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Tact in audacity is knowing how far you can go without going too far.

quote by Jean Cocteau
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One Step Closer

I'm 'round the corner from anything that's real
I'm across the road from hope
I'm under a bridge in a rip tide
That's taken everything I call my own
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
I'm on an island at a busy intersection
I can't go forward, I can't turn back
Can't see the future
It's getting away from me
I just watch the tail lights glowing
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
Knowing, knowing
I'm hanging out to dry
With my old clothes
Finger still red with the prick of an old rose
Well the heart that hurts
Is a heart that beats
Can you hear the drummer slowing?
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
One step closer to knowing
To knowing, to knowing, to knowing

song performed by U2
Added by Lucian Velea
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Old Town Types No. 5 - Mr Mead The Printer

'Mr Mead, the printer' - so the townsfolk called him;
But never in his presence since his reign began;
Such a plain, plebeian title would most surely have appalled him
Felix Mead, Esquire, the literary man.
Down the street each morning to the office of The Banner
Crazy little tin shed - gravely he'd proceed;
Most sedate his measured gait, dignified his manner.
And all the town was very proud of F. T. Mead.

'Have you met our Mr Mead, sir? A bookman and a scholar.'
A grave man, a deep man, rarely known to laugh.
Toiling at the week's news, ever in the collar,
With his little printer's devil, single member of 'the staff.'
Toiling at the type-case, toiling at the leader;
Clothing leading citizens with fleeting, local fame:
'Got to hold the balance, sir; can't be a special pleader.
Tact, sir, tact is the secret of the game.'

He censured Mr Gladstone, and in no uncertain manner;
Vainly might the Russian Czar, the Turkish Sultan plead;
Vainly might the nations crave the mercy of The Banner
If they once aroused the anger of our F. T. Mead.
But the local feuds and furies must be handled circumspectly
The local advertiser must be treated with respect:
Tho' he warned the German Emperor and sneered at him directly,
'It's tact, sir, tact that no pressman may neglect.'

The little Banner 'went to bed' every Wednesday morning.
To be scattered thro' the district with news of all the 'Hub.'
Every Wednesday afternoon found Mr Mead adorning
The little back parlour of the little back pub:
Mr Mead a mite relaxed, but still austere of manner,
With a pot of beer before him and, mayhap, a galley proof.
While lesser folk discussed the news in this week's Banner,
Our local Solon sat and soaked, lonely and aloof.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Knowing Me, Knowing You

No more carefree laughter
Silence ever after
Walking through an empty house, tears in my eyes
Here is where the story ends, this is goodbye
Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)
There is nothing we can do
Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)
We just have to face it, this time were through
(this time were through, this time were through
This time were through, were really through)
Breaking up is never easy, I know but I have to go
(I have to go this time
I have to go, this time I know)
Knowing me, knowing you
Its the best I can do
Memries (memries), good days (good days), bad days (bad days)
Theyll be (theyll be), with me (with me) always (always)
In these old familiar rooms children would play
Now theres only emptiness, nothing to say
Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)
There is nothing we can do
Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)
We just have to face it, this time were through
(this time were through, this time were through
This time were through, were really through)
Breaking up is never easy, I know but I have to go
(I have to go this time
I have to go, this time I know)
Knowing me, knowing you
Its the best I can do

song performed by ABBA
Added by Lucian Velea
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Audacity, more audacity and always audacity.

quote by Georges Jacques Danton
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Audacity, more audacity, always audacity.

quote by Georges Jacques Danton
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How Can You Sleep?

How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really do Loves you Feels Bad He Let You Go?

How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really Loves you cant sleep at night?

How can you sleep, knowing that the one who Really do Loves you cant Eat Because you are no longer there?

How Can you sleep, knowing that all he wants to do is hear your voice every night before he goes to sleep?

How can you sleep, knowing that everyday all he do is long for your touch and the warmth of your Lips?

How can you sleep, knowing that your on his mind everyday, Minute, Hour, Second?

How can you sleep, knowing your his one and only, even when your not together?

How can you sleep, telling him truth about him but not being true to yourself?

How can you sleep, not telling him what you know you want him to know?

How can you sleep, knowing he put his trust in you and you let him down?

How can you know so much yet so little?

How Would You Sleep Knowing That One Day Soon Will Be The Last Day You Ever See Him Again Knowing He Did You So Good And Yet One Day You Let Him Down?

poem by Nathaniel Hayes
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Knowing you

Exhausted and tired, I met you,
All the right reasons I saw,
Asked for a hand you gave me both,
Called for care I received love,
Knowing you knowing love

Shivering without any hope,
I asked for warmth i got heat,
In your tender arms i rested,
Darling give me more
Knowing you is knowing love

You took me by the hand,
Whispered in my ear,
You called me to your side,
You loved so dearly,
Take my hand you will see,
Love is becoming us,
Knowing you is knowing love

Tell me you love me,
With words im healed,
With the gentle touch im in ecstacy,
Knowing you was a fortune,
Like a beggar finding gold,
Knowing you was knowing love

poem by Gaylord Munemo
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It Makes More Sense

It makes more sense,
Stopping something not to start.
Yes it makes more sense,
Not to tear things all apart.
Or bring up filthy garbage,
Knowing it is just a farce.

It makes more sense,
To walk away than to be petty.
And it makes more sense,
To prevent a thumping headache.
And it makes more sense,
Not to argue with a fool.
Knowing this is something done,
Many fools love to do.

And it makes more sense,
Stopping something not to start.
Yes it makes more sense,
Not to tear things all apart.
Or bring up filthy garbage,
Knowing it is just a farce.
And it makes more sense,
Not to argue with a fool.
Knowing this is something done,
Fools love to do.

And it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To chase all bitterness away.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.

And it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To chase all bitterness away.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.

Yes it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.
And it makes more sense,
To say, 'You're right' than build a hate.
Knowing that tomorrow promises another day.
Yes it makes more sense,
To keep the peace with every neighbor.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Knowing

There is a danger of knowing too much

knowing too much danger

Crossing a road without looking

Taking a risk with your cooking

A danger in knowing

There is a danger in knowing too much

Having digitalised lives

synched to computer

GOOGLED

There is a danger

Is there a danger in knowing?

Too much danger?

Too much knowing?

Too much?

we have/are becoming

More like a shopping mall

Packed full of brands

And gadgets

our apps additives

There is a danger of losing your child

In a shopping mall

Losing your self

In the underground

A danger in knowing

A danger in looking

[...] Read more

poem by Yvette Smith
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No Difference

i stared out the window
at the bare frozen limbs
of my favorite old tree...
i closed my eyes...
saw leaves bud forth
and turn green...
i opened my eyes...
knowing there was no difference.

i stared at the young girl
reading at a corner table
i closed my eyes...
and saw an old grandmother
washing dishes with her grandbabies
playing in the floor at her feet...
i opened my eyes...
knowing there was no difference.

i saw the young man
carrying his son on his shoulders
i closed my eyes...
and saw an old man standing
by his son's casket
draped by a flag...
i opened my eyes...
knowing there was no difference.

i saw an old man
standing on the corner begging
i closed my eyes...
i saw a young boy
playing ball in the street
laughing and dodging cars
i opened my eyes...
knowing there was no difference.

i saw a crack head shivering
by an electric heater in a bare apartment
i closed my eyes...
and saw a young a/g student
helping some kid with his math
i opened my eyes...
knowing there was no difference.

i saw a desperate girl
walking the streets
looking for a john
i closed my eyes...
and saw a young girl's room
stuffed animals on the bed

[...] Read more

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Grew To Believe

I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
Especially when I thought that I had,
Something I should not want to have.

Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
An acceptance of their gifts.
I grew up in the projects.
And those who were 'different' were made to feel it.

Few people I knew were encouraged to express,
A happiness with talents they possessed.
With a gladness from others...
Who did not address an envy with a jealousness.

But a showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew!

A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.

I did not awaken with dreams to write.
Or decide I was creative.
I awakened each day trying to fight it,
This appetite I had.
But...
A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.
Yes,
A showing of a knowing that I knew...
Grew,
To believe.

A showing of a knowing that I knew,
Grew...
Inside of me.

A showing of a knowing that I knew...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Knowing Your Perimeters

knowing your perimeters is not an easy job,
not really expensive, but it takes the mind of the pensive man,
the wiles of the wise and the wit of the wounded

who am i? where am I? what am i?
where am i heeded? where i will stop?
what can i do? what i cannot do?

knowing the length of your arms and feet
the distance of your vision
and knowing what you can touch and
see, and knowing what you cannot
even touch and see no matter how
wide you open your eyes

knowing your place, your fences, the limits
of your garden, the source of your water,
your air, your food, the quiet imagination

knowing what you can give and you can hold,
knowing what you can let go
and what you must keep in your heart forever

knowing the limits of your mind
the stretch of your hands, the number of times that
you can blink your eye,
the right time to fear and the right time to kill
the right time to love and the right time to hate
or just be the foolish man who is so indifferent

i know my limits and i mark my boundaries.
please do not go any further. i am just staying
within the bounds of my hands and feet.
i am seeing you and i am warning you.

i have this detonator. My finger is ready.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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L'audace

Daughter of God! Audacity divine
Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign
Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool,
Not thine of idiots the vocal drool:
Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass,
Presumption, actuates the charging ass.
Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings
Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings;
The notes should mount on pinions true and strong,
For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song,
Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng!
Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails,
They (notes, not angels) dropp and the hymn fails;
The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs
Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums.
Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand
For stronger voices and a harder hand:
Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire,
And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire!

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Amazing Audacity (Revised)

Our recalcitrant colleague,
esteemed Mme Pompadour,
solved problem of being at
the office, Monday she said
booked off till today - called,
feels nauseous, can't come
in - why when she's already
arranged to stay away?

Difficult to make up sick leave
on the go, keep track what was
said when, ad hoc improvisation
on the spot - maybe she should
develop ethical standards, more
consistency in stories; we feel so
sorry when her tales go awry

Though I am glad to say that
management seems happy
with whatever she does, making
us proud by getting away with
anything, what lovely duplicity,
all has to admire and applaud
such amazing audacity!

[ORIGINAL: ]

Our recalcitrant colleague, most esteemed
Mme Pompadour - solved the problem of
irrelevant work at the office, Monday she
said booked off till Wednesday, today all
forgotten, called to say she took cortisone,
feels nauseous, she can't come in today,
why when already arranged to stay away?

It must be difficult to make up sick leave on
the go, keep track of what you said when -
ad hoc improvisation on the spot - maybe
she should write it down, develop ethical
standards-consistency in her own stories,
we feel so sorry for her when we can see
her intricate tales are going awry - though

Apparently management is happy with what-
ever she does, making us proud by getting
away with anything - what lovely duplicity,
all has to applaud such amazing audacity

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Hongree and Mahry

The sun was setting in its wonted west,
When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Met MAHRY DAUBIGNY, the Village Rose,
Under the Wizard's Oak - old trysting-place
Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.

They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not;
For HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Found in LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC
A rival, envious and unscrupulous,
Who thought it not foul scorn to dodge his steps,
And listen, unperceived, to all that passed
Between the simple little Village Rose
And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

A clumsy barrack-bully was DUBOSC,
Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact
That animates a proper gentleman
In dealing with a girl of humble rank.
You'll understand his coarseness when I say
He would have married MAHRY DAUBIGNY,
And dragged the unsophisticated girl
Into the whirl of fashionable life,
For which her singularly rustic ways,
Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),
Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),
Would absolutely have unfitted her.
How different to this unreflecting boor
Was HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

Contemporary with the incident
Related in our opening paragraph,
Was that sad war 'twixt Gallia and ourselves
That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;
And so LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC
(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)
And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Were sent by CHARLES of France against the lines
Of our Sixth HENRY (Fourteen twenty-nine),
To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.

When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Returned, suspecting nothing, to his camp,
After his meeting with the Village Rose,
He found inside his barrack letter-box
A note from the commanding officer,
Requiring his attendance at head-quarters.
He went, and found LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES.

"Young HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

[...] Read more

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Evil Will Prevail

With loving hands and their arms are stretched so wide they cant
Seem to take a breath knowing evil will prevail, and a million people
Seems
Like a lot, and a million people cant be wrong...
With loving smiles, and their mouths are stretched so wide they cant
Even
Take a breath, knowing evil will prevail, and the magic bullet is the
Glowing mother ship, and the mother zaps you dead...
With loving hands knowing evil will prevail
Knowing evil will prevail
Knowing that evil will prevail
Knowing evil will prevail
Knowing that evil will always win...

song performed by Flaming Lips
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Great knowing

Knowing nothing
Knowing everything
Knowing what is
The use of knowing
Knowing great
Great knowing is
Earnig knowing.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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In A Windowpane

I looked into a windowpane
Last evening in a city far away
I was feelin sad and blue
I wondered then if I should really stay
Wanting someone to be with me in the light of this uncertain time
Waiting by the window for the man inside
To please make up his mind
Will you be one who passed through but never saw
Never knowing never feeling anything
Will you live your whole life through never knowing what to do
Will you be one who passed through but never saw
I walked along the roadway to a fountain
Where lovers come to meet
A hobo walked up to me, I could tell
He didnt have enough to eat
He said, good sir you look so kind
And though the years have stripped me to the bone
It seems I am the better man
For in this place Ive never walked alone
Will you be one who passed through but never saw
Never knowing never feeling anything
Will you live your whole life through never knowing what to do
Will you be one who passed through but never saw
Where will you be, my friendly, when your
Telephone aint givin out no calls
And when the seasons come to haunt you
Will you still find springtime in the fall
And when youre on your island
Will you wave at every ship that passes by
And will you feed a hungry man
I thank you, sir,
Now Ill just say goodbye
Dont you be one who passed through but never saw
Never knowing never feeling anything
Will you live your whole life through never knowing what to do
Will you be one who passed through but never saw
Will you live your whole life through never knowing what to do
Will you be one who passed through but never saw

song performed by Gordon Lightfoot
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Going

Breaking it all down.
Just look around.
A life so quaint.
A blotch of paint here and there.
Painting a portrait out of thin air.
Oh where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Without ever really knowing.
Is this really how its gonna be.
So hard to see.
The glassed fogged by a change in temperature.
Heat rising and falling.
Emotions forever turning.
Were just churning the same sickness over and over again.
Oh where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Without ever really knowing.
Walking among the shadows.
A pact with devils.
Toss everything aside.
Take another, take a better ride.
Follow the motion of the oceans tides.
Eventually the chaos will subside.
Then again I will ask,
oh where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Without ever really knowing.
Look at that. It has start snowing.
Water crystallized and compromised.
Green skies.
A bitter wind grabs the skin.
Being ripped within.
I can already see the end.
Every move that can and will be made.
We are destinies slave.
Oh so brave.
But in a jaded sense.
How can it benifit me.
What a diease.
Another sneeze from a life deformity.
Oh where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Without ever really knowing.
Without ever really knowing.
Going, going forever going.
Do you have a map?
Are you bound to a contract?
Is there something you lack?
Just what is it that got you moving in zig zag.
Are you crossing the alps too just to get to other side.

[...] Read more

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Better Days Are Made For The Ones Who Pay The Price

Falling down to get up,
And determined to get out of a rut...
Is better than a weeping.

Brushing off the dust,
And knowing that you've had enough...
With a strut you're keeping.

Better days are made for the ones who pay the price,
Of...
Knowing what time it is and taking advice,
Without a self defeating.

Some folks like to groan as if moans they own,
As if they live to get a beating.
Some folks like to groan as if moans they own,
As if they live to get a beating.
Better days are made for the ones who pay the price,
Of...
Knowing what time it is and taking advice.

Falling down to get up,
And determined to get out of a rut...
Is better than a weeping.

Some folks like to groan as if moans they own,
And...
Do it as if they are singing in different tones.

Well. Well. Well. Well...
Falling down to get up,
And determined to get out of a rut...
Is better than a weeping.

Brushing off the dust,
And knowing that you've had enough...
With a strut you're keeping.

Better days are made for the ones who pay the price,
Of...
Knowing what time it is and taking advice.

Well. Well. Well. Well...
Falling down to get up,
And determined to get out of a rut...
Is better than a weeping.

Brushing off the dust,
And knowing that you've had enough...
With a strut you're keeping.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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