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Incomprehensible jargon is the hallmark of a profession.

quote by Kingman Brewster, Jr.
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The Oldest Profession

Dress in sequence, wearing shoes of pretense
The Oldest Profession glides into view
With devoted help from the media
It invades our minds with all kinds of lies under the guise of protection

It is my personal election
The Oldest Profession does not care how things are done
As long as it is number one

It’s not prejudice against anyone
Many times it’s disguised as fun
It travels from coast to coast
And has the audacity to boast about it’s conquest

Dressed in sequence wearing shoes of pretense
The Oldest Profession glides into view

Now it’s horrendous acts aren’t always behind closed doors
Our children are taught about them in folklores

We glorify the horrors as we sit n our parlors and sip tea
From our childhood and up
We’ve accepted this cup of deceit and we repeat it to our
Love ones

Now the name has been changed to protect the game
But we the people are hip what’s going on
We know this profession does not belong in existence

This profession has destroyed life
Promoted chaos and strife
One thing it has never had and never will have, silence

The Oldest Profession in the world is not prostitution
It is Violence

poem by Josephine DixonBanks
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Griselda: A Society Novel In Verse - Chapter V

Griselda's madness lasted forty days,
Forty eternities! Men went their ways,
And suns arose and set, and women smiled,
And tongues wagged lightly in impeachment wild
Of Lady L.'s adventure. She was gone,
None knew by whom escorted or alone,
Or why or whither, only that one morning,
Without pretext, or subterfuge, or warning,
She had disappeared in silence from L. House,
Leaving her lord in multitudinous
And agonised conjecture of her fate:
So the tale went. And truly less sedate
Than his wont was in intricate affairs,
Such as his Garter or his lack of heirs,
Lord L. was seen in this new tribulation.
Griselda long had been his life's equation,
The pivot of his dealings with the world,
The mainstay of his comfort, all now hurled
To unforeseen confusion by her flight:
There was need of action swift and definite.
Where was she? Who could tell him? Divers visions
Passed through his fancy--thieves, and street collisions,
And all the hundred accidents of towns,
From broken axle trees to broken crowns.
In vain he questioned; no response was made
More than the fact that, as already said,
My lady, unattended and on foot,
(A sad imprudence here Lord L. took note),
Had gone out dressed in a black morning gown
And dark tweed waterproof, 'twixt twelve and one,
Leaving no orders to her maid, or plan
About her carriage to or groom or man.
Such was in sum the downstairs' evidence.
The hall porter, a man of ponderous sense,
Averred her ladyship had eastward turned
From the front door, and some small credit earned
For the suggestion that her steps were bent
To Whitechapel on merciful intent,
A visit of compassion to the poor,
A clue which led to a commissioner
Being sent for in hot haste from Scotland Yard.
And so the news was bruited abroad.

It reached my ears among the earliest,
And from Lord L. himself, whose long suppressed
Emotion found its vent one afternoon
On me, the only listener left in town.
His thoughts now ran on ``a religious craze
Of his poor wife's,'' he said, ``in these last days
Indulged beyond all reason.'' The police

[...] Read more

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Everything You Did

6:05
Outside the stadium
Special delivery
For hoops mccann
Brut and charisma
Poured from the shadow where he stood
Looking good
Hes a crowd pleasing man
One on one
Hes schoolyard superman
Crashing the backboard
Hes jungle jim again
When its all over
Well make some calls from my car
Were a star
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
All aboard
The carib cannibal
Off to barbados
Just for the ride
Jack with his radar
Stalking the dread moray eel
At the wheel
With his eurasian bride
On the town
We dress for action
Celluloid bikers
Is fridays theme
I drove the chrysler
Watched from the darkness while they danced
Im the one
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
Hollywood
I know your middle name
Who inspires your fabled fools
Thats my claim to fame
Jive miguel
Hes in from bogota

[...] Read more

song performed by Steely Dan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Glamor Profession

6:05
Outside the stadium
Special delivery
For hoops mccann
Brut and charisma
Poured from the shadow where he stood
Looking good
Hes a crowd pleasing man
One on one
Hes schoolyard superman
Crashing the backboard
Hes jungle jim again
When its all over
Well make some calls from my car
Were a star
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
All aboard
The carib cannibal
Off to barbados
Just for the ride
Jack with his radar
Stalking the dread moray eel
At the wheel
With his eurasian bride
On the town
We dress for action
Celluloid bikers
Is fridays theme
I drove the chrysler
Watched from the darkness while they danced
Im the one
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
Hollywood
I know your middle name
Who inspires your fabled fools
Thats my claim to fame
Jive miguel
Hes in from bogota

[...] Read more

song performed by Steely Dan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Glamour Profession

6:05
Outside the stadium
Special delivery
For hoops mccann
Brut and charisma
Poured from the shadow where he stood
Looking good
Hes a crowd pleasing man
One on one
Hes schoolyard superman
Crashing the backboard
Hes jungle jim again
When its all over
Well make some calls from my car
Were a star
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
All aboard
The carib cannibal
Off to barbados
Just for the ride
Jack with his radar
Stalking the dread moray eel
At the wheel
With his eurasian bride
On the town
We dress for action
Celluloid bikers
Is fridays theme
I drove the chrysler
Watched from the darkness while they danced
Im the one
Its a glamour profession
The l.a. concession
Local boys will spend a quarter
Just to shine the silver bowl
Living hard will take its toll
Illegal fun
Under the sun
Hollywood
I know your middle name
Who inspires your fabled fools
Thats my claim to fame
Jive miguel
Hes in from bogota

[...] Read more

song performed by Steely Dan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Professional Discontent

Some chose the farm but gave it up with ease,
As it didn't yield the fruits of labour hard,
When changes came in sun, rain, soil and wind,
And nature's furies ruined what escaped!

Some chose a profession, bit white-collared,
And fleeced their clients, customers, patients,
Earning huge sums in easy ways for long,
But gave it through dissatisfaction!

Some chose to be a man, woman of God,
And bounties poured in abundance by grace,
Turned mercenary from missionary,
And left the fold from Shepherd as plain sheep!

No one seems content with one's profession!
No one is satisfied with divine gifts;
No one lives as per Scriptural guidance;
All want to live their earthly life with ease!

Does man really pine to see God's face?
Do men prefer the after-life o'er life?
Even the pious are victims of greed!
Man's troubles escalate when God's forgot!

It matters not what profession you choose!
You got to be dedicated, righteous;
And God rewards each one equally well!
Earthly inequality is man-wrought!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-11-12

poem by John Celes
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World Nurses’ Day,2010

Let love of money never interfere
With sacrificial service for mankind,
In times of ailments, distress, agony,
In noble profession on earth – Nursing.

Let duty to the suffering patients stay
Paramount all life, mitigating pain;
Let selflessness prevail in loving care
Of brethren moribund, in throes of death.

Let love of profession afill the hearts
Those follow Florence Nightingale’s footsteps;
Let God reward thee amply for thy work
In saving lives and curing diseases.

May thy noble profession remain so!
Let ethics not be ignored any day;
Let loving care of human beings make
The earth a paradise to some extent!

‘May God bless all nurses on this most wonderful Day! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-05-2010

poem by John Celes
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An Ode : On Exodus iii. 14

On Exodus iii. 14. 'I am that I am.'

Man! foolish man!
Scarce know'st thou how thyself began,
Scarce hadst thou thought enough to prove thou art,
Yet, steel'd with studied boldness, thou darest try
To send thy doubting Reason's dazzled eye
Through the mysterious gulf of vast immensity;
Much thou canst there discern, much thence impart.
Vain wretch! suppress thy knowing pride,
Mortify thy learned lust:
Vain are thy thoughts while thou thyself art dust.

Let wit her sails, her oars let wisdom lend,
The helm let politic experience guide;
Yet cease to hope thy short-lived bark shall ride
Down spreading Fate's unnavigable tide.
What though still it farther tend?
Still 'tis farther from its end,
And, in the bosom of that boundless sea,
Still finds its error lengthen with its way.

With daring pride and insolent delight,
Your doubts resolved you boast, your labours crown'd,
And, EYPHKA your God, forsooth, is found
Incomprehensible and infinite.
But is he therefore found? vain searcher! no:
Let your imperfect definition show
That nothing you, the weak definer, know.

Say, why should the collected main
Itself within itself contain!
Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep,
And with delighted silence sleep
On the loved bosom of its parent deep.
Why should its numerous waters stay
In comely discipline and fair array,
Till winds and tides exert their high commands!
Then, prompt and ready to obey,
Why do the rising surges spread
Their opening ranks o'er earth's submissive head,
Marching through different paths to different lands?

Why does the constant sun
With measured steps his radiant journeys run?
Why does he order the diurnal hours
To leave earth's other part, and rise in ours?
Why does he wake the correspondent moon,
And fill her willing lamp with liquid light,
Commanding her with delegated powers

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Prior
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It is incomprehensible that God should exist, and it is incomprehensible that he should not exist.

quote by Blaise Pascal
Added by Lucian Velea
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Forever Christmas Eve

Its something so magical, incomprehensible
Yet its so sensible, this you and me
The snow on the street outside that catches the blue moonlight
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Sparks from a midnight flame, the giggle of french champagne
A kiss sends about half way to fantasy
Wait mister brand new year, why cant we stay right here
Oh, how I wish it could be
Forever christmas eve
A distant bell is ringing out across the winter land
Its singing out a song of things to come
And though this kind of holiday is not what we had planned
Its wonderful tonight
Its something so magical, incomprehensible
Yet its so sensible, this you and me
The snow on the street outside that catches the blue moonlight
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Sparks from a midnight flame, the giggle of french champagne
A kiss sends about half way to fantasy
Wait mister brand new year, why cant we stay right here
Oh, how I wish it could be
Forever christmas eve
Wait mister brand new year, spare us a little cheer
Why cant it always be
Forever christmas eve
Forever christmas eve

song performed by Lee Ann Womack
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mad You Must Be And Delight In It

Mad you must be and delight in it
like mating killdeer in the spring,
lyrical love-making in the epiphanous air
and one flys into the bumper and dies.
Tears flowing down your cheeks
as you drive on into the incomprehensible
horror and silence of the act. And later,
your girlfriend will elaborate the fact
into a beautiful piece of art. Radiance
thrusts a shard of glass through your heart
out of the blue and there you are
with a baffled pain in your eyes
crying on the easel in paint. Poor man.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Revel in the absurd. Logic, the shakey stool
of a man trying to hang himself.
Quicksand cornerstones sinking into a miasma
of conditioned chaos. What does it prove
that would have made a difference to the outcome?
Nothing to stand on anymore. Even less
to lie down for. Nature a postcard.
A recurring calendar. And one of those months,
a close-up of a killdeer in intimate detail.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Uproot your hidden harmonies. Give up
your golden chains. Throw the swill
out of your fountains like wine
from the night before. Ignore your dreams
as the phantasmagoria of sacred clowns.
Everything passes in a riot of stars
before you're aware of it. Where are they now?
The aerial ballet of the killdeer. Roadkill.
Random encounters with the irrational.
The clarity cruel. The darkness immense.

Mad you must be and delight in it.
Stare at the wall until something appears.
An orphan of mirrors. An estranged elopement
trying to get away with it all. Throw
the moon down from the tower first
and after it your skull. The hearse awaits
and the horses are plumed with black feathers.
Space is warped. Time's corrupt. And the light
isn't on some kind of goodwill tour.
Over the newly ploughed field,
where are the killdeer that were there
a moment ago, a year, forever, a figment of time?
So beautiful in the way they impressed each other.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Jumped Out Of Nothing

Jumped out of nothing. The fish did. Golden.
A flake of the moon. When I wasn't looking.
Into a lifeboat cupping something precious in its hands.

The mind an old junkyard that's been collecting windows too long.
So many points of view. So many glass eyes
looking for the stuffed animals they belong to.

Death after knowledge. The silence that follows the music
after the bird has flown. Is the abyss death's rebuke
of life's dangerous proposal to let us look through the keyhole

at what's going on in the uninhabitable room next door?
To dream a little in the interim between two enormities
abstracted from the need of our perishing to persist

aeonic light years beyond anything we can imagine?
The golden fish jumps into the boat like an unsought insight.
No hook in it. And you can tell by the scales of light it emanates

it's risen from the starless darkness of its own depths
like moonrise out of the encyclopedic corals
of accumulated knowledge that's found a place for everything

like a polyp on a library shelf, calcium in a cave
shaping itself into temples from the top down.
Stalagmites and stalactites of cathedrals inspired by water

to enshrine themselves in form as an aid to the blind.
Though things along the way might change
does the journey stay the same ad infinitum?

Did you amount to everything you dreamed you might be,
or were there more stairs to climb than doors to enter,
more walls than windows in the way you saw things?

I've seen the most sublime things humbled by their own insignificance.
And I think I've heard God more than once
weeping at the stern of a sinking ship for a turn of events

she couldn't do anything about once they were set in motion.
And I've listened to people my whole life
talking in their sleep about how to put a rudder on a dream

as if there were a focus and a direction for life to flow in
like a solid, particulate thing instead of the wandering wavelength
of this exiled mirage of water that it appears to be

depending on the mood of the chameleonic mirror you're looking into.
The donkey looks into the well and the well looks back at the donkey.

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Song Of The Open Road

AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune--I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.

The earth--that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them. 10

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens;
I carry them, men and women--I carry them with me wherever I go;
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them;
I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.)

You road I enter upon and look around! I believe you are not all that
is here;
I believe that much unseen is also here.

Here the profound lesson of reception, neither preference or denial;
The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the
illiterate person, are not denied;
The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the
drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics,
The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping
couple, 20
The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the
town, the return back from the town,
They pass--I also pass--anything passes--none can be interdicted;
None but are accepted--none but are dear to me.

You air that serves me with breath to speak!
You objects that call from diffusion my meanings, and give them
shape!
You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers!
You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides!
I think you are latent with unseen existences--you are so dear to me.

You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges!
You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides!
you distant ships! 30
You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd façades! you roofs!
You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards!
You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much!
You doors and ascending steps! you arches!

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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Tale III

THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

Gwyn was a farmer, whom the farmers all,
Who dwelt around, 'the Gentleman' would call;
Whether in pure humility or pride,
They only knew, and they would not decide.
Far different he from that dull plodding tribe
Whom it was his amusement to describe;
Creatures no more enliven'd than a clod,
But treading still as their dull fathers trod;
Who lived in times when not a man had seen
Corn sown by drill, or thresh'd by a machine!
He was of those whose skill assigns the prize
For creatures fed in pens, and stalls, and sties;
And who, in places where improvers meet,
To fill the land with fatness, had a seat;
Who in large mansions live like petty kings,
And speak of farms but as amusing things;
Who plans encourage, and who journals keep,
And talk with lords about a breed of sheep.
Two are the species in this genus known;
One, who is rich in his profession grown,
Who yearly finds his ample stores increase,
From fortune's favours and a favouring lease;
Who rides his hunter, who his house adorns;
Who drinks his wine, and his disbursements scorns;
Who freely lives, and loves to show he can, -
This is the Farmer made the Gentleman.
The second species from the world is sent,
Tired with its strife, or with his wealth content;
In books and men beyond the former read
To farming solely by a passion led,
Or by a fashion; curious in his land;
Now planning much, now changing what he plann'd;
Pleased by each trial, not by failures vex'd,
And ever certain to succeed the next;
Quick to resolve, and easy to persuade, -
This is the Gentleman, a farmer made.
Gwyn was of these; he from the world withdrew
Early in life, his reasons known to few;
Some disappointments said, some pure good sense,
The love of land, the press of indolence;
His fortune known, and coming to retire,
If not a Farmer, men had call'd him 'Squire.
Forty and five his years, no child or wife
Cross'd the still tenour of his chosen life;
Much land he purchased, planted far around,
And let some portions of superfluous ground
To farmers near him, not displeased to say
'My tenants,' nor 'our worthy landlord,' they.

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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I looked on child rearing not only as a work of love and duty but as a profession that was fully as interesting and challenging as any honorable profession in the world and one that demanded the best that I could bring to it.

quote by Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy
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Never call an accountant a credit to his profession; a good accountant is a debit to his profession.

quote by Charles J.C. Lyall
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I think teaching should be an exalted profession, not a picked-on profession.

quote by Charles Schumer
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I desire to assist in attracting to this profession young men of character and ability, also to help those already engaged in the profession to acquire the highest moral and intellectual training.

quote by Joseph Pulitzer
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He has made a profession out of a business and an art out of a profession.

quote by Clifton Paul Fadiman
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Never the less, it is no light thing to enter into a profession absolutely foreign and alien to the people among which one's lot is cast; a profession which seems as dim and faraway and unreal as the shores of Europe.

quote by Robert E. Howard
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