as true deaths true marriages untie, So lovers' contracts, images of those, Bind but till sleep, death's image, them unloose ? Or, your own end to justify, For having purposed change and falsehood, you Can have no way but falsehood to be true ? Vain lunatic, against these 'scapes I could Dispute, and conquer, if I would ; Which I abstain to do, For by to-morrow I may think so too.
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Post by Wonder Woman on May 31, 2010 11:54:47 GMT -5
Befitting Memorial Day:
The Final Inspection
The soldier stood and faced God Which must always come to pass He hoped his shoes were shining Just as bright as his brass.
"Step forward you soldier, How shall I deal with you? Have you always turned the other cheek? To my church have you been true?"
The solider squared his shoulders and said "No, Lord, I guess I ain't Because those of us who carry guns Can't always be a saint."
I've had to work on Sundays And at times my talk was tough, And sometimes I've been violent, Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny That wasn't mine to keep. Though I worked a lot of overtime When the bills got just to steep,
And I never passed a cry for help Though at times I shook with fear, And sometimes, God forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place Among the people here. They never wanted me around Except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord, It needn't be so grand, I never expected or had too much, But if you don't, I'll understand."
There was silence all around the throne Where the saints had often trod As the soldier waited quietly, For the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now, you soldier, You've borne your burden well. Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, You've done your time in Hell."
Author unknown
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Post by beth on Jun 7, 2010 22:52:02 GMT -5
Something in a lighter vein. Daddy Fell into the Pond Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey. We had nothing to do and nothing to say. We were nearing the end of a dismal day, And there seemed to be nothing beyond, Then Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright, And Timothy danced for sheer delight. "Give me the camera, quick, oh quick! He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee, And doubled up, shaking silently, And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft, And it sounded as if the old drake laughed. Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond When Daddy Fell into the pond!
~~~Alfred Noyes
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