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One thing is certain. The old Piper Laurie is no more.

quote by Piper Laurie
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A Friend, A Woman, A Widow, The Old One

where have we gone
on those years that dance in the music
of hushes and whispers?

those merry widows
painted their faces
as they grow into
the folds of their old age

she is one of those
who dreamed
from nipa huts to the
ice castles of her
fantasies

she thought she can
stay forever
like that... forever

but no woman stays a woman
throughout her journey
she assumes some shapes
to survive
some have turned into camels
in the arid desert
some polar bears bear the earmark
of womanhood in their cold
noses

her body knows when
the right time is right there in her mind
but there is one thing that makes the sound
of her permanence...

that she must always be free to be
...forever

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Couple

The was an old couple who were so close,
He said to his wife, it's great that you I chose;
To share my life as we go through each day,
Yes! I love you my darling, do you hear what I say?

The old couple were married for many a year,
When any one asked how, they said all ways stay near;
Also they said, never leave an argument undone,
Before any day is ended, at the set of the sun.

The husband said, take time to listen, and she did agree,
And then added, I will show my love so he will see;
Then they added, enjoy to help, the other out too,
Sharing the heavy load of work is what we love to do.

This old couple had lived for 60 years together,
They had seen many a child grow,16grandkids together;
Never in front of a child would they quarrel or fight,
But; wait till they were lone, then get the problem right.

We all should learn from all old couples that are happy,
To try to do the same, and our marriages go well I see;
One thing is certain, put God first in your partnership,
That was the rule they said, and this is a very good tip.

poem by Margaret Haig
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Ode To The Peshtigo

It starts as just a trickle, a spring which comes up from the ground, fed by many tributaries, to become one of the biggest rivers around.

Always there, constant flow.
Before it had its name, Native Americans used it as a highway, for even today people still travel it the same way.

This river has seen many a traveler, explorers, settlers, trappers, loggers, fishermen, hunters and boaters.

Spring, summer, fall and in winter, even though covered with a blanket of ice and snow, the river steadfast in its flow.

Stretches of water, blissful and serene.
Its rapids, waterfalls, noisy when one is near, yet tranquil to the ear.

This river is home to many animals, fish and birds.
For whoever visits this river, many places seem yet undisturbed, but one thing is certain, the river will always be there, constant flow, the mighty Peshtigo.

poem by Alvin Schaut
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One Thing

(gary rossington, johnnyvan-zant, ed king, dale krantz-rossington, custer)
I met the man, when I was fifteen
Seen him in all the papers, on t.v. and magazines
So I had to ask him, whats the difference between
Those who make a wish, those who spin wheels
And those who ride in white limosines like you,mister
Wont you tell me one thing
Some have the passion and they control the ride
Some settle for whatever happens
As years pass they see their lives just slip on by
The world keeps a turnin
Itll leave you behind
Nothin else matters, nothins worth learnin
Until the dream you have inside
(chorus)
Its the one thing, the one thing theres no denyin
So find yourself a dream and some piece of mind
cause money and power wont buy it
Its the one thing, nothin else matters
And somewhere you might have heard the good times are through
And good luck is somethin youre born with
I know it just aint true
The world keeps a turnin
I wouldnt tell you no lie
Nothin else matters, nothins worth learnin
Until the dream that you have inside
(repeat chorus)
Nothin else matters

song performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Old Home By The Mill

This is 'The old Home by the Mill'--far we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and old folks, and the old spring, and a few
Old cat-tails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!

Here, Marg'et, fetch the man a tin to drink out of' Our spring
Keeps kindo-sorto cavin' in, but don't 'taste' anything!
She's kindo agein', Marg'et is--'the old process,' like me,
All ham-stringed up with rheumatiz, and on in seventy-three.

Jes' me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago;
The childern all put off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' way out West somewhere; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.

The oldest gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement--for purt' nigh thirty year!
And youngest one--was allus far the old home here--but no!--
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!

I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see;
And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jes' got
_me_!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed the t'other way!

I haint so favorble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
I'd 'dopt the 'new process' in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,--
I'd jes' crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Lenexa Baptist Church Poet Tom Zart’s = Christian Quotable Quotes Of Life!

TOM ZART’S CHRISTIAN QUOTABLE QUOTES

THE POWER of WORDS

Words are the most powerful tools used by man
As hearts and souls reach for one another.
Sharing feelings of fear, wisdom and joy
Or our love for a significant other.

Where would we be without words
Which inspire, unite and motivate.
Songs, poems, stories, blogs, books
wars, religion, love, lust and hate.

Jesus preached words to the multitudes
And nourish their hunger within.
The stories we tell portray our spirit
As examples of weakness, triumph or sin.

When we fail to control the rage of our thoughts
What is easy to say becomes hard to forgive.
Words are visions which portray our intent
The better we communicate, the better we live.

WINE

Wine was served at the Last Supper
And guzzled in King Arthur's court.
Wine can make a sad man happy
And a mean woman turn good sport!

HEAVEN'S HEROES

All of Heaven’s heroes have suffered remorse
From hate, fear, lust, loneliness and war.
They do what they do with deliverance of heart
Defeating the dark side of life and more.

TEARS

Tears are a love-mates humble gift
When it's time to say goodbye
Though the eyes are wet and swollen
With time and patience they dry.

THE BELL RINGERS OF THE SOUL

Poets are the bell ringers of the soul
As they depict the past, the present and beyond.
They sound their alarm of what lies ahead
As the missteps of man live on.

MOTHERS

Mothers have great big aprons
To hide from the world our flaws.
They kiss and scold when we do wrong
Teaching compliance of laws.

HEAVEN'S GATE

With one foot in heaven and one down on earth
I pray to be remembered and judged by my worth.
If I’m forced to camp, just outside your gate
I will still be grateful and not, “hesitate.”

SELF-SERVING FOOLS

No matter how far in your marriage you've gone
The highway of love has its rules.
The excitement of sex, trust and affection
Never tolerates self-serving fools.

FOREVER MORE
I love to be loved in the morning
I love to be loved at night.
I love to be loved anytime
For love in the darkness is light.

LOVE AND LIFE

With one foot in the future
And one foot in the past
Let us try to live our days
As though each was our last.

FREEDOM

America has survived all attempts to destroy
Knowing the cruelty of war
And, we who remain
Must help keep her free
For those who can march no more!

A GOOD POEM

A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.

HOW LUCKY I'VE BEEN

Wise men learn more from watching fools
Than fools do from watching wise men.
I should know for I've been both.
I can 't believe how lucky I've been.

BIRDS

Birds are really quite remarkable
When left alone to do their thing.
We have robbed their eggs and plucked their plumage
And yet they continue to sing.
FAITH

Our confidence and trust in a higher power
Helps guide us through every moment and hour.
Fidelity to ones promise and observance of law
Lets our Lord know we heed his call.

HISTORY

Some have asked why must we study history;
It just encourages us to live in the past.
When we forget history we repeat its mistake
As the outcome of humanity is cast.

RESOLUTE

May God continue to bless America
Refusing evil, the upper hand.
It’s up to us to stay resolute
Defending the liberty of Man.

FORGIVE ME

I love you and I need you
It's a fact and not a lie
So if you plan to punish me
Say anything, but good bye.

FRIENDSHIP

Better is a good friend in the house next door
Than brothers and sisters who are far away.
The spirit of man needs the help of its friends
To face all the problems of each fleeting day.

SPRING

Gone till next year, are winters cold days of chill
While the fever of love hits the ground on the run.
There's heavenly splendor wherever we look
As earth is warmed by the rays of the sun.

FLOWERS

King Solomon spoke of earth’s flowers in the Bible
And that where they appear the birds begin to sing.
The voices of love can be heard across the land
And that lilies and roses are a sacred thing.

LOVE & ELECTRICITY

Love and electricity are a lot alike
For we never seem to miss them till their gone.
We need both every day of our life
And even more so between twilight and dawn.

SMILE

The one thing that goes the furthest
Towards making our lives more worthwhile
Which costs the least but does the most
Is the sight of a friendly smile.

ADVICE

Those who wish to advise others
Should practice what they preach
For their pupils need inspiring
To listen to what they teach.

MY WIFE

Heaven won't be heaven
If I don 't see you there
May the first to go
Be me, is my prayer.

FLIGHT

Nothing else man can conceive
Is more luring than God's sky.
To be as one with the stars
Is the wish of all who fly.

TWILIGHT

The twilight is first evening's bell
A time of peace when all is well.
Another day has come and gone
Not to return until the dawn.

EYES OF LOVE

Eyes that twinkle, I distrust
For they are the distant stars.
Eyes in love have a steady glow
Like Venus, the Moon or Mars.

MY FAVORITE POET

My favorite poet is our father of love
Who was first to know us before birth.
His poetry prolongs every thing we love
As his deliverance gives life its worth.

INTEGRITY

What Satan has planned for our harm
Integrity will transform to good.
Adhering to morals gives us peace
Teaching us to respond, as we should.

FORMIDABLE FOE

America is the birthday cake of earth
As the ants march from every direction.
Thank God for all who have sworn to defend her
Serving with love, honor, pride and affection.

PEACE

War is an emotional release for man
Practiced since the first stones were cast.
Could it be nature's way of thinning the numbers
As the fallen are consumed by the past.

ORDINARY MOMENTS

Even ordinary moments
Aren't the same any more.
Together we have so much
To plan, accomplish and explore.

DIVINE INTERVENTION

What would our world become
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage
With no sense of passion or love.

AMERICAN SOLDIER

It’s not a priest that gives us our freedom of religion
And it’s not a reporter that gives us our freedom of voice.
It’s not any judge, lawyer, politician, or teacher
But the blood of a soldier that has sacrificed by choice.

MYSTICAL JOURNEY

After death who will miss us
When to heaven we have gone?
Will family cry our name in tears
As in their hearts we live on?

WAR

When war breaks out, boundaries change
And all who die are a token
Of the rage that must run it's course
Before words of peace are spoken.

LOVE

Love indeed, descends from heaven
Like a shooting star across the sky.
Love sometimes stirs the dust
Till tears fall free from the eye.

FAME

Those who wish to be, not forgotten
Just days after they're dead and gone
Must write such things worth remembering
Or commit acts, worth passing on.

ROSES

The poet Horace once expressed
That roses were worth more than grain
Seed fills a hungry man's stomach
Where roses feed his heart and brain.

SEPTEMBER 11th

We shall seek them out wherever they may hide
Street by street, house-by-house, cave by cave.
They will be eradicated from the face of the earth
By the righteous, the loyal and the brave.

THE SEED OF LOVE

The Lord planted love within mankind's heart
Though things can grow sour when from” Him” we depart.
Love and hate are but two sides of life's golden coin
So be ready for both no matter whom you join.

CONSCIENCE

Our conscience makes us righteous
It's a whisper of god in man.
For without it we're mere puppets
Who dance to the devil's hand.

SORROW

Sorrow is better than laughter
For by grieving, we're improved.
Blessed be all who morn
Till from sadness they're removed

OUR FLAG

Wars were waged where brave men died
As patriots fought side by side.
Our flag is still the pearl of earth
Because of those who prove her worth.

TROUBLES

Mankind is born from a woman’s womb
With a short life that's full of trouble.
Faith is our refuge in times of woe
For without it our troubles double.

FRIENDSHIP

Better is a good friend in the house next door
Than brothers and sisters who are far away.
The spirit of man needs the help of its friends
To face all the problems of each fleeting day.

WISDOM AND KNOWLEDGE

The wise listen to increase their learning
Where the scorners of wisdom close their mind.
The hearts of the prudent gather knowledge
For a soul without grace becomes confined.

By Conservative Poet &
Soldier For The Lord
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web

“And Most of All Your Friend Tom”

Tom’s Book
Shepherds of Life
410 Poems
Can Be Downloaded At =

To listen to Tom Zart’s Poems Go To =
http: //internetvoicesradio.com/Arch-TomZart.htm
htt p: //www.veteranstodayforum.com/viewforum.php? f=38

poem by Tom Zart
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The One Thing

With all the grace that you possess
Youre telling me your lies
A kiss, a touch, a gentle stroke, a look into my eyes
Your promises and fairytales have all turned into dust
Your star was high, your kingdom grew in vain
Now fades at last
That is the one thing I know
Stop talking
Stop talking with that voice
I cant stand it
When I look into your eyes
Who do you think you are
Youre too perfect
But this time youve gone too far
How can you be so sure about those tears youre giving me
Your mysteries and agonies show no effect on me
I cant believe the love we shared would ever grow so old
Your warm embrace was heaven
But tonite it feels so cold
That is the one thing I know...
Stop talking...
I cant stand it
I cant stand it
No more
Gold/1993

song performed by Alphaville
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Old-Home Folks

Such was the Child-World of the long-ago--
The little world these children used to know:--
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.--
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command--a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.

But Johnty yet--
After all serious duties--could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him--feats of mimicry
Of this one's trick of gesture--that one's walk--
Or this one's laugh--or that one's funny talk,--
The way 'the watermelon-man' would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;--
How he drove into town at morning--then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.

Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret--
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.--Such times he,
As some boy said, 'jist got too overly
Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To '_so_ciate with--less'n we 'ud go
And jine his church!'

Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.--
And O how white his hair was--and how thick
His face with freckles,--and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive!--And how pale
The blue of his big eyes;--and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger!--and when 'Jack' would kill
The old 'Four-headed Giant,' Bud's big eyes
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes--would hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,
That he would take the book up afterwards
And feign to 'read aloud,' with such success
As caused his truthful elders real distress.
But he _must_ have _big words_--they seemed to give
Extremer range to the superlative--
That was his passion. 'My Gran'ma,' he said,
One evening, after listening as she read
Some heavy old historical review--
With copious explanations thereunto
Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,--
'My Gran'ma she's read _all_ books--ever' kind
They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea
An' Nations of the Earth!--An' she is the
Historicul-est woman ever wuz!'
(Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does
In its erratic current.--Oftentimes
The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
Must falter in its music, listening to
The children laughing as they used to do.)

Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.

Ah, my lovely Willow!--Let the Waters lilt your graces,--
They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.

Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,
And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.
Her dignified and 'little lady' airs
Of never either romping up the stairs
Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway
Of others first--The kind of child at play
That 'gave up,' for the rest, the ripest pear
Or peach or apple in the garden there
Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing--
She pushing it, too glad for anything!
Or, in the character of hostess, she
Would entertain her friends delightfully
In her play-house,--with strips of carpet laid
Along the garden-fence within the shade
Of the old apple-trees--where from next yard
Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu--
As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
In their idyllic home,--yet sometimes they
Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
To have a 'Festibul'--and brought the bricks
And built the 'stove,' with a real fire and all,
And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
And wonderfully smoky--even to
Their childish aspirations, as it blew
And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
Was feverish even as their high delight.
Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
And '_amber-colored_ hair'--his mother said
'Twas that, when others laughed and called it '_red_'
And Alex threw things at them--till they'd call
A truce, agreeing ''t'uz n't red _ut-tall_!'

But Alex was affectionate beyond
The average child, and was extremely fond
Of the paternal relatives of his
Of whom he once made estimate like this:--
'_I'm_ only got _two_ brothers,--but my _Pa_
He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!--
He's got _seben_ brothers!--Yes, an' they're all my
Seben Uncles!--Uncle John, an' Jim,--an' I'
Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,
An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.--An' you
_Know_ Uncle _Mart_.--An', all but _him_, they're great
Big mens!--An' nen s Aunt Sarah--she makes eight!--
I'm got _eight_ uncles!--'cept Aunt Sarah _can't_
Be ist my _uncle_ 'cause she's ist my _aunt_!'

Then, next to Alex--and the last indeed
Of these five little ones of whom you read--
Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,--
As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp
Of floss between them as they strove with speech,
Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach--
Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
With looks that made her meaning clear as day.

And, knowing now the children, you must know
The father and the mother they loved so:--
The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside
The slender little mother, seemed in truth
A very king of men--since, from his youth,
To his hale manhood _now_--(worthy as then,--
A lawyer and a leading citizen
Of the proud little town and county-seat--
His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)--
He had known outdoor labor--rain and shine--
Bleak Winter, and bland Summer--foul and fine.
So Nature had ennobled him and set
Her symbol on him like a coronet:
His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.--
Superior of stature as of grace,
Even the children by the spell were wrought
Up to heroics of their simple thought,
And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared
It would grow on till it became a _tree_,
With cocoanuts and monkeys in--maybe!

Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
And admiration of the father, saw
A being so exalted--even more
Like adoration was the love they bore
The gentle mother.--Her mild, plaintive face
Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
Of any childish grief, or as a room
Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
Across the window and the sunshine gone.
Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands,
Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands
Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.

Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
No little waist or coat or checkered dress
But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill
Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
Or fashioning, in complicate design,
All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
With tiniest twining tendril,--bud and bloom
And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume
And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.

Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
And love's fond service and reward thereof,
Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!--
Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
Her sewing--her workbasket on the floor
Beside her,--Springtime through the open door
Balmily stealing in and all about
The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout
And laughter of the children at their play,
And neighbor-children from across the way
Calling in gleeful challenge--save alone
One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone--
The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look--
Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,
Is lifted, with a light ineffable--
As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
But heard, instead, some poem going by.

The Child-heart is so strange a little thing--
So mild--so timorously shy and small.--
When _grown-up_ hearts throb, it goes scampering
Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!--
It is the veriest mouse
That hides in any house--
So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!

_Child-heart!--mild heart!--
Ho, my little wild heart!--
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!_

So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.
With never one maturer heart for friend
And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
And love might lend it comfort to the end,--
Whose yearnings, aches and stings.
Over poor little things
Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.

_Child-heart!--mild heart!--
Ho, my little wild heart!--
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!_

Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad--
Being so young, nor knowing, as _we_ know.
The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
The joy from woe, the--_all_ that hurts us so!
What wonder then that thus
It hides away from us?--
So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!

_Child-heart!--mild heart!--
Ho, my little wild heart!--
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!_

Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
To fear _us_,--we are weaker far than you--
Tis _we_ who should be fearful--we indeed
Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,--
Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
Hearing the World roar on
Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!

_Child-heart!--mild heart!--
Ho, my little wild heart!--
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!_

The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
Across the homemade carpet--fades,--and then
The dear old colors are themselves again.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere--
The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway--
The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh
Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
Of sheep and low of cattle through the street--
A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
First blazed by the heroic pioneers
Who gave up old-home idols and set face
Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
And tame a wilderness now mightier than
All peoples and all tracts American.
Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:--
In mild remoteness falls the household din
Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
Of churning; and the 'glung-glung' of the pump,
With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
The clang of kettle,--rasp of damper-ring
And bang of cookstove-door--and everything
That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
Of music hungry ear has ever known
In wildest famished yearning and conceit
Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!--
The zest of hunger still incited on
To childish desperation by long-drawn
Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,
Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
And parsnips--rarest composite entire
That ever pushed a mortal child's desire
To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
Horseradish--tang that sets the lips awarp
And watery, anticipating all
The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.--
Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents
Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie--
The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
The house--upstairs and down--porch, parlor, hall
And sitting-room--invading even where
The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,
And pauses in his pruning of the trees
To note the sun minutely and to--sneeze.

Then Cousin Rufus comes--the children hear
His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear
As any bell. Always he came with song
Upon his lips and all the happy throng
Of echoes following him, even as the crowd
Of his admiring little kinsmen--proud
To have a cousin _grown_--and yet as young
Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.

He was a student of the law--intent
Soundly to win success, with all it meant;
And so he studied--even as he played,--
With all his heart: And so it was he made
His gallant fight for fortune--through all stress
Of battle bearing him with cheeriness
And wholesome valor.

And the children had
Another relative who kept them glad
And joyous by his very merry ways--
As blithe and sunny as the summer days,--
Their father's youngest brother--Uncle Mart.
The old 'Arabian Nights' he knew by heart--
'Baron Munchausen,' too; and likewise 'The
Swiss Family Robinson.'--And when these three
Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go
Straight on in the same line--a steady flow
Of arabesque invention that his good
Old mother never clearly understood.
He _was_ to be a _printer_--wanted, though,
To be an _actor_.--But the world was 'show'
Enough for _him_,--theatric, airy, gay,--
Each day to him was jolly as a play.
And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,
Were certain.--And, from his apprentice youth,
He joyed in verse-quotations--which he took
Out of the old 'Type Foundry Specimen Book.'
He craved and courted most the favor of
The children.--They were foremost in his love;
And pleasing _them_, he pleased his own boy-heart
And kept it young and fresh in every part.
So was it he devised for them and wrought
To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:--
Like some lone castaway in alien seas,
He built a house up in the apple-trees,
Out in the corner of the garden, where
No man-devouring native, prowling there,
Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night--
For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,
They drew up after them. And it was known
That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone
And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon
Over some novel all the afternoon.
And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,--
Outraged to find themselves deserted so--
Threw bodily their old black cat up in
The airy fastness, with much yowl and din.
Resulting, while a wild periphery
Of cat went circling to another tree,
And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart
Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:

''_Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!
What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?
Didst thou not know that running midnight races
O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?
Did hunger lead thee--didst thou think to find
Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?
Vain hope! for none but literary jaw
Can masticate our cookery for the mind!_''

So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,
He strode to dinner, with a tragic face
With ink-spots on it from the office, he
Would aptly quote more 'Specimen-poetry--'
Perchance like ''Labor's bread is sweet to eat,
(_Ahem!_) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.''

Ah, could you see them _all_, at lull of noon!--
A sort of _boisterous_ lull, with clink of spoon
And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate
Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,
And dragged in place voraciously; and then
Pent exclamations, and the lull again.--
The garland of glad faces 'round the board--
Each member of the family restored
To his or her place, with an extra chair
Or two for the chance guests so often there.--
The father's farmer-client, brought home from
The courtroom, though he 'didn't _want_ to come
Tel he jist saw he _hat_ to!' he'd explain,
Invariably, time and time again,
To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed
Another cup of coffee on the guest.--
Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance,
Or Bud's, or both--each childish countenance
Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee,
To be together thus unbrokenly,--
Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr--
The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,--
So, very probably, _one_ of the three,
At least, is there with Bud, or _ought_ to be.
Like interchange the town-boys each had known--
His playmate's dinner better than his own--
_Yet_ blest that he was ever made to stay
At _Almon Keefer's, any_ blessed day,
For _any_ meal!... Visions of biscuits, hot
And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot
Of molten butter for the center, clear,
Through pools of clover-honey--_dear-o-dear!_--
With creamy milk for its divine 'farewell':
And then, if any one delectable
Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore
The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore
Made only by Al Keefer's mother!--Why,
The very thought of it ignites the eye
Of memory with rapture--cloys the lip
Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip
With veriest juice and stain and overwaste
Of that most sweet delirium of taste
That ever visited the childish tongue,
Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Past paved way for the future

Past paved way
For the present
Shall become past
To pave way for future
The cycle never stops
Present always
Compared to past
A better future
Wished by all
What will come?
Nobody knows
Hope and desire
Never ends
Brings light in eyes
And smile on face
Light or darkness?
Is a question
Answer to which
Nobody knows
One thing is certain
If one lives
Shall become old
Perish with time
Become memory
Of the past

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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The One Thing

(a farriss & m hutchence)
Well you know just what you do to me
The way you move soft and slippery
Cut the night just like a razor
Rarely talk and thats the danger
Its the one thing
You are my thing
You know your voice is a love song
Its a catcall from the past
Theres no ice in your lovers walk
You dont look twice cause you move so fast
Youve got a dozen men behind you
Youve got dead flowers on the floor
Youre too pretty in the daylight
It keeps them coming back for more

song performed by INXS
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Started To Be One Thing

The Poem started to be one thing
And became another -
It lost its way
And became mixed up-
To save it was to divide into two or three
But this was to lose it also-
Perhaps the mixed- up poem is the true poem
And the poem pure in one theme is only an abstraction no one needs -

The poem whose subject is its own writing
Is a minor poem
And one of lesser feeling-
I write this poem now as if I know
Even within myself
There are better, if less or more pure poems elsewhere

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This can only be one thing..............

Can you believe it?
I'd never understand
Why you'd take my heart
An I'd take your hand

This can only be one thing

I never thought i'd reach you
You answer all my prayers
What we've got is heaven
You've cleared all my cares

This can only be one thing

Words will never tell you
What you've given me
How you make me feel
And what you let me be

This can only be one thing

I'm gonna grow old with you
We'll be together at the end
An all the way through
This is not pretend

This can only be one thing.
Love

poem by Lucy Vernezze
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just One Thing

just,
one,
thing,

start with being just
i know what fair is,
sportsmanship,
give me
what is due me
think of me
when i am sad
drink with me
when i am
happy,
be just to me

one, i am one,
and will always be
one with myself,
one with nature,
one with you
just me, this one
nothing less
nothing more,

and for one more thing,
you like flowers
and call them things
their scents, their colors
the way they touch
you on a certain
closeness

and just one thing more,
do not forget

i am still here
writing for you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The One Thing About Knowing

The one thing about knowing,
Is its ability not to be undone.
Once something is known,
An acknowledgement of it...
To others become easily shown.

And that knowledge shown,
May come to show others despising it.
Depending on who sees what one has,
As a lasting benefit.
Since those who are not afraid of knowledge,
Feel freer to leave behind their ignorance.

The one thing about knowing,
Whether or not it is documented...
Is its ability not to be undone.
Once something is known,
An acknowledgement of it...
To others become easily shown.
And few are found to run away,
From its presence or existence.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If It Ain't One Thing

(alan jackson/jim mcbride)
I guess it's just not my day
The wind blew my morning paper away
Then i cut my toe oin a sliver of glass
From the stormdoor you broke when you left here so fast
If it ain't one thing it's you
If you've heard that i'm goin crazy
It's true
The wheels seem to fall off whatever i do
If it ain't one thing
It's you
I rented that movie you hate
But that old vcr just chewed up the tape
Then i went to the freezer thought i'd cook me a steak
All i found was that old piece of our wedding cake
If it ain't one thing it's you
If you've heard that i'm goin crazy
It's true
The wheels seem to fall off whatever i do
If it ain't one thing
It's you
But i never knew that i needed you so
But now that i've lost you, i can't let you go
If it ain't one thing it's you
If you've heard that i'm goin crazy
It's true
The wheels seem to fall off whatever i do
If it ain't one thing
It's you
Oh if it ain't one thing
It's you

song performed by Alan Jackson
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The Old Miser and his 3rd Wife

1
The Old Miser
my husband is dying
and he makes me promise
I must put all his money in his coffin
when he dies

“O my legal third wife
the only one surviving -
you must put all my money
secretly in my coffin”

Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring away all the money
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!

2
Now, he’s dead
and I’ve arranged for his funeral
and while everyone’s busy
with all these preparations
I dutifully take all his money
from the hiding place
which he whispered to me
with his last breath
and he bit my ear and he snarled:
“Put all my money
in my coffin”

Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you want to bring all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!

3
So I take all his money
and bring it to the bank
and deposit it in my name
and make a cheque out for 10 million
and put the cheque below his head

Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!
You made me suffer all my life
and now in your death
you can take all the money away
Sure thing, sure thing
you Old Miser!

poem by Raj Arumugam
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The Old School Clock

'Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face,
and great iron weights and chain.
It stopped when it liked, and before it struck
it creaked as if 'twere in pain.
It had seen many years, and it seemed to say,
'I'm one of the real old stock',
To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked
on the face of the old school clock.
What a terrible frown did the old clock wear
to the truant who timidly cast
An anxious eye on those merciless hands,
that for him had been moving too fast!
But its frown soon changed, for it loved to smile
on the thoughtless, noisy flock,
And it creaked and whirred, and struck with glee,
Did that genial, good humoured old clock.
Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled
with the world, its cares and ways,
When again I stood in that little school
where I passed my boyhood days.
My old friend was gone! And there hung a thing
that my sorrow seemed to mock,
As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart
at a new-fashioned Yankee clock.

'Tis the way of the world. Old friends pass away
and fresh faces arise in their stead.
But still 'mid the din and bustle of life
we cherish fond thoughts of the dead.
Yes, dearly those memories cling round my heart,
and bravely withstand Time's rude shock;
But not one is more dear or more hallowed to me
than the face of that old school clock.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The Old Pioneers

These old friends of ours! Sixty years back,
Bearded and booted, they followed the track,
Came like their Saxon forefathers of old,
Carving a nation from waste and from wold,
Mighty of purpose and stalwart of limb,
Clove they a path through the forest so dim,
Forward, adventuring, knowing no fears--
Honour and praise to the old pioneers.

Now they are feeble and bowed are their backs,
Long laid aside are the stockwhip and axe;
Dulled though each sense is, the hearing is quick
Oft-times to catch the faint ring of the pick,
Eyes, too, are closed yet they see clear and plain
The camp and the creek and the ranges again;
Australia's first story and the world never hears,
It is locked in the hearts of the old pioneers.

Then to the workers of those distant days
Certain poor players came bringing their plays,
Lighter grew toil for the songs that they trolled,
Sweeter was life for the love-stories told,
Gone now the music, the laughter is stilled,
Audience and players together are chilled,
Yet--like the flowers--the smiles and the tears
Ever are fresh for the old pioneers.

Yes, they are old, nor of wealth have they hoard,
Heap we the fire, then, and plenish the board;
Age steals upon them and chilly life grows,
Workers and players have earned their repose.
Soon on their names all in vain we shall call,
For even the grandest old landmarks must fall.
Just a warm hand-clasp ere one disappears--
These are the last of the old pioneers.

poem by Frank Dalby Davison
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In the spirit of Rumi - 50 - One Thing

Oh the pleasure, the happiness,
the delight, the joy, the bliss,
of doing just one thing above all!

When I was a child, I did many things;
that’s right for children – there’s the world,
go play in it; ask, what’s a horizon? but what
lies beyond? and why can’t I see angels
if angels can see me? …

When I was a young man, I did many things;
that’s right for young men – which one will I love?
which one will love me? And when we’ve together found our love,
oh what then? and oh what then?

But now I’m older, there seems less time
for many things; they will look after themselves
without my help… so, what delight
to give oneself to just one thing…
one thing at a time; and then
one thing…

and it seems, it doesn’t matter what;
roses need an expert to collaborate
in dreaming up new beauty from an older stock;
dogs need exercise, and a two-legs to look up to;
grandchildren are born to love grandparents
in a special way..

and, duties done, and hearts served well,
one thing…it might be poetry,
in which to say, look, all this
I’ve received: here’s recognition,
acknowledgement, and gratitude…

and the other things, like sleeping, eating,
become day by day like living in someone else’s poem;
someone else committed to one thing…

and then one day, perhaps,
life’s curtain twitches; and some great being
looks in the window, the very moment you look out;
and ‘one thing’, in the most natural way,
becomes…

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Same Old Strain

Each day that I live I am persuaded anew,
A maxim I long have believed in, is true.
Each day I grow firmer in this, my belief,
Strong drink causes half the world's trouble and grief.

Do I take up a paper, I read of a fight,
Tom's fist in his eye deprived Jamie of sight;
Both fellows were drinking before it began,
And drink made a brute of a peaceable man.

Next, Jones kills his wife, such an awful affair!
She was throttled, and pounded, and drawn by the hair;
Cause-'Jones had been drinking-not in his sane mind.'
(Few men
are
who tip up the bottle, I find.)

Then, a man is assaulted and dirked in the dark
By two 'jolly boys' who are out on a 'lark;'
They have ever been peaceable boys-but, you see,
They drank, and 'were hardly themselves' on this spree.

Just over the street lives the man who is known
To be honest and kind, when he lets drink alone;
But whenever he quaffs from the full, flowing bowl,
He is more like a beast than a man with a soul.

Next door lives the husband who frets at his wife;
With his temper and spleen, she's no peace of her life.
Well I know-do you? he muddles his head
Every night with hot toddy, ere going to bed.

'We temperance croakers harp on the same strain?'
Well-the cause is one story again and again;
Fights-tragedy-troubles-all stirred up by drink,
Good reason we have to keep
harping
, I think.

We harp to these words; strong drink drives the knife
To the heart of a friend, and deprives him of life;
It turns sober boys into rowdies and knaves-
It steals from the household to fill up the graves.

Who loves it the most first falls by its art;
It first wins its victim-then strikes to the heart.
But one thing is certain-it never was known
To do a man harm if he let it alone.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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