I think it all comes down to relationships - how I treat my wife, how I treat my kids, how I treat the guys at the grocery store, all aspects of every day, what I'm involved in.
quote by Michael W. Smith
Added by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Lies About Tall Guys
Just seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys seem to get executive jobs
Shorter guys work mostly as clerks
Taller guys never seem to be slobs
Shorter guys always seem to be jerks
Taller guys seem to get all of the action
Shorter guys seem to be quite invisible
Taller guys always seem to deserve satisfaction
Shorter guys are lonely and miserable
Just seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys just seem born to play sports
Shorter guys kinda seem to like tennis
Taller guys certainly look better in shorts
Shorter guys look like Dennis the Menace
Taller guys are usually at the top of their class
Shorter guys seem to fail quite a lot
Taller guys always seem to kick ass
Shorter guys want to, but simply cannot
sure seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys get better grades and such
Shorter guys seem to barely scrape by
Taller guys seem to do better, pretty much
Shorter guys always wonder why
Taller guys seem to have eyes like a hawk
Shorter guys seem to wear glasses a lot
Taller guys cover more ground when they walk
Shorter guys, to keep up, have to trot
Sure seems like it’s that way to me
Taller guys and their friends look like N.B.A players
Shorter guys look more like cheerleaders
Taller guys seem to look like dragon slayers
Shorter guys look a lot more like bleeders
[...] Read more
poem by David Whalen
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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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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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ahh, Let's Get Ill
I'm the Ladies Love, legend in leather
Long and lean, and I don't wear pleather
Last of the red hot lovin MC's
Lookin for a little, that's my theory
It goes quick like lightning, too exciting
Lover of ladies, don't allow biting
Level-headed leader, toy boy feeder
Good love life and a rhyme biter beater
Looking, learning, the one you're liking
Listen and you will love what I'm writing
Ladies love, long, hard and lean
And now you know what L.L. means
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Come on now
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Lightning in the sky, L.L. don't lie
I can hold a larger load than those other little guys
My literature is the land's highest law
The man of the brand, one you look out for
I'm loose like the lace in your brand new sneaker
Release the bass in your face like a large Vega speaker
Li-li-lis-listen to my rhyme
Here to satisfy the listeners who stood on line
Bought tickets to see me kick it and wasn't late
The love every little bit of the cuts he creates
First not last, leader of the class, see
From London, Long Beach, and down to Tallahassee
Ladies are pleased, I'm not wearin Lee's
The Kangol is mine, the godfather is E
I bust your lip, my level won't slip
Clockin crazy dollars on the L.L. tip
Come on!
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Come on
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[ guys ] Let's get ill!
Everybody
[ girls ] Aaaahhhhhhhh!
[...] Read more
song performed by LL Cool J
Added by Lucian Velea
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XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator
Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!
It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!
Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dead Guy Stickers
In the USA,
They want to put dead guy pictures on cigarette packs.
With that brilliant logic in mind, I say put dead guy stickers on:
car windshields(dead guys in wrecks)
pistol and rifle handles (dead guys shot)
marriage licenses (dead spouses)
hamburger and hot dog wrappers (dead fat guys)
pies, cakes (more dead fat guys)
bathroom doors (thousands of dead guys in bathrooms every year)
bicycles (road kill dead guys)
fire places (burnt dead guys)
swimming pools (drown dead guys)
every electrical outlet (fried dead guys)
air plane tickets (dead passenger guys)
the beach (shark bit dead guys)
cities (shot dead guys)
air (blue dead guys)
fish (poisoned dead guys)
motorcycles (more road kill dead guys)
scarfs (strangled dead guys)
football helmets (brain dead guys)
hot tubs (more drowned dead guys)
and so on.
Just about everything can kill you, such as:
Mothers (dead baby guys plus dead fathers)
Fathers (dead baby guys plus dead mothers)
Police(multiple dead guys and chicks)
Drugs (multiple dead guys and chicks)
and so on.
Once everything has a dead guy sticker on it,
You've been warned and the world will be safer, right?
It shows we care, right?
poem by Richard Jarboe
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Virginia's Story
Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.
She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.
When she was old enough she got married.
First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.
Agnes was my mother.
Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.
Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.
Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.
Anna was a maid and cook.
She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth
They were both good cooks
They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.
My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.
She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.
[...] Read more
poem by Talile Ali
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Luggage Canada
b ean bag stoer
bed liner motorcycle bags
bern aby bag
bed in a bag ty pennington
beetle bags roadstar midnight star
bean bag chairs burbank
bedroom in a bag justine
bean bag guns for purchase
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bed in a bag pink paisley
belt bag tool belt
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bennington golf travel bag
bible verse shoulder hand bags
bean bag stuffing material
bean bag plastic pellets
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belkin messenger bag
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bean bag chairs reno nv
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ben hogan kapalua golf bag
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bean bag furniture paypal
bean bags chair ladybug
bean bag tossing game
betty boop gift bags
bean bag tic tac toe
bettz designs knitting tote bags
bean bag toss rules
beth any bag
bean bag chair indigo denim print
bean bag pillows microfiber
be an foam bag
bible buy loaf bag
bebe handbag bag
beverage delivery bags
betty boop harley bag
bichon frise gift bags
ben hogan golf mystique stand bag
bicyce crossbar bag
bean bag shells shotgun
[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Victories Of Love. Book II
I
From Jane To Her Mother
Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,
[...] Read more
poem by Coventry Patmore
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Freedom of Love
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)
My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
[...] Read more
poem by Andre Breton
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IX. Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius, Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus
Had I God's leave, how I would alter things!
If I might read instead of print my speech,—
Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower
Refuses obstinate to blow in print,
As wildings planted in a prim parterre,—
This scurvy room were turned an immense hall;
Opposite, fifty judges in a row;
This side and that of me, for audience—Rome:
And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide—
Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough.
A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd,
Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff,
Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court
"Requires the allocution of the Fisc!"
I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause
O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two—
Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,—
When it may hap some painter, much in vogue
Throughout our city nutritive of arts,
Ye summon to a task shall test his worth,
And manufacture, as he knows and can,
A work may decorate a palace-wall,
Afford my lords their Holy Family,—
Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court
How such a painter sets himself to paint?
Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe
A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece:
Why, first he sedulously practiseth,
This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,—
On what may nourish eye, make facile hand;
Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so)
From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk
Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,—
This Luca or this Carlo or the like.
To him the bones their inmost secret yield,
Each notch and nodule signify their use:
On him the muscles turn, in triple tier,
And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man
"Familiarize thee with our play that lifts
"Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!"
—Ensuring due correctness in the nude.
Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know!
He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,—
If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found,
May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)—
Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow,
Loseth no involution, cheek or chap,
Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives!
Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Kids Are Alright
I dont mind other guys dancing with my girl
I dont mind other guys dancing with my girl
Thats fine, I know them all pretty well
Thats fine, I know them all pretty well
But I know sometimes I must get out in the light
But I know sometimes I must get out in the light
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
The kids are alright
The kids are alright
Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I dont, Ill go out of my mind
And I know if I dont, Ill go out of my mind
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
The kids are alright
The kids are alright
I know if I go things would be a lot better for her
I know if I go things would be a lot better for her
I had things planned, but her folks wouldnt let her
I had things planned, but her folks wouldnt let her
I dont mind other guys dancing with my girl
I dont mind other guys dancing with my girl
Thats fine, I know them all pretty well
Thats fine, I know them all pretty well
But I know sometimes I must get out in the light
But I know sometimes I must get out in the light
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
The kids are alright
The kids are alright
Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I dont, Ill go out of my mind
And I know if I dont, Ill go out of my mind
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
Better leave her behind with the kids, theyre alright
The kids are alright
The kids are alright
song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Kids
Written by jay kay and toby smith
Now were getting nasty
Everybody is talking about the kids
The kids have funky soul and groove emotion
But if you dont give the kids the chance to use it
Theyre always more than likely to abuse it
Kids get down, stormy weather, fifteen years of royal pleasure.
Everybodys talking about the kids
And its taking time for you to realise
Now hunger turns to anger in your eyes
I say the revolution will be televised, yes it will gil...
Everybodys talking about the kids
Kids get down, stormy weather, fifteen years of royal pleasure.
Kids get down underground, evrybody dance to the funky sound.
Everybodys talking about the kids
The kids need space to get their heads in place
And every day this world we have to face
Well I just cant seem to find my proper place
Kids get down, celebrate, now were gonna kick the thing we hate
Everybodys talking about the kids
It wont be long before we get our own
And every kid can truly feel at home
I told ya you should give the dog a bone.
Kids get down, pressurized, to live the life that you devised
Kids get down, celebrate, life is to short to complicate
Everybodys talking about school
But I get more pleasure breaking all the rules
Cos lesson one begins with life is cruel
Well I guess Im just an educated fool
Everybodys talking about the kids
Mom and dad make efforts to excuse it
Government officials will confuse it
Members of the bench will try to prove it
Youre going down sucker!
Everybodys talking about the kids now
Everybodys talking about the kids now
The kids got funky soul
Everybodys talking about high
But kids get high to satisfy
For reaching out to touch the sky
Is all I can identify, and you know why...
Kids get down, stormy weather, fifteen years of royal pleasure
Kids get down celebrate, now were gonna kick the thing we hate.
song performed by Jamiroquai
Added by Lucian Velea
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Not A Black Wind On A Blue Day
Not a black wind on a blue day
but definitely grey.
Enter image of a slumping gas pump
with red paint flaking off it
and a coca cola sign just as old
hanging lop-sided
above an abandoned grocery store
across a small wooden bridge on a dirt road
beside an old stone mill with a seized waterwheel
that stopped turning in the flow of the river a long time ago.
Now take it a step further
and try to imagine a black pot-belly stove
in the middle of the wooden-floored grocery store
with people warming their hands around it
like petals turned toward
this black sun that shines at midnight
almost cast iron cherry red when its stoked
with two year old red oak
and it's snowing thick and heavy outside
as if someone got into a pillow fight with swans
and there's an orange-apricot glow
ripening on the drifts under the storefront windows,
that tints the blue snow
towards its complementary violet
and everything looks like a picture-perfect oil painting
on a nineteen-fifties Christmas card.
And there are people inside. Can you see them?
They look like dark, habitable planets transiting the light
of another star seventy-one light years from here.
Silhouettes of men who are always wiping their hands on a rag
as if they just finished fixing something,
farm wives asking the grocery clerk
who cooked which pie
and whose were selling the most,
kids as impatient as snowballs
waiting for their skates to be sharpened
that expect you to use your imagination
to fill in the negative spaces
and give them the benefit of the doubt as to the rest.
The river that runs beside the mill
isn't all that wide but it canters
over a Stonehenge of creek stones
like a blue-black anthracite horse
with a white mane
that's no longer harnessed
to the tyranny of equinoctial wheels.
And I'd expect to see more trucks
than cars parked outside
and feel that everybody
took a secret pride in being trusted enough
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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I Wish I Was Queer So I Could Get Chicks
If your ass is a Chinese restaurant I'll have the poo-poo platter
My friend Jerry Vandergrift kissed me in Home Ec. class
Later in the afternoon some jarheads in the locker room kicked my ass
I said guys I'm like you I like Monster Trucks too
Wanna see how many push-ups I can do?
I just wish I was queer so I could get chicks
Chicks dig guys that are
Queer guys that don't dig
Chicks that don't dig guys like me
See I'm not queer I'm too ugly
But if I were handsome just imagine how great it would be
Incognito as gay though but not actually that way though pseudo homo phony
Maybe it's a stupid theory or maybe just stupidity
But if I was a queerbee in the fashion industry
Scoring with a super model would be easy
Cause 'super model' means voluptuous but is also is synonomous with 'super dumb'
Ya see I'd be a good listener so she'd treat me like a sister and soon I'd become
That trusted friend that cares that rubs her back and braids her hair
No it wouldn't be a week before I'm in her underwear
I wish I was queer so I could get chicks
Chicks dig guys that are
Queer guys that don't dig
Chicks that don't dig guys like me
See I'm not queer I'm too ugly
Doesn't matter what I'm packin' in my denim it's what's in my genes
The only smoked meat the only sausage I would eat is made by Jimmy Dean
See I'm not to keen on the smell of Vaseline
No I'm not Princess Di and I don't wanna be a queen
I wish I was queer so I could get chicks
Anyway if I were gay I'd have to change my name to Dirk or Lewis
Hang out with my mom's hair stylist his name is Kip he's got a lisp he talks like this
And wear my mother's lingerie learn the songs of Broadway
And appreciate Depeche Mode and avant garde ballet
I wish I was queer so I could get chicks
Chicks dig guys that are
Queer guys that don't dig
Chicks dig guys that are
Queer guys that don't dig
Chicks dig guys that are
Queer guys that don't dig
Chicks that don't dig guys like me
See I'm not queer I'm too ugly
And I don't shave my heiny
Don't shave my heiny
See I'm not queer I'm too ugly
song performed by Bloodhound Gang from One Fierce Beer Coaster
Added by Lucian Velea
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Broken Relationships
Wanting to mend them.
And to fix.
Those Broken relationships,
We came to know but miss.
Wanting to mend them.
And to fix.
Those broken relationships,
We came to know but miss.
Forgiving is easier when that act is done.
But to forget is not as quick,
As is wished.
Forgiving is easier when that act is done.
But to forget is not as quick,
As is wished.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
Wanting to mend them.
And to fix.
Those Broken relationships,
We came to know but miss.
Wanting to mend them.
And to fix.
Those broken relationships,
We came to know but miss.
Forgiving is easier when that act is done.
But to forget is not as quick,
As is wished.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
Broken relationships,
Are hard to mend when they end.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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