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In the draft plan, we're looking at recycling 20 percent of our garbage by 2010.

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The Cosmic Plan

As Infinity stretches to twilight
Worlds go flashing by our sight
We are just on planet Earth
Stars that twinkle in the night
Laughing at our ridiculous plight
The trauma of our birth

And as we became a man
There was no guidance of a hand
We gained in weight and height
Slowly we began to understand
The universal plan
Was a turning to the light

We are creatures of the universe
There is no last: there is no first
Just what the father had planned
There's the miracle of death and birth
Plus your sense of private worth
And the brotherhood of man

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The Love That Youve Been Looking For

Lonely, thats not how were meant to be
But looking in your eyes I see
A heart that was abandoned
By a world that used to show you love
You feel like youre the only one
Whose day begins without the sun
Youre left to turn and face it all alone
Well, I know sometimes it seems as if
Fate has done you wrong
But if you look inside your heart
Youll find the strength to carry on
Youve got to leave it all behind you
Break through those lonely chains that bind you
cause loves not far away, its gonna find your heart someday
And when you feel its warmth surround you
Youll realize that love has found you
So turn away your fears
cause the love that youve been looking for is here
Suddenly, your broken heart begins to see
A love that lasts eternally
Just look ahead and never ever let a single tear drop from your eye
It breaks my heart to see you cry
The pain that haunts you every night
Because of all the emptiness inside
Well, I know sometimes it seems as if your heart is caving in
But if we look inside the soul well find the love we have within
I know sometimes when things go wrong
You search for strength carry on
But all we need to take control
Is the love within my soul
cause you know that love will find a way
To reach your heart again someday
You must believe its true
Now all you have to do
Written by nick lachey

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The Tourist Plan

We have to rule on the Tourist Plan, '
Said Rogan Inchalot,
‘If we haven't come up with an answer soon
Then what have we really got?
The budget's stuck into overdrive
And the costs are going to balloon! '
(The future hung in the balance
On that Saturnday afternoon!)

We've always kept it a secret, ' said
The man called Iron Girth,
‘So what do we want with the tourists,
All those imbeciles, from Earth! '
We need to collar the dollars, ' said
Minerva Astropine,
We're never going to develop, if
We sit around, and whine! '

Our secret isn't as safe today,
With all those satellites,
It's becoming an inconvenience
Whenever we douse the lights!
The takings from the Casino drop
The punters stay in the dome,
We need to double our takings, then
Just send the tourists home! '

‘But what if they send their gangsters here,
Their armies, and their guns?
How will we ever defend ourselves,
You know how the story runs!
There's twenty million refugees
I heard a broadcast say,
All spilling over their borders there,
In search of a place to stay! '

‘They'll come out here in their feeble ships,
Break down, and S.O.S.,
While we'll be expected to rescue them…'
In their dreams! ' said Gunter Hess.
The meeting called for a show of hands
But was plunged in a sudden gloom,
They've shut the book on the Tourist Plan
For the Dark Side of the Moon!

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We own 18 percent of just the PC business. Now that's only about 60 percent of our business today.

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Makes Me Want To Cry

Just a few facts
that should make you want to cry…
Four thousand per cent markup
On each bottle of water you buy

Four per cent of all U.S. energy is consumed
In the making of plastic
So I’m guessin’ that our average person
Doesn’t think the energy crises is drastic

Doesn’t even matter
what you’re putting in it
One hundred forty four thousand
plastic bags are used every minute

At least four billion bottles
purchased in 2010
An amount that’s quite
Impossible to truly comprehend

Twelve per cent of all plastic
Is turned into solid trash
Which we then convert into big smelly piles
And then try to find a place to stash

And speaking of taste there’s
one thing that you oughta’
Know about your spring
and mountain pure bottled water

And that’s one not so surprising fact
That most of your prized mountain,
and your precious spring water
Comes into your bottles from an ordinary tap

At least four hundred million barrels of oil
Used to make plastic bottles and bags in 2010
Look at the bright side, at least we’ve made a lot of Arabs happy…
In Saudi Arabia, Libya, and Iran!

So maybe it’s the shape or maybe the cachet
That works it’s insidious seduction… (but stop and think!)
A hundred watt bulb can burn eleven hours
On the energy wasted on just one bottle’s production

Eighty percent of marine garbage is plastic
Two hundred species at risk from plastic waste
But what’s a few species? Let’s not be drastic!
We certainly wouldn’t want to act in haste.

Three hundred thousand pounds per square kilometer
Floating in the Pacific alone
So we oughta’ start thinking about using the Atlantic
When we start thinking of tossing our old cell phone

So when you buy your next bottled water
There’s one thought I’d like to plant under your nose
It takes only a few seconds to make one plastic bottle
But takes four hundred fifty…years to decompose

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The Beautiful plan...

We know not where we came from,
Or where on lifes voyage we go.
But one fact remains quite certain,
This world's full of joy and woe.

Another fact we must be aware of,
It's a truth that is oh so plain.
It's in our power each day and hour,
To add to the pleasure or pain.

Our life is such a brief journey,
We exist but a small time in space.
And while we remain it's our duty,
To brighten and better this place.

The trouble I think with us lately,
Is the lack of a need to be sweet.
We all have the power within us,
To make our adventure a treat.

If we all took the time to be pleasant,
And travelled that extra mile.
We could make a very big difference,
And bring to some faces a smile.

How soon can we lighten the burden,
How easily right all the wrong.
If none of us shirk and each of us work,
We could help our neighbour along.

If we spread peace and love on our journey,
The picture becomes oh so clear.
The one's we know only as strangers,
Can become cherrished friends very dear.

So stop wondering where we came from,
Stop looking for faults and for flaws.
Rise up to each day and embrace it,
We're all part of a wonderful cause.

So look to your neighbour and tell him,
Life requires a sincere man.
There's a need for us all to try harder,
And strengthen this beautiful plan...

Spread the love... The peace will follow...

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The Social Plan

I know a very tiresome Man
Who keeps on saying, "Social Plan."
At every Dinner, every Talk
Where Men foregather, eat or walk,
No matter where, -- this Awful Man
Brings on his goddam Social Plan.

The Fall in Wheat, the Rise in Bread,
The social Breakers dead ahead,
The Economic Paradox
That drives the Nation on the rocks,
The Wheels that false Abundance clogs --
And frightens us from raising Hogs, --
This dreary field, the Gloomy Man
Surveys and hiccoughs, Social Plan.

Till simpler Men begin to find
His croaking aggravates their mind,
And makes them anxious to avoid
All mention of the Unemployed,
And leads them even to abhor
The People called Deserving Poor.
For me, my sympathies now pass
To the poor Plutocratic Class.
The Crowd that now appeals to me
Is what he calls the Bourgeoisie.

So I have got a Social Plan
To take him by the Neck,
And lock him in a Luggage van
And tie on it a check,
Now, how's that for a Social Plan?

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The Angel Sent to Me

I met an angel when looking for a car
I didn't know it at the time
I just saw him from afar
but when he turned up at all the spots
that I was looking through
something made me walk right up and
say how do you do.
He said he was looking for a car
that we'd both seen all we could
He said the places we were in
had nothing any good
so I did something I've never done
I offered him a ride
to the city and bigger yards
where cars stood side by side
We found a yard with a perfect car
just right for my angel man
I found one too but had no money
and asked for a payment plan

The dealer smiled sleazily
smut was on his mind
He looked at me and winked his eye
and said 'your friend is kind'
He handed me the bunch of keys
to my chosen little car
I said hey I just can't pay
he said 'well here you are'
The man who had just driven with me
had left the place before
The dealer said he'd paid for my car
and there was nothing more
I signed the papers and drove away
in my new expensive gift
I've never seen the man again
who paid me for a lift
Now until this day I wonder,
was he really sent to me
was he an angel from above

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Looking For The One

I was feelin much in need
Of the arms of a lover
When my radar picked her up
On the arm of another
Ive been lookin for the one
And Ill tell you brother
I had the feeling we were gonna be more than friends
We were each other
Still looking for the one
With the fire in her eyes
Living inside a paradise
Still looking for the one
On like the light,
Darlin dont let me sleep alone tonight
Still looking for the one
And wake in the morning all alone and
Looking for the one
Looking for the one
Too many nights with the wrong one
And my heart ran for cover
Im a lonely, lonely soul
In search of another
I been a wondering baby
Since I left my mother
I got a feelin your gonna be here in time
I know you will
Still looking for the one
With the fire in her eyes
Living inside a paradise
Still looking for the one
On like the light
Darlin dont let me sleep alone tonight
(still looking for the one)
And wake in the morning all alone
Looking for the one
Looking for the one
Still looking for the one
With the fire in her eyes
Living inside a paradise
Still looking for the one
On like the light
Darlin dont let me sleep alone tonight
(still looking for the one)
And wake in the morning all alone
Looking for the one
Looking for the one
Looking for the one

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The best laidplans gang aft agley Storypoem

I planned her demise carefully
I was quite sure that it would be
accepted as an accident.
Which left me looking innocent.

I thought I had made no mistakes
but I made one that’s all it takes.
One single shred of evidence
destroyed my claim to innocence.

I should have sued for a divorce
that would have been the wisest course.
Though it would not have satisfied
the hatred festering inside

Caused by the mental cruelty
to which she had subjected me
So I devised the perfect plan
to rid myself of this woman.

My only thought revenge is sweet.
I truly thought in my conceit
That I would get away Scott free.
But fate had other plans for me.

My home is temporarily
a hospital I am not free.
I can still smile I am content
her punishment is permanent.

I was adjudged incompetent
of forming murderous intent
The lawyer who defended me
convinced the judge successfully.

That though I caused my wifes demise
I was too ill to recognise
That killing her would be a crime.
My mind abnormal at that time.

I have no reason to complain
I know that I am not insane
That very soon the powers that be
will certify my sanity.

Although my plans went all awry.
The price I pay is not too high
At last I am well rid of you.
It was well worth it in my view.

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The Solitary

I have been lonely all my days on earth,
Living a life within my secret soul,
With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,
Beyond the world's control.

Though sometimes with vain longing I have sought
To walk the paths where other mortals tread,
To wear the clothes for other mortals wrought,
And eat the selfsame bread -

Yet have I ever found, when thus I strove
To mould my life upon the common plan,
That I was furthest from all truth and love,
And least a living man.

Truth frowned upon my poor hypocrisy,
Life left my soul, and dwelt but in my sense;
No man could love me, for all men could see
The hollow vain pretence.

Their clothes sat on me with outlandish air,
Upon their easy road I tripped and fell,
And still I sickened of the wholesome fare
On which they nourished well.

I was a stranger in that company,
A Galilean whom his speech bewrayed,
And when they lifted up their songs of glee,
My voice sad discord made.

Peace for mine own self I could never find,
And still my presence marred the general peace,
And when I parted, leaving them behind,
They felt, and I, release.

So will I follow now my spirit's bent,
Not scorning those who walk the beaten track,
Yet not despising mine own banishment,
Nor often looking back.

Their way is best for them, but mine for me.
And there is comfort for my lonely heart,
To think perhaps our journeys' ends may be
Not very far apart.

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Feeling The Draft

We were young and it was an accomplishment
to have a body. No one said this. No one
said much beyond “throw me that sky” or
“can the lake sleep over?” The lake could not.
The lake was sent home and I ate too many
beets, went around with beet-blood tongue
worrying about my draft card-burning brother
going to war. Other brothers became holes
at first base at war, then a few holes
Harleying back from war in their always
it seemed green jackets with pockets galore
and flaps for I wondered bullets, I wondered
how to worship these giants. None of them
wanted to talk to me or anyone it seemed
but the river or certain un-helmeted curves
at high speed, I had my body
and flung it over branches and fences
toward my coming sullenness as the gravity
of girls’ hips began and my brother
marched off to march against the war.
I watched different masses of bodies on TV,
people saying no to the jungle with grenades
and people saying no to the grenades with signs
and my father saying no to all of them
with the grinding of his teeth he spoke with.
I’d pedal after the nos up and down a hill
like it was somehow a rosary, somehow my body
was a prayer I could chant by letting it loose
with others like me milling around
the everything below five feet tall
that was ours, the everything below
the adult line of sight that was ours
to hold as long as we could: a year,
a summer. Until the quarterback came back
without . . . well, without. When the next Adonis
stepped up to throw the bomb.

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Looking For A Way Out

Stumped, looking for a way out, many don’t know what it’s all about,
A country in crisis financially, but, the bigger picture men do not see,
Many losing the lifestyle they knew, with a darker future, only in view,
The many blind to their moral decay, so prevalent in this world today.

Some looking for a quick fix indeed, knowing there’s a deeper need,
Legislating issues to be solved, as the deeper issues go unresolved,
The very issues creating such woe, relating to places they do not go,
Avoiding the facts that lie ahead; feeding us political rhetoric instead.

The proverbial blind leading the blind, leaving moral principles behind,
Leaders appeasing a liberal crowd; the mention of God never allowed,
Rewarding men not pulling their load, putting many on a slippery road,
Taxing the rich to sustain the poor; only making all, worse than before.

A road where God is pushed aside, and the future for all is quantified,
By the darkened wisdom of man, bringing to light a much darker plan,
By taking the wealth of just a few, then dividing it among me and you,
Rewarding those who labor not; sharing the funds from one large pot.

God smiles upon men who labor, looking on their diligence with favor,
Not upon those who do not work, by rewarding men with a social perk.
If they scoff at God here and now, what’ll happen as leaves are brown?
As men’s dark plans cease to be, in a land that is filled with instability.

The time filling hearts with rage, will begin to turn God’s end time page,
When governments of all the world, shall see the darkest plan unfurled,
With man’s attempt at world unity, proposing to all universal prosperity,
Only to end in great catastrophe, with the return of The God of Eternity.

(Copyright ©03/2009)

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Patrick White

Looking For A Little Black Water After The Fury Of The White

Looking for a little black water after the fury of the white.
Dark energy after the light as peace
settles down gently upon me,
the sediment of the eras and rivers of my life.
And this cool night in early autumn,
a woman in a dark cloak and hood
I could almost caress if I could just breathe
a little more deeply than the abyss
I've been dogpaddling in because
there's nowhere else among all these stars
I can swim from the shallow end of myself
into the watersheds of my last drowning.

And there's an unprescribed silence,
a herb of the moon that's salving the wound
of the lunar thorn I just pulled out of my heart
delicately with my teeth. I'm trying
to tune my spinal cord to the guitar string
of the Tay River, so I can resonate in harmony
with the flow of things. Starfire walking
on the water of the mindstream without
the crutch of a miracle to help bear me up.

It's not so much a matter of power or self-discipline
as it is well within the spontaneous capacity
of everyone's emptiness to do so because,
labour exhaustively as we do just to find the path
let alone stay on it, all we've had to do
right from the start, is to let life
give us a narrative of our own we can be true to
as it makes you up going along with it
like a lonely survivor singing to himself in a lifeboat
at the last watch of the night. Arcturus
at the tip of our eyelashes, enmeshed
as it sinks in a western treeline of beached shipwrecks.

Reach out, but don't grasp. Accept and let go.
Scatter your blossoms, even when you're
down on your luck, like ripped up lottery tickets
whether they end up in the gutter
or on an impressionist table cloth somewhere
playing checkers with a patient still life.
I've seen whole Japanese plum trees in blossom
be brushed aside like perfect haikus
by a street sweeper at three in the morning
when no one else was watching but me and Basho.

My blood is saturated by an overdose of stars
and I can feel a light from deep within
rooting in my limbs like nightfall
as my awareness is enhanced
by how much unknown compassion
there is the silence, love in a dark time.
Blue moons on the wild grape vines,
approaching the autumn equinox in Virgo
as if they could read my mind like a purple passage
intoxicated on the wine that can be pressed out of its own decay.

The waterlilies are gone with the fireflies,
and the reupholstered cattails are beginning
to show signs of wear already. And soon
the Canada geese will be flying high overhead
bearing the souls of the dead to new latitudes of seeing
where the starmaps fall from their hands
like the feathers and leaves of being
flowing along with the mindstream
like the wiverns, wavelengths, and water sylphs
playing on the shores of the Milky Way
with as many burning bridges,
as there are flames on the phoenix
in the immolated sumac, as there are eyes
to see across these circuitous waters
to the other side of where we've always been going
alone together with everyone who's ever come aboard.

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The Hero of Rorke's Drift

Twas at the camp of Rorke's Drift, and at tea-time,
And busily engaged in culinary operations was a private of the line;
But suddenly he paused, for he heard a clattering din,
When instantly two men on horseback drew rein beside him.

"News from the front!" said one, "Awful news!" said the other,
"Of which, we are afraid, will put us to great bother,
For the black Zulus are coming, and for our blood doth thirst,"
"And the force is cut up to pieces!" shouted the first.

"We're dead beat," said both, "but we've got to go on,"
And on they rode both, looking very woebegone;
Then Henry Hook put all thought of cooking out of his mind,
For he was surrounded with danger on every side he did find.

He was a private of the South Wales Borderers, Henry Hook,
Also a brave soldier, and an hospital cook;
A soldier of the Queen, who was always ready to obey,
And willing to serve God by night and day.

Then away to the Camp he ran, with his mind all in a shiver,
Shouting, "The force is cut up, sir, on the other side of the river!"
Which caused the officer in command with fear to quiver,
When Henry Hook the news to him did deliver.

Then Henry Hook saluted, and immediately retired,
And with courage undaunted his soul was fired,
And the cry rang out wildly, "The Zulus are coming!"
Then the alarm drums were instantly set a-drumming.

Then "Fall in! Fall in!" the commanders did cry,
And the men mustered out, ready to do and to die,
As British soldiers are always ready to do,
But, alas, on this occasion their numbers were but few.

They were only eighty in number, that brave British band,
And brave Lieutenant Broomhead did them command;
He gave orders to erect barricades without delay,
"It's the only plan I can see, men, to drive four thousand savages away."

Then the mealie bags and biscuit boxes were brought out,
And the breastwork was made quickly without fear or doubt,
And barely was it finished when some one cried in dismay,
"There's the Zulus coming just about twelve hundred yards away."

Methinks I see the noble hero, Henry Hook,
Because like a destroying angel he did look,
As he stood at the hospital entrance defending the patients there,
Bayoneting the Zulus, while their cries rent the air,
As they strove hard the hospital to enter in,
But he murdered them in scores, and thought it no sin.

In one of the hospital rooms was stationed Henry Hook,
And every inch a hero he did look,
Standing at his loophole he watched the Zulus come,
All shouting, and yelling, and at a quick run.

On they came, a countless host of savages with a rush,
But the gallant little band soon did their courage crush,
But the cool man Henry Hook at his post began to fire,
And in a short time those maddened brutes were forced to retire.

Still on came the savages into the barricade,
And still they were driven back, but undismayed.
Again they came into the barricade, yet they were driven back,
While darkness fell swift across the sun, dismal and black.

Then into the hospital the savages forced their way,
And in a moment they set fire to it without dismay,
Then Henry Hook flew" to assist the patients in the ward,
And the fighting there was fearful and hard.

With yell and shriek the Zulus rushed to the attack,
But for the sixth time they were driven back
By the brave British band, and Henry Hook,
Who was a brave soldier, surgeon, and hospital cook.

And when Lord Chelmsford heard of the victory that day,
He sent for Henry Hook without delay,
And they took the private before the commander,
And with his braces down, and without his coat, in battle array grandeur.

Then Lord Chelmsford said, "Henry Hook, give me your hand,
For your conduct to day has been hereoic and grand,
And without your assistance to-day we'd been at a loss,
And for your heroic behaviour you shall receive the Victoria Cross."

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The Ferryman

In April, back in twenty-one
Inside the Castle Myrmidon,
I worked the Master's stables
And I groomed Milady's mare.
The Baroness De Ville would roam
The country on her chestnut roan,
And I would lead her safely home
And tend to her despair.

They kept her close and under key
In fear that she might turn and flee,
But she was trapped by geography
Beside the River Styx,
The river turned and turned about
Confined her where the bank ran out
And often there, I heard her shout:
‘Save me from Asterix! '

The Knight, Sir Asterix had planned
To ask her for her maiden hand,
But she had turned in terror, and
Had flown up to her room…
There in the tower she stayed locked in
Until the Knight left Myrmidon,
Enraged, he swore that she'd be won,
By Whitsun afternoon!

Her uncle raged: ‘This cannot be,
You can't treat him haphazardly,
I'll see you wed to Asterix
Or else I'll turn you out! '
‘I'd rather be a beggar first,
Bereft of food, unslaked of thirst,
At least I know what would be worst, '
I heard Milady shout!

The master was Sir Oswald Gray
Of temper mean, that ruled the day
He held her fortune locked away
She said she didn't care,
The slight allowance that he gave
Was not enough to spend or save
But she was young, and she was brave
And stood up to him there!

They locked her in the tower room
In shadows, in the deepest gloom,
She wailed all night, as in a tomb
And tore her auburn hair!
I took her tit-bits in the night
Pushed through the grill, to her delight
And there she told me of her plight…
She loved Sir Gordon Ware!

Sir Gordon lived at Castle Pride
Some miles across the countryside,
But cut off by the river wide,
(She cried in her despair) .
But stories of this Asterix
His alchemy, his darker fits
With murder not the least of it,
Had terrorised her there!

I wandered to the river bank
To where an ancient boat had sank,
And there I met a Ferryman,
A dwarf with one good eye:
‘What brings you to the riverside? '
He looked out at the countryside
And turned his blind eye high and wide;
I shuddered, fit to die!

I told him of Milady's plight
How she wept bitterly at night
And would escape, if she but might;
The Ferryman said: ‘See…
Bring me three crowns of gold, my friend,
The lady, to the river's bend,
What they don't know, they'll never mend,
My oars will make her free! '

At Whitsun, she was dressed so fine
In wedding lace, and crepe design,
I held her hand, and she held mine
Out to the stable door;
I'd saddled up the roan for her
She leapt aboard, and called me ‘sir'
And thanked me to the river's spur,
The Ferryman said ‘Whoa! '

For back, and at the Castle Gate
There came a flash, a coach and eight
That raced to claim her heart, too late,
Though Asterix screamed: ‘No! '
She leapt the ferry with a laugh,
I passed the Kronors to the dwarf
And soon they swirled beyond the wharf,
Out in the undertow!

But Asterix then left me there
With blood congealed, and through my hair,
And told me, I should never dare
His country, now or soon;
But of Milady, I could see
She had escaped her misery,
And so my heart was light and free
Until that afternoon!

A peasant told me, passing by
That I had need to sit and cry,
I asked about the Ferryman
And this is what he said:
‘There hasn't been a Ferryman
At this point of the river plan
Since ever Adam was a man,
The Ferryman is dead! '

‘He got caught in the undertow
And floated down and down below,
The raging current took him so
And drowned him in the Styx.'
At times though, there's a troglodyte
Who boats here on a Whitsun night,
They say he is a dreadful sight,
Brought low by Asterix!

He was, they say, a fulsome page
That Asterix attacked in rage,
And worked his alchemy to stunt
His body, and his sight,
Since when he's roamed the riverside
In search of someone else's bride,
One kiss may just reverse the tide
Of Asterix's spite!

So now on evenings, when I go
To sit beside the river flow
I hear a voice to ghostly go:
Of love, I've drunk my fill! '
And then I see the coach and eight
In flight and through the Castle Gate,
Where Asterix stares out in hate,
He's looking for her still!

16 February,2012

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The Great Beech

With heart disposed to memory, let me stand
Near this monarch and this minstrel of the land,
Now that Dian leans so lovely from her car.
Illusively brought near by seeming falsely far,
In yon illustrious summit sways the tangled evening star.

From trembling towers of greenery there heaves
In glorious curves a precipice of leaves.
Superbly rolls thy passionate voice along,
Withstander of the tempest, grim and strong,
When at the wind's imperative thou burstest into song.

Still must I love thy gentle music most,
Utterly innocent of challenge or of boast,
And playmate of the sun's adoring beam.
Close kindred to thy softer tremblings seem
The sighs of her I covet, when she kindles in a dream.

Oft at thy branching altar have I knelt,
Searched for the secret, and thy lesson spelt
Before the athletes of the night had done
Their starry toil and joyous beams had run
To melt the ancient silversmith who loves the set of sun.

When Spring was budding in my heart anew,
Thy prayer for foliage soared into the blue.
Within thy branches myriad children heard:
Pale were their lips and fingers as they stirred
And promised leafiness enough to tempt thy favourite bird.

Quick was the wonder to amaze my sight:
Where stood the leafless suppliant towered a knight
Green to the helm and touching lips with May!
Far on the hill the wheatstalks stopped from play
To call across the valley love to leaves more fine than they.

Then wert thou vocal, hospitable king!
Safe in thy heart the birds were glad to sing,
For dove and stormcock to thy breast had come;
And at the perfect hour a moony foam
And starlight fell upon the thrush that made thy bosom home.

As gentle gatherer of the weary wing,
Happy to quaff from the eternal spring
That damps the woodwren's feather-swollen breast,
Thou lendest to my heart a deeper rest,
Working with priceless balm a miracle for thy guest.

On thee, in green and sunshine greatly stoled,
Thy kindred of the undulating wold
Obeisance, as befits their stature, spend:
Sweet is the embassy, with wind for friend,
When lofty limes of Todenham Church their fragrant homage send.

Rightly they worship. Rightly comes the maid
To look for love beneath thy bounteous shade;
Rightly as these the village children haste,
And with their sunburned fingers interlaced
Fasten a living girdle round thy cool and stalwart waist.

For games and grief thou hast an equal heart,
Giving to all petitioners the needed part.
Often I ask the shape of him who fled
To drink of knowledge at the fountain-head:
He pulses in the shadow as a fugitive from the dead.

Old noble of the county, once we twain
Beneath thy roof discoursed of bliss and pain;
And, looking upward for the star Content,
Laughed deep at soul to watch the sunbeams sent
In coveys glittering all along the field of firmament.

If ever the travelled spirit can return
Where once in earthly bliss 'twas proud to burn
In hard-won triumph over resolute clay,
'Tis here my friend shall fold his wings and stay
To fill my unforgetting heart with tremulous holiday.

The tryst is here. Brother, I shall not fail
Whether in Summer's ripeness, Winter's hail.
Come most in Autumn's sympathetic charms,
When opal hazes touch the red-roofed farms,
And in the night the beech-tree holds the red moon in his arms.

And tell me, Brother, if the shining plan
Of resurrection chooses only man;
If every friend of plain and upland dies.
For I would have this turreted tree arise
To lord it over beeches in the forest of Paradise.

Fast in the ample chamber of his bole
There dwells, perchance, an unintelligible soul
Destined to tower in some celestial wold,
Where you and I, conversing as of old,
May watch the Alps of Heaven become as mountains made of gold.

Or bend to watch how cunningly the earth
Tangles our kin in webs of tears and mirth,
And soils them even as they fly the stain;
And, seeing this, may find that Heaven is vain
To keep earth-broken hearts from breaking in Heaven again

Till shines the hour when Home is truly Home,
With all the brave and dear familiars come:
Assembled ripely in the lustrous sheaf
Of Love, and radiant in divine relief
From Joy that used to spoil the earth by whispering to Grief.

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Growing up into the'deep south'way,
Black and White, no grey.! !
‘Know your place'every day,
No change, things just stay.!

Across his path, came the noble art,
Latent passion and talent inside.
The strength of mind and heart,
Convention could and would be defied.

The champion he would fight,
Against all the odds.
He won against Liston that night,
Was his fate in the'Lap of the Gods'?

Islam growing in his mind,
A ‘change'of name.
His future is signed,
He felt no shame.
From that day,
The name 'Clay' was history,
No longer 'Clay'.!
Only 'Mohammed Ali.'!

Ridiculed and demonized,
Endless pressure and torment..
Undermined and patronised,
His pride and resolve, they could not dent.
66'year of the draft, Ali protests about,
Uncle Sam made his stand.
Ali was outside the‘age drought'!
Their plan didn't go as planned.
Ali, they had much underrated,
A blow they would deal.
His conviction cannot be over-stated,
Place in history, he would seal.
A reporter asked him, ' What did he think of the‘Viet Cong',
Ali replied, 'No‘Viet Cong', ever called me a‘Nigger.' '
He remained resolute and strong,
The story just got bigger.!
His title, they would threaten to remove,
His reputation was at stake.
Action they would prove,
However his defiance and dignity would not break.

Government against him all the way,
Pressure still growing.
But he kept them at bay,
No giving in, no bowing.
He was still the champ,
Speaking his mind.
Authorities unable to clamp,
A reason they'd have to find.!
They would have their day,
Try every bloody trick.
They would win, wouldn't they, ?
To their‘plan'they'd stick.

Illegal, unjust and immoral,
What they did was wrong.
Their‘last resort'totally indefensible.
Ali's fight would go on.
His refusal of the draft,
Fine and imprisonment.
Restriction of his craft,
Got their'way'message they sent.

So eventually they would de throne,
Three years not in the ring.
Public support had grown,
Exoneration, time would bring.
Over three years without his art,
Was a long, long time.
Outside, not being a part,
What would have been his‘prime'?

Finally vindicated,
Won his Supreme Court appeal,
Once again liberated,
Three and half years they did 'steal'.
Principles he'd stick to,
He took all the flack.
His resolve got him through,
He wanted his title back.
71' sentence was overturned,
Ali had eventually won.
Three and half years they had ‘burned'.
But justice was done.
His comeback, the Frazier bout,
Rusty, three years‘out'to blame.
However no doubt,
Ali would reaffirm his name.

So Frazier out, Forman in,
For the next 'rumble'.
Ali's belief within,
Next up was 'Rumble in the jungle.'
Underdog, it must be said,
Money men behind the scene.
Point to prove in his head,
Mr.King only sees green.!
The World was looking on,
Time to deliver, to do.
Was this to be his ‘swan song'?
Would the crowd and his faith get him through?
Yes, Ali, Zaire on his side,
The press he would call.
For his ‘cause', he never did hide,
His confidence would not stall.
The fight commences, sweltering heat,
Pugilists toe to toe.
Win or face defeat,
Fascinating duel, blow by blow.

'Is that all you got? 'Is that it'? Ali would say,
He would taunt through similar sounds.
Keeping his‘enemy'at bay,
Using ‘dope ‘a' rope' though the rounds.
His foes energy getting sapped,
Frazier's will also giving now.
Ali seems relatively‘intact',
Absorbing the blows some how.

Victory for the greatest,
Third time, a champion.
He beat every trial and test,
His legacy continues on.
So what did he leave behind?
Although not yet‘gone'!
Something in the mind,
Something so strong,
Of principles, making a stand.
Freedom of choice,
Nothing grand,
Expressing opinion, via voice.

Fight for what you feel is right,
Is what he tried to say.
Never ever give up the fight.
His life would portray.
What a courageous man, yes had his flaws,
Yes brash, bold, outspoken.
Faults yet again, who hasn't behind closed doors, ! !
Ultimately his spirit was never broken.

One of the greatest sportsmen,
Bar none to ever live.
Everything he had given,
Everything he did give.
He took on the establishment,
Questioned authority.
A message he really sent,
To all of us really.


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The End of Joi

They climbed the trees . . . As was told before,
The Glugs climbed trees in the days of yore,
When the oldes tree in the land to-day
Was a tender little seedling - Nay,
This climbing habit was old, so old
That even the cheeses could not have told
When the past Glug people first began
To give their lives to the climbing plan.
And the legend ran
That the art was old as the mind of man.

And even the mountains old and hoar,
And the billows that broke on Gosh's shore
Since the far-off neolithic night,
All knew the Glugs quite well by sight.
And they tell of a perfectly easy way:
For yesterday's Glug is the Glug of to-day.
And they climb the trees when the thunder rolls,
To solemnly salve their shop-worn souls.
For they fear the coals
That threaten to frizzle their shop-worn souls.

They climbed the trees. 'Tis a bootless task
To say so over again, or ask
The cause of it all, or the reason why
They never felt happier up on high.
For Joi asked why; and Joi was a fool,
And never a Glug of the fine old school
With fixed opinions and Sunday clothes,
And the habit of looking beyond its nose,
And treating foes
With the calm contempt of the One Who Knows.

And every spider who heaves a line
And trusts to his luck when the day is fine,
Or reckless swings from an awful height,
He knows the Glugs quite well by sight.
'You can never mistake them,' he will say;
'For they always act in a Gluglike way.
And they climb the trees when the glass points fair,
With circumspection and proper care,
For they fear to tear
The very expensive clothes they wear.'

But Joi was a Glug with a twisted mind
Of the nasty, meditative kind.
He'd meditate on the modes of Gosh,
And dared to muse on the acts of Splosh;
He dared to speak, and, worse than that,
He spoke out loud, and he said it flat.
'Why climb?' said he. 'When you reach the top
There's nowhere to go, and you have to stop,
Unless you drop.
And the higher you are the worse you flop.'

And every cricket that chirps at eve,
And scoffs at the folly of fools who grieve,
And the furtive mice who revel at night,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For, 'Why,' they say, ' in the land of Gosh
There is no one else who will bow to Splosh.
And they climb the trees when the rain pelts down
And feeds the gutters that thread the town;
For they fear to drown,
When floods are frothy and waters brown.'

Said the Glug called Joi, 'This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
Cause much distress in the land of Gosh.
Let's stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!'
But Splosh, the king, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
And they hanged poor Joi on a Snufflebust Palm;
Then they sang a psalm,
Did those pious Glugs 'neath the Snufflebust Palm.

And every bee that kisses a flow'r,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
And every bird on its gladsome flight,
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
For they say, ''Tis a simple test we've got:
If you know one Glug, why, you know the lot!'
So, they climbed a tree in the bourgeoning Spring,
And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string.
'Tis a horrible thing
To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.

Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said,
'It's not polite; but he's safer dead.
And there's not much room in the land of Gosh
For a Glug named Joi and a king called Splosh!'
And every Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, 'We're Glugs! and you can't change that!'
So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
While the brazen bell of the city tolled
And tolled, and told
The fate of a Glug who was over-bold.

And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
And every sparkling dewdropp bright
All know the Glugs quite well by sight.
'We tell,' say they, 'by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest.
And they climb the trees when there's weather about,
In a general way, as a cure for gout;
Tho' some folks doubt
If the climbing habit is good for gout.'

So Joi was hanged, and his race was run,
And the Glugs were tickled with what they'd done.
And, after that, if a day should come
When a Glug felt extra specially glum,
He'd call his children around his knee,
And tell that tale with a chuckle of glee.
And should a little Glug girl or boy
See naught of a joke in the fate of Joi,
Then he'd employ
Stern measures with such little girl or boy.

But every dawn that paints the sky,
And every splendid noontide high,
All know the Glugs so well, so well.
'Tis an easy matter, and plain to tell.
For, lacking wit, with a candour smug,
A Glug will boast that he is a Glug.
And they climb the trees, if it shines or rains,
To settle the squirming in their brains,
And the darting pains
That are caused by rushing and catching trains

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