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When he hung up on Nancy Reagan, that's when he crossed his final threshold.

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When Santa lost his sleigh

When Santa Lost His Sleigh

When Santa Claus went out today
He found that he had lost his sleigh
The reindeers all looked amused
Knowing they could not be used
So Santa wished upon a star
And wished himself a magic car
And thought to himself ‘I’m quite astute’
To also wish ‘a magic boot’
To fit within the games and toys
For all expectant girls and boys
But the car was far too cold to start
‘I should have got a horse and cart’
He thought, as he now turned away
To see the reindeers with the sleigh! !

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When Man Writes His Life Away

when sadness comes like
an uninvited guests
and when it stays longer
than you can
have it

just be silent

for silence are like seeds
that sprout on the little rains of
your patience
to grow the flowers of hope

when man writes his life away
overwhelmed by so much sorrow
God steps by the door
waits for you
to open it and then when this is done
God embraces you

the sun shines by the window of your house
the birds chirp again on the surrounding trees
the clouds of baby blue
cover the grasses as green as the pines
scented as perfumes
of your love

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When God Dips His Love In My Heart

732. When God Dips His Love in My Heart
[Million Dollar Quartet]
(Traditional)
When God dips His pen of love in my heart
And writes my soul a message, He wants me to know
His Spirit, all divine, fills this sinful soul of mine
When God Dips His Love In My Heart.
Well, I said I wouldn't tell it to a livin' soul?

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When Jesus Left His Father's Throne

When Jesus left His Father’s throne,
He chose a humble birth;
Like us, unhonored and unknown,
He came to dwell on earth.
Like Him may we be found below,
In wisdom’s path of peace;
Like Him in grace and knowledge grow,
As years and strength increase.

Sweet were His words and kind His look,
When mothers round Him pressed;
Their infants in His arms He took,
And on His bosom blessed.
Safe from the world’s alluring harms,
Beneath His watchful eye,
Thus in the circle of His arms
May we forever lie.

When Jesus into Zion rode,
The children sang around;
For joy they plucked the palms and strewed
Their garments on the ground.
Hosanna our glad voices raise,
Hosanna to our King!
Should we forget our Savior’s praise,
The stones themselves would sing.

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A Light Woman

I

So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three?
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?


II

My friend was already too good to lose,
And seemed in the way of improvement yet,
When she crossed his path with her hunting noose
And over him drew her net.


III

When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth for a whim!


IV

And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at a wren instead!


V

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need,
And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.\


VI

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,
The wren is he, with his maiden face.
You look away and your lip is curled?
Patience, a moment's space!


VII

For see, my friend goes shaking and white;
He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,
Eclipsing his sun's disk.


VIII

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:
"Though I love her--that, he comprehends--
One should master one's passions (love, in chief)
And be loyal to one's friends!"


IX

And she,--she lies in my hand as tame
As a pear late basking over a wall;
Just a touch to try and off it came;
'Tis mine,--can I let it fall?


X

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!
Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?
'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst
When I gave its stalk a twist.


XI

And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see:
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.


XII

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!


XIII

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth!
What wrong have I done to you?


XIV

Well, any how, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand;
And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,
Here's a subject made to your hand!

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The Death Of Me

Death sat
contemplating suicide
while speaker after speaker
opined:

The scientist intoned;
'The Cell is immortal
only personalities die;
Death cannot commit suicide! '

The Buddhist decried
all end points
citing endless cycles, renewals.
and reincarnations.

The biologist argued
that the only death that
mattered was the death of species;
'Individual biology matters least.'

'Only the planet matters'
said the environmentalist.


America lofted the individual
graffiting on the Universal wall
'All Death is the Death of the individual.'

The British had no remedy
offering instead a spot of tea
saying Death Down
is better sipped
with chin-up determination.

The pastor said
'Death is but a passage
on to Heaven or Hell
and best to get your life straightened out
before you hear that tolling bell.'

The Fatalist said 'do it, do it.'
It is inevitable'

'Death' said the existentialist
'is other people who
can kill your spirit
even before Death comes-
you arrive already dead
at Deaths Door.

Life too
is other people
who can make Death mute
in a life well understood.

But, above all
Death cannot commit suicide;
if you do I will have nothing to write about'
said the Existentialist.

Death rose finally and spoke
in breathy tones:

'I admit
I have enjoyed
the praise of the Fatalist;
enjoyed my role as the Last Aribitor
of Grim Joy
and Lifeless Bravado;
all come to me
with diverse faces
fear, hunger, worshiping or welcoming;

but my Joyless Smile
silences all of them
because on this side of the portal
I am King.

To some I am Joy, or Release
others see me as Horror Grim.

But I am
to me
much maligned
and misunderstood.

Now in my own Suicide;
all this will be clarified
my death means the end of time;
the end of all history.
Birth too
shall also end
with my demise.'

'My suicide'
Death said
is then, too,
the Death of all Things,

because Life has no place
in the Universe
without first
I, Death,
having also lived.

You humans
fragment what is an Immutable Whole
and point to fragmented beginnings and endings;
guide your lives by these
and blind yourself to the Wholism Seed
which says;

there is no beginning and no end
there is only the passing
through the Passages
where Birth is the very End
and too
the very beginning
mediated by the Grim Gatekeeper:
Me.


Life spoke saying

'Death you say
that your demise
is essential to my own beginning,
that without endings
there can be clearly no beginnings
and with no Stops On The Railway
of Time and Space;
everything ceases to exist.

'So Friend Death you say
we should relent:
for all to continue
to exist
we must forbear you
so that the flowers might bloom
so that time continues to mate with space,
so that all that is possible
is birthed
from Death's fine potential;
and Life's creation
is of a piece
made possible too
by your suicide.
I Life, owe you
everything.'.

Death sprang from his seat.
'You make a mockery of me?
Do you say that I am but a path
to you Life and irrelevant;

only a handmaiden
to your purpose.? '

Death's anger was livid red
with his dark countenance
the mix was maroon tint.

Life stood his ground
to rejoin:
'
'You Death have a fatal flaw:
in laying claim
as life's progenitor
once spent and shorn you say
we all fall into your arms
to reluctantly embrace the night;
our true inheritor? '

Life stood her full height
sputtering
'The purpose of existence is not Death
but Life.'

You have misunderstood;
Death is not the dying
nor is it the Surrender of Life.
In Death
not only does the individual die
but sadly Death
you too
also die
because the dream is one of Immortality
not Dead Death
that you represent.

Indeed you are the Grim
and with each day
have no memory
that you are the dead
one dying;
most times by suicide.

Shocked and humbled
Death gasped.
'Can this be true? '

'I die a thousand million death's
so that you life
can renew? '

'True' Life said
You are not Martar but obstacle to the New
and die so that
I
Life can be.'
You are a means
not the end.

'Think on this Death.
Came Life renew from Grim Death?
That is too precious an irony and
more
is likely untrue.'

'No Life renews from Life
and you Death must step aside
by natural cause,
or suicide.

Blanching
Death said
'All of this then
predicates on the Death of Me
endlessly? '

'I think so' said Life;
and it was so
that Death
then died by his own hand;
a reluctant suicide;
saying:

Death is individual
including mine;
repeated endlessly
its seems
for all time
and each time
I forget,
it seems
my own
death
is doomed
to repeat again
and I not remember..

'All Death'
Death said
in his last swoon

is the
Death of Me.'
My own Death
not remembered.

'And' Life said
'if you don't go willingly
or by suicide
Nature has decreed
you will have to go
Unpeacefully
by my hand.

'Such a simple truth.'
Death said

'Life is first in all
of the Universe
and Death
is last
and favored least.


Tragic, too,
because it is my destiny
to Die
again, and again
by my own hand.

'Saddest of all Ironies
I am Death
and I die too
but last
my death is noble best.'

Death said with his last breath

With that
he expired;
Life catching
his final expiration.

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Robin Williams

You'll notice that Nancy Reagan never drinks water when Ronnie speaks.

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The Yarn of the Nancy Bell

'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship NANCY BELL
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the NANCY'S men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the NANCY'S mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, -
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,
For don't you see that you can't cook ME,
While I can - and will - cook YOU!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.
And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
''T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And - as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have - which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the NANCY brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"

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I have very little respect for Nancy Reagan. There is something about her that is very petty.

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Then came the hostage crisis during which Carter did nothing to rattle the ayatollahs who hung tough until Ronald Reagan was inaugurated, when they suddenly backed down.

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The Music That Makes Me Dance

I know hes around
When the sky and the ground started ringing,
I know that hes near by the thunder I hear in advance.
In every way, every day, I need listen myself,
I need more him, more him,
cause his is the only music that makes me dance...
cause his is the only music that makes me dance...
[speaking] fanny brice sang a song like that in 1922,
And it made her the toast of broadway...

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That Beast

that beast within,
locked in the cage
of our unspoken desires;

that swallows darkness
with sexual intensity,
that drools in our dreams.

the face of all the hatreds
and prejudices we abhor....
that hungers for blood....

that stalks the hollow man,
who wears our bodies....
and sleeps with our women....

that beast, whose very existence
we deny, whose name we dare
not speak... diseased and stinking....

yet when we take his withered hand,
a change occurs, in him or us....
the leper's hand becomes eagles' wings...

the face of God fills the hollow man!

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Today... 'Fragrant Offering

On the hill a Fragrant Offering stood.
The Son of God hung on a piece of wood.
The Earth grew dark and the sun hid its light
as men stood gazing at the gruesome sight.

It was in love for us that He had died.
when 'Father forgive them, ' out loud He cried.
Lowered His head and submitted to death
and gave up His life with His final breath.

A Fragrant Offering and sacrifice.
Out of love for us He has paid sins price.
Shed His blood that we might be forgiven
and opened the gateway into heaven.


(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)

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So sweet love seemed that April morn

So sweet love seemed that April morn,
When first we kissed beside the thorn,
So strangely sweet, it was not strange
We thought that love could never change.

But I can tell--let truth be told--
That love will change in growing old;
Though day by day is naught to see,
So delicate his motions be.

And in the end 'twill come to pass
Quite to forget what once he was,
Nor even in fancy to recall
The pleasure that was all in all.

His little spring, that sweet we found,
So deep in summer floods is drowned,
I wonder, bathed in joy complete,
How love so young could be so sweet.

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When Jesus Spoke

When Jesus spoke his God self was coming through,
the same God self as me and you.
We are not separated from God,
we just lost our way,
We need to change our beliefs this present day.
We come full circle with technology,
we are at it's mercy if we don't see,
See the spiritual beliefs that ring true.
we can't mess with divinity.
Like the clones we are making will become a disaster,
watch Rise Planet of the Apes and try to capture,
the moral of the story in the end,
we will mess up and have to start all over again.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 20,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com

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When Jesus Spoke

When Jesus spoke his God self was coming through,
the same God self as me and you.
We are not separated from God,
we just lost our way,
We need to change our beliefs this present day.
We come full circle with technology,
we are at it’s mercy if we don’t see,
See the spiritual beliefs that ring true.
we can’t mess with divinity.
Like the clones we are making will become a disaster,
watch Rise Planet of the Apes and try to capture,
the moral of the story in the end,
we will mess up and have to start all over again.

Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 20,2011
www.purplepoems.com www.christinasunrise.com

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Hes Funny That Way

Richard a. whiting / neil moret
Never had nothing
No one to care
Thats why I seem to have
More than my share
I ve got a man crazy for me
Hes funny that way
When I hurt his feelings
Once in a while
His only answer is one little smile
Ive got that man crazy for me
Hes funny that way
I can see no other way
And no better plan
End it all and let him go
To some better gal
But Im only human
A coward at best
Im more than certain
Hed follow me west
Though he loves to work
And slave for me everyday
Hed be so much better off
If I went away
But why should I leave him
Hed be unhappy without me I know
Ive got that man crazy for me
Hes funny that way

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Wrinkles

WHEN Helen first saw wrinkles in her face
(’T was when some fifty long had settled there
And intermarried and branch’d off awide)
She threw herself upon her couch and wept:
On this side hung her head, and over that
Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass
That made the men as faithless.
But when you
Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear
That they were only vestiges of smiles,
Or the impression of some amorous hair
Astray from cloister’d curls and roseate band,
Which had been lying there all night perhaps
Upon a skin so soft, “No, no,” you said,
“Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are here:
Well, and what matters it, while thou art too!”

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In Memoriam A. H. H.: 54. Oh, yet we Trust that somehow Goo

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final end of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
I shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last--far off--at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

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The Mouse That Gnawed The Oak-Tree Down

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down
Began his task in early life.
He kept so busy with his teeth
He had no time to take a wife.

He gnawed and gnawed through sun and rain
When the ambitious fit was on,
Then rested in the sawdust till
A month of idleness had gone.

He did not move about to hunt
The coteries of mousie-men.
He was a snail-paced, stupid thing
Until he cared to gnaw again.

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down,
When that tough foe was at his feet—
Found in the stump no angel-cake
Nor buttered bread, nor cheese, nor meat—
The forest-roof let in the sky.
“This light is worth the work,” said he.
“I’ll make this ancient swamp more light,”
And started on another tree.

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