I have an ulcer. It has an IQ of 185.
quote by Paul Lynde
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The Brus Book 19
[The conspiracy against King Robert; its discovery]
Than wes the land a quhile in pes,
Bot covatys, that can nocht ces
To set men apon felony
To ger thaim cum to senyoury,
5 Gert lordis off full gret renoune
Mak a fell conjuracioun
Agayn Robert the douchty king,
Thai thocht till bring him till ending
And to bruk eftre his dede
10 The kynrik and to ryng in hys steid.
The lord the Soullis, Schyr Wilyam,
Off that purches had mast defame,
For principale tharoff was he
Off assent of that cruelte.
15 He had gottyn with him sindry,
Gilbert Maleherbe, Jhone of Logy
Thir war knychtis that I tell her
And Richard Broun als a squyer,
And gud Schyr Davy off Breichyn
20 Wes off this deid arettyt syne
As I sall tell you forthermar.
Bot thai ilkane discoveryt war
Throu a lady as I hard say
Or till thar purpos cum mycht thai,
25 For scho tauld all to the king
Thar purpose and thar ordanyng,
And how that he suld haf bene ded
And Soullis ryng intill his steid,
And tauld him werray taknyng
30 This purches wes suthfast thing.
And quhen the king wist it wes sua
Sa sutell purches gan he ma
That he gert tak thaim everilkan,
And quhar the lord Soullis was tane
35 Thre hunder and sexty had he
Off squyeris cled in his lyvere
At that tyme in his cumpany
Outane knychtis that war joly.
Into Berwik takyn wes he
40 That mycht all his mengne se
Sary and wa, bot suth to say
The king lete thaim all pas thar way
And held thaim at he takyn had.
[The trial in parliament; the fate of the conspirators]
The lord Soullis sone eftre maid
45 Plane granting of all that purchas.
[...] Read more
poem by John Barbour
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Phil Osopher
A certain Mister Osopher
Thought life was oh so grand,
Till something tragic did occur
Beyond what Phil had planned!
And all at once his jaw fell down
At what he saw that day
And from then on, Phil wore a frown,
Till God took it away...
Although God knew the reasons why
Life's not a piece of cake,
This man became so prone to sigh,
His soul began to ache...
Then came the ulcer, then the pain,
The irritant within...
This caused the man increasing strain,
He felt he couldn't win...
One day, Phil read a Bible verse,
'Cast all your cares on Him...'
By faith, he prayed God end the curse
And fill him to the brim...
That day, his frown began to fade,
His worry lines soon went,
His mirror showed him undismayed,
As if God was his friend...
His ulcer vanished, he relaxed,
Content to trust the Lord,
So that he felt no longer taxed,
Now God's grace was outpoured...
He preached the Word from that time on,
With stories from his life,
Of how God's light meant darkness gone,
Regardless of Man's strife.
That's why when Nature's might unfolds,
Man builds new homes again,
For once each man God's love beholds,
There's faith beyond our ken...
The centuries have proved this true,
No matter how we feel...
When Phil finds time to speak with you,
You'll see his faith is real...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Infinite Being
The Bible Code by Michael Drosnin - read
it before - it is pure joy, started at the back
with Chapter Notes - p.185 - because it's
difficult to focus on explanations when
a great book ends
The Bible Code mentions a fifth dimension
and Alan Guth, physicist, confirms it exists
though only defined in paradox: being smaller
than the atom's nucleus, yet containing
the whole universe
We live in a five-dimensional world: 3 of
space, a 4th of time and a 5th of all things
spiritual - what mysterious ideas - just
the thing to awaken a dream on
possibility of infinite being…
The Bible Code, Michael Drosnin, Weidenfeld &
Nicolson,1997 - pp 185 and 196
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Envy is the ulcer of the soul.
quote by Socrates
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rockefeller Square
By: jimmy buffett, buzz cason
1971
Did you ever just want to lay down
Tell the world you've had enough
Did you ever just want to drop out
When the goin' got a little bit rough
Have you ever walked the sidewalks hungry
Have you ever really had the blues
So now you want to see how the other half live
Well brother whatcha got to lose
Whatcha got to lose if you leave your home
And you never think of ever goin' back
Your father's makin' money for the good of the country
And your mama's out bettin' at the track
Camptown ladies sing them songs doo dah doo dah
And now you gonna to let hair grow long
Get a little pad uptown
Throw away your checkbook and all your credit cards
And use your wits to get around
And you think it's gonna make you happy
See your story in the evening news
And you know its just a game of tryin' to point the blame
Brother whatcha got to lose
Chorus:
Hey lonely rockefeller square
The underground world don't fit a millionaire
Hey rocky whatcha gonna do
First time you've ever had the pressure on you
But rock when the rockin' and the bummin' is through
There'll still be piece of daddy's kingdom for you
Now rocky you sure hurt your mama
And your daddy got an ulcer for a year
With the stock market shot and the war's still hot
It sure was a cruel thing to do
So don't cry boy
Chorus:
Hey lonely rockefeller square
The underground life don't fit a millionaire
Hey rocky whatcha gonna do
First time you've ever had the pressure on you
But rock when the rockin' and the bummin' is through
There'll still be piece of daddy's kingdom for you
Money to pay, money today
Don't you go gay
Rocky better pray
Money today, money to pay
Don't you go gay
Rocky better pray
Money today, money to pay
Don't you go gay
[...] Read more
song performed by Jimmy Buffett
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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For a fly to die on an ulcer is not bad.
Swahili proverbs
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Nobody should smoke cigarettes - and smoking with an ulcer is like pouring gasoline on a burning house.
quote by Sara Murray Jordan
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I'm going to do my best to do both and die of an ulcer at age 30.
quote by Shane West
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Alsace-Lorraine
I
The sister Hours in circles linked,
Daughters of men, of men the mates,
Are gone on flow with the day that winked,
With the night that spanned at golden gates.
Mothers, they leave us, quickening seed;
They bear us grain or flower or weed,
As we have sown; is nought extinct
For them we fill to be our Fates.
Life of the breath is but the loan;
Passing death what we have sown.
Pearly are they till the pale inherited stain
Deepens in us, and the mirrors they form on their flow
Darken to feature and nature: a volumed chain,
Sequent of issue, in various eddies they show.
Theirs is the Book of the River of Life, to read
Leaf by leaf by reapers of long-sown seed:
There doth our shoot up to light from a spiriting sane
Stand as a tree whereon numberless clusters grow:
Legible there how the heart, with its one false move
Cast Eurydice pallor on all we love.
Our fervid heart has filled that Book in chief;
Our fitful heart a wild reflection views;
Our craving heart of passion suckling grief
Disowns the author's work it must peruse;
Inconscient in its leap to wreak the deed,
A round of harvests red from crimson seed,
It marks the current Hours show leaf by leaf,
And rails at Destiny; nor traces clues;
Though sometimes it may think what novel light
Will strike their faces when the mind shall write.
II
Succourful daughters of men are the rosed and starred
Revolving Twelves in their fluent germinal rings,
Despite the burden to chasten, abase, depose.
Fallen on France, as the sweep of scythe over sward,
They breathed in her ear their voice of the crystal springs,
That run from a twilight rise, from a twilight close,
Through alternate beams and glooms, rejoicingly young.
Only to Earth's best loved, at the breathless turns
Where Life in fold of the Shadow reclines unstrung,
And a ghostly lamp of their moment's union burns,
Will such pure notes from the fountain-head be sung.
Voice of Earth's very soul to the soul she would see renewed:
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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Paradise Lost: Book 11
Undoubtedly he will relent, and turn
From his displeasure; in whose look serene,
When angry most he seemed and most severe,
What else but favour, grace, and mercy, shone?
So spake our father penitent; nor Eve
Felt less remorse: they, forthwith to the place
Repairing where he judged them, prostrate fell
Before him reverent; and both confessed
Humbly their faults, and pardon begged; with tears
Watering the ground, and with their sighs the air
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
Of sorrow unfeigned, and humiliation meek.
Thus they, in lowliest plight, repentant stood
Praying; for from the mercy-seat above
Prevenient grace descending had removed
The stony from their hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerate grow instead; that sighs now breathed
Unutterable; which the Spirit of prayer
Inspired, and winged for Heaven with speedier flight
Than loudest oratory: Yet their port
Not of mean suitors; nor important less
Seemed their petition, than when the ancient pair
In fables old, less ancient yet than these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore
The race of mankind drowned, before the shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To Heaven their prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious winds
Blown vagabond or frustrate: in they passed
Dimensionless through heavenly doors; then clad
With incense, where the golden altar fumed,
By their great intercessour, came in sight
Before the Father's throne: them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See$ Father, what first-fruits on earth are sprung
From thy implanted grace in Man; these sighs
And prayers, which in this golden censer mixed
With incense, I thy priest before thee bring;
Fruits of more pleasing savour, from thy seed
Sown with contrition in his heart, than those
Which, his own hand manuring, all the trees
Of Paradise could have produced, ere fallen
From innocence. Now therefore, bend thine ear
To supplication; hear his sighs, though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let me
Interpret for him; me, his advocate
And propitiation; all his works on me,
Good, or not good, ingraft; my merit those
Shall perfect, and for these my death shall pay.
Accept me; and, in me, from these receive
The smell of peace toward mankind: let him live
[...] Read more
poem by John Milton
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Paradise Lost: Book X
Thus they in lowliest plight repentant stood
Praying, for from the Mercie-seat above
Prevenient Grace descending had remov'd
The stonie from thir hearts, and made new flesh
Regenerat grow instead, that sighs now breath'd
Unutterable, which the Spirit of prayer
Inspir'd, and wing'd for Heav'n with speedier flight
Then loudest Oratorie: yet thir port
Not of mean suiters, nor important less
Seem'd thir Petition, then when th' ancient Pair
In Fables old, less ancient yet then these,
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha to restore
The Race of Mankind drownd, before the Shrine
Of Themis stood devout. To Heav'n thir prayers
Flew up, nor missed the way, by envious windes
Blow'n vagabond or frustrate: in they passd
Dimentionless through Heav'nly dores; then clad
With incense, where the Golden Altar fum'd,
By thir great Intercessor, came in sight
Before the Fathers Throne: Them the glad Son
Presenting, thus to intercede began.
See Father, what first fruits on Earth are sprung
From thy implanted Grace in Man, these Sighs
And Prayers, which in this Golden Censer, mixt
With Incense, I thy Priest before thee bring,
Fruits of more pleasing savour from thy seed
Sow'n with contrition in his heart, then those
Which his own hand manuring all the Trees
Of Paradise could have produc't, ere fall'n
From innocence. Now therefore bend thine eare
To supplication, heare his sighs though mute;
Unskilful with what words to pray, let mee
Interpret for him, mee his Advocate
And propitiation, all his works on mee
Good or not good ingraft, my Merit those
Shall perfet, and for these my Death shall pay.
Accept me, and in mee from these receave
The smell of peace toward Mankinde, let him live
Before thee reconcil'd, at least his days
Numberd, though sad, till Death, his doom (which I
To mitigate thus plead, not to reverse)
To better life shall yeeld him, where with mee
All my redeemd may dwell in joy and bliss,
Made one with me as I with thee am one.
To whom the Father, without Cloud, serene.
All thy request for Man, accepted Son,
Obtain, all thy request was my Decree:
But longer in that Paradise to dwell,
The Law I gave to Nature him forbids:
Those pure immortal Elements that know
[...] Read more
poem by John Milton
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Sentinel
I plucked the brambles
Of the turnpike gates
And stashed them somewhere
Impermeable, deeper
Than any vision
Can ever scamper
And every truancy,
Every missed targets,
Every hapless sighs;
Compensating the ulcer
Of the dying times
Will taut the corona
Swathing my treacherous
Barricades and boring
A myriad of openings
With the grandiose of
A portmanteaux
Where vim would
Seep out eagerly
Rolling a red carpet
For the Trojan Horse's entrée
To my sentinel, my graveyard.
poem by Norman Santos
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Georgic 3
Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,
Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,
You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,
Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,
Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus who
The story knows not, or that praiseless king
Busiris, and his altars? or by whom
Hath not the tale been told of Hylas young,
Latonian Delos and Hippodame,
And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,
Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,
By which I too may lift me from the dust,
And float triumphant through the mouths of men.
Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,
To lead the Muses with me, as I pass
To mine own country from the Aonian height;
I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palms
Of Idumaea, and raise a marble shrine
On thy green plain fast by the water-side,
Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,
And rims his margent with the tender reed.
Amid my shrine shall Caesar's godhead dwell.
To him will I, as victor, bravely dight
In Tyrian purple, drive along the bank
A hundred four-horse cars. All Greece for me,
Leaving Alpheus and Molorchus' grove,
On foot shall strive, or with the raw-hide glove;
Whilst I, my head with stripped green olive crowned,
Will offer gifts. Even 'tis present joy
To lead the high processions to the fane,
And view the victims felled; or how the scene
Sunders with shifted face, and Britain's sons
Inwoven thereon with those proud curtains rise.
Of gold and massive ivory on the doors
I'll trace the battle of the Gangarides,
And our Quirinus' conquering arms, and there
Surging with war, and hugely flowing, the Nile,
And columns heaped on high with naval brass.
And Asia's vanquished cities I will add,
And quelled Niphates, and the Parthian foe,
Who trusts in flight and backward-volleying darts,
And trophies torn with twice triumphant hand
From empires twain on ocean's either shore.
And breathing forms of Parian marble there
Shall stand, the offspring of Assaracus,
And great names of the Jove-descended folk,
And father Tros, and Troy's first founder, lord
Of Cynthus. And accursed Envy there
Shall dread the Furies, and thy ruthless flood,
Cocytus, and Ixion's twisted snakes,
[...] Read more
poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Renewed Self After Being Broken By Love's Illusion
you are not my reason anymore
for my arguments
i am my own reason
i chart my own matrices
i situate myself and
then claim my freedom
it is not easy to be weak
it is too inhuman for me to surrender
who are you? a tumor to my brain
a clot to my blood
a clog to my vein
i shall remove you from my system
i have more maps to draw
more places to hide
i am not afraid even if you hold me
i am hard as a nail i am slimy as my ulcer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Lies Have Been Undressed
Lies hung loosely around ones own neck will eventually get tight.
Like sharks they will bite.
The pain caused can ease ones suffering or destroy entire families.
Their is a right moment for the truth.
A place where it should be faced.
With little hesitation ones heart is crushed and they still smile.
We live in a world full of denile.
Where so many are just faking it for something a little easier.
Why should I project my problems on to you.
Why should I cause you your stress that gives you an ulcer.
Avoiding the unavoidable.
Settling for second best.
When she gets undressed you will see her nakedness and you need not be ashamed.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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A Dialogue Between The Soul And Body
Soul
O Who shall, from this Dungeon, raise
A Soul inslav'd so many wayes?
With bolts of Bones, that fetter'd stands
In Feet ; and manacled in Hands.
Here blinded with an Eye ; and there
Deaf with the drumming of an Ear.
A Soul hung up, as 'twere, in Chains
Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins.
Tortur'd, besides each other part,1
In a vain Head, and double Heart.
Body
O who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so,
That mine own Precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless Frame:
(A Fever could but do the same.)
And, wanting where its spight to try,
Has made me live to let me dye.
A Body that could never rest,
Since this ill Spirit it possest.
Soul
What Magic could me thus confine
Within anothers Grief to pine?
Where whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain.
And all my Care its self employes,
That to preserve, which me destroys:
Constrain'd not only to indure
Diseases, but, whats worse, the Cure:
And ready oft the Port to gain,
Am Shipwrackt into Health again.
Body
But Physick yet could never reach
The Maladies Thou me dost teach;
Whom first the Cramp of Hope does Tear:
And then the Palsie Shakes of Fear.
The Pestilence of Love does heat :
Or Hatred's hidden Ulcer eat.
Joy's chearful Madness does perplex:
Or Sorrow's other Madness vex.
Which Knowledge forces me to know;
And Memory will not foregoe.
What but a Soul could have the wit
To build me up for Sin so fit?
So Architects do square and hew,
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Marvell
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Great Men
But really you see there weren’t any great at all.
Those may not have stumbled,
heads high, walked tall,
filling the silence where others mumbled.
But words fail
skulls fall.
And before?
Before, they could taste, smell,
see, tell,
bore.
No different from you and me.
This is the way the world comes in
- unless you see the blood spilt
it’s only hearsay.
Greatness.
We have held a glass
over the antics
of a certain class
driven frantic
by thinking that what you cannot see
can in some way still be yours.
We have magnified their lunacy.
If we hold the glass elsewhere,
So long as we have never been there,
we might uncover,
rediscover,
happiness.
You should not wait
to be great.
It’s bad enough you’ve got the wrong direction.
Don’t add an ulcer
to a bad digestion.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Always The Bride, But Not The Groom
Always the bride, but not the groom
that is what I became
when I went to a Wedding in October.
We went to the wedding,
then along to the reception.
I stood talking to a couple of friends
and the bride rushed in and said to me.
“Dave look after these for me“
She then commenced to hand me
her bridal bouquet and handbag.
One of our friends Donall
gave me a hug and kiss
and asked me to marry him.
His partner Janice grabbed her camera
and took a photo of me,
bridal bouquet in one hand, handbag in the other
and a lopsided smile from the mouth ulcer I had.
Right there and then I became a bride, but not the groom.
20 November 2008
Author’s note:
I dedicate this poem to:
Janice Windle (who took the photo)
Donall Dempsey (who planted the kiss)
Tara (the real bride for dropping me in it.)
poem by David Harris
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Sister Alphonsa (Aug 1910 – July 1946) From Blessed One to Saint
The cradle of Christianity
In India is Kerala-
Where Saint Thomas, the Apostle
Set foot, two thousand years ago.
The fourth child of father, Ouseph,
She lost her mother, Mariam,
When she was just three years of age,
Remaining sick, all through her life.
‘Be a nun, my child’- were the words,
A Carmelite nun said to her:
These were engraved within her heart
Of love for Jesus Christ, till death.
She did not want to get married;
She chose to be a nun in life;
So, burnt her leg in live ash-pit,
To prove her wish to follow Christ.
She joined the Franciscan Convent
Of Clarist nuns and took her vows;
She suffered pain all life in bed,
But offered it to Jesus Christ.
With pain and agony, she lived,
Self-mortified a life for Christ;
Her suffering had turned all joy,
When love of Savior, filled her heart.
She suffered from malaria,
And Tuberculosis and ulcer;
Some doubted her piety too;
But in the end, just truth triumphed.
A robber attacked her by night,
And left her bleeding and upset;
She died when just thirty-seven;
Of double pneumonia illness.
A one-year boy of Kottayam
Was cured of his deformity,
When parents prayed over her tomb,
Starting a string of miracles!
Beatified by John Paul II,
In 1986 itself,
She wrought miracles numerous,
For devotees who prayed to her.
[...] Read more
poem by John Celes
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