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Hurricane Katrina exposed the harsh reality that we have been skating on thin ice when it comes to this country's energy concentrations on the Gulf Coast.

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The Deeds That Might Have Been

There are wrongs done in the fair face of heaven
Which cry aloud for vengeance, and shall cry;
Loves beautiful in strength whose wit has striven
Vainly with loss and man's inconstancy;
Dead children's faces watched by souls that die;
Pure streams defiled; fair forests idly riven;
A nation suppliant in its agony
Calling on justice, and no help is given.

All these are pitiful. Yet, after tears,
Come rest and sleep and calm forgetfulness,
And God's good providence consoles the years.
Only the coward heart which did not guess,
The dreamer of brave deeds that might have been,
Shall cureless ache with wounds for ever green.

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To Undo What It Was That Should Have Been

Is that similar to rebirth?
Or re-defining what is?

And if that is the case...
Those who now suggest,
A redefining of things to reform...
To do to get things done,
Will need to re-address themselves,
With amnesia.

To undo what it was that should have been,
Those without a conscious intentionally did...
To enable a reform to do that is defined with a doing.

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And All That Could Have Been

Breeze still carries the sound
maybe i'll disappear
tracks will fade in the snow
you won't find me here
Ice is starting to form
ending what had begun
I am locked in my head
with what I've done
I know you tried to rescue me
didn't let anyone get in
left with a trace of all that was
And all that could have been
take this
and run far away
far away from me
I am tainted
the two of us
were never meant to be
all these pieces
and promises and left behinds
if only I could see
In my nothing
You meant everything
everything to me
gone fading everything
And all that could have been
take this
and run far away
far as you can see
I am tainted
and happiness and peace of mind
were never meant for me
all these pices
and promises and left behinds
if only I could see
In my nothing
You meant everything
everything to me

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The Only Way To Understand What We Have Been Talking About...

let me write about peace then.

the irony is that peace has no use of words,
like silence,

when you utter it, it is not there anymore.

let me paint peace then, ah, the very sound of the brush disturbs it,
the way we choose the color, creates an argument

let me have a camera and take a picture of peace,
disregard the click and the flash

just imagine it,

early dawn, a fisherman casts his net on a noiseless sea
all the fish have gone to the other side of the island.

the earlier you accept that you have been rightfully abandoned
the easier is it to understand what we have been talking about.

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First Kiss That Could Have Been A Big Regret

I am sorry that we can't be.
This is not about you, this about me.
My inner insecurities has mad me realize
that there was no hope to define.

I turned life into a pathetic dream,
a dream that could never be.
I don't know why I tried
when I knew that nothing would be alright.

All I did was hurt myself, when I knew that you
were not worth all the heartache or the time.
I might have been the one
but I guess we will never know.

You never let me show you
what you meant to me
but now it doesn't matter
and I am sorry that you could not see.

I wanted to give you my first kiss
but I am glad that I didn't
because I don't
deserve that kind of regret.

God loves me and that's all that counts!
I don't need you to bring me pain and doubt!

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The Night It Should Have Been Me

I was there...
Over in that land...beyond the sea...
Begging God...Don't let it be...
Lying... Frighten...Hiding on the ground...
As Rockets...Guns...Claymores...
Exploding...all around

The radio... Help me...Call had come in...
He said... God...I'm hit...very bad...
I couldn't believe... How my heart went...
Just so... damn mad...
I moved... as it was Mauir...
For a blinding flash...had torn my soul...
And slammed.. knocked my helmet from my hair...

My eyes and soul looked toward black...
With so much fright...
I could hardly move...because of my pounding...that night
I had to find him...
I had to make amends...
Because...He had taken it...for me...My friend

I had to find him... I had too....
I had... made the path
Oh.. Please... please God... No... Don't let it be...
But his leg was gone... blown off...above the knee...
By Star Bursts... flashing pale...white...light...
My hands shook as I worked...Scorched that night...

His hand clinched mine
His eyes and face...He just said hi...
I worked at fever pitch...105... Begging... God...
Jimmy... Jimmy... don't you...Die
I checked his face gray and white
We had to move...again...
Facing Black... again that night

I looked for my soul...and my gun
And now...forever...carry about forty more tons
Like a mother...with child in arms...
I my soul...would have no more harm

We were on the 10,000 yard track...
Him in my shoulder his pack...
I could see the finish line...that Huey...
It was shouting....cheering...throwing Red...
Yellow...Green... and Black....
Trying desperately...too... keep my soul...from harm
I shouted...Hold tight...Jim...with your arms
I fought...Desperate to keep my soul...from any more harm

It will never be complete...nor whole
I had said I was tired...
We'd not had any sleep...watching out for the V.C.
He'd said Relax...and sleep... Like Christ on the Cross
This night...I'll take for thee...
Oh please God...Please...Now they can see...
That was the night...
That It Should Have Been Me.....!

Now I know when you read this, you'll think it wasn't my fault.
But to me! It does feel that way....When for my own selfish need
to have some sleep. I'm writing this so that others, may never have to
face this sort of thing. So if you see me, walking that path, that continues
onto Hell...Just step to the side...
Make sure... you're not doing the same, as I had done...
And please... remember to help others first.
Before you think or yourself.
When you help others first..
That is the way...
God, intended it to be...
That's why, He was staked to a tree...
Because other wise, for my sins also
It would have been me...
Like it was for Him...At Gethsemane....

For Jimmy
By Clyde Grant Bryson

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Patrick White

By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By

By the light I have been given to go by,
I can see how homeless the journey truly is.
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music
impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.
The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight,
in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans
gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.

I have imagined my way into an understanding
that is a rite of passage into a space that is
a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness
that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things
as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought,
a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm
of creative awareness that we're completely alone
and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides
as if nothing bound us, not even detachment,
nor a god that exists as a confession of the way we do,
nor any medium we work in as reflection of our presence
labouring away at an unattainable world that won't exist
until we do, and it's 7 to 5 against anyone making it that far.

But what a joy to emerge out of our own nothingness
like a secret we're letting ourselves in on,
making it up as we go along like a deportable myth of origin
we can adapt to our infinite beginnings
because for starters, it has none of its own.
We were born to express ourselves like apple trees.
We were born to see and be happy marvelling at the event.
To enjoy longing for things we were never missing
and be guided by wise men we never listen to
back to a silence that has nothing to say for itself
that we didn't already know in the first place.
Everywhere is the threshold of the return journey.
Life is either an exile, or it stays at home like a follower.
Bless the enlightened apostates of the dangerous religion
that desecrates the mind by worshipping it.
Why make a chain out of your umbilical cord
and get your head wrapped around it like a noose
because you forgot meaning was an art
and not a way to take yourself way too seriously to heart?
Why go to war with your own mind
just to administer to the needs of the suffering
when you can paint a god in blood and ashes
and decultify yourself with the creative freedom
of your imagination deconstructing the fable of your belief
that it's the being, not the becoming, that endures.
And you can do this without even knowing how to draw.
A starmap doesn't shine. A blue print doesn't open a door.
If you ask a crutch to do your walking for you,
it's going to throw you away like a miracle
at the top of the stairs of Notre Dame de Coeur.
Better to be the sacred whore of a thousand profligate gods
than the unrepentant nun of one who shuts the world out,
like art for art's sake, to revel in her own extinction
in a mystical connubium with an unregenerate imagination.

You can burn your gates and cages in a wild field if you like
for not being able to keep the flowers in, or keep the wind
from rioting with the leaves way past curfew,
but there was never any risk of being granted what you ask
because life is the unpredictable moon rise
that deepens the calendars with a renewed humility
towards the extraordinary mutability of time.
What have you ever been that baffled your imagination?
It isn't reason that inspires us to become a stranger tomorrow
to the self we knew today. Genuine faith isn't
an artificial life support system to keep something alive
that should have been allowed to die quietly away yesterday.
Millions upon millions of facts like a graveyard of skeleton keys
to a door we can't find open within ourselves
as if we'd just stepped through it to be here where we live
deciphering the shapes of the clouds as if we lived in code.

Hide your secret deep enough if you want it to be known.
Walk alone as far as you can until you can't
if you want the world to walk the rest of the way with you.
The white demon that knows heaven and hell experientially
mentors the senses in the spiritual subtleties of the black angel
that comes like the new moon of a third eye
to help the exegetes of light see further into the dark
by blowing their candles out like flowers.
All seekers are roads looking for a map to follow.
Preludes after the fact, that set out to look for their own endings.
Be a star. And keep your afterlife behind you
like the shadow of the last form you cast upon the earth.
Be an eye that doesn't leave any room between the moon
and it's reflection so that the substance of life is seeing
not that you're a distinct and separate entity
that cosmically identifies with your exclusion
but that you're wholly within easy reach of everything
that depends upon you for its existence. Just as every leaf
you let fall in the autumn like an adage of wisdom
about how you can know the world by its fruits
first came to the tree like a smile to your face
when you realized your imagination was
the inconceivable dynamic of a creative state of grace.

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All That We Have

To survive all that we have survived
to live all that we have lived
to feel all that we have felt
to see all that we have seen
to be all that we have been

Are we blessed
or are we cursed

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A Tree of Ashes

The Tree Of Ashes

'You should have died at birth'
That's what his mother said
Had he died at birth
Maybe, many would be ahead

Soon, She's the one who's leaving
Going on her way
She will be the one who will be judged
On that her judgement day

He was the blame for all their ills
Although he knows not why
Maybe they all were right
And should have taken the time to die

He didn't die, he's still he's still here
What should we do with him?
Find a stone to cast at him
You who are all without sin

There are two who squabble over things
Not theirs and never were
And two who could care less
For Frankincense and Myrrh

When she's gone, she'll be the last
Of that tree with broken branches
Spread over the earth, is this tree
The tree that's turned to ashes

A tree that could have been so strong
Instead of mean and ugly sorrow
This tree of life that will be gone
As quickly as tomorrow

Jim 2008

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Rights Of Mankind

sometimes we run across things in life
that we don't understand.
that is when we ask for GODS hand.

like what is the purpose of war?
and what are we dying for?
we see people dying every day.
some by accident, and many become prey.
prey to the gangs, the criminals, the predators too.
so what in the world, are we supposed to do?

we put our faith in the laws that we have created
but! most of these laws are a bit belated.
this is when we ask the LORD for his guiding hand
to make us strong, and to take a stand.

we gain knowledge in every way
with each and every passing day.
little bits of information, here and there.
that we pass along for others to share.

the young people say that they have no life
how could they, when they always fight.
this is the world that we live in
full of crime, full of sin.

we have the opportunity
to change all this, by taking control
of our destiny.

'that is how it's got to be.'

let's open the road to communication
and talk with friends, family, relations.
let us become a family of one
fighting for the right of all mankind.

'don't you think that it is time?

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i am seeing what you do not see
they are not invisible, they are real, subject always
to more doubtful
and debatable interpretations
which i think you better not see
because it demeans me
and then i begin to write
this poem, something that you may not like
to understand but just the same
it is here with a lot of doubtful validity,
must this be a poem still? plain word getting into a prelude
of a convoluted thinking failing to give more
landscapes of colors and lines
plain straight lines
like a road, a very long road that you have been walking
all throughout your life
and asking if this is worth the day's troubles

what i see here may demean you too
it has demeaned me
many times in the past and perhaps in the coming days, years,
but i am always seeing it
because it makes me alive
my life worth living,

at times i think that i am a very sinful man
but i raise my eyes to God thanking him that he still makes me live
this sinful life

those that understand me have always been misunderstood too
a sympathizer to sinners
but being misunderstood is a fact
it is human
and i am glad that you are here too
supporting cast
to this human drama
this humanity that screams at times
and then so silent in the sleep
because the soul is too tired
coping up with the mistakes of the body

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John Dryden

Religio Laici


Dim, as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars
To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers,
Is reason to the soul; and as on high,
Those rolling fires discover but the sky
Not light us here; so reason's glimmering ray
Was lent not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upward to a better day.
And as those nightly tapers disappear
When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere
So pale grows reason at religion's sight:
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led
From cause to cause, to Nature's secret head;
And found that one first principle must be:
But what, or who, that Universal He;
Whether some soul incompassing this ball
Unmade, unmov'd; yet making, moving all;
Or various atoms' interfering dance
Leapt into form (the noble work of chance
Or this great all was from eternity;
Not even the Stagirite himself could see;
And Epicurus guess'd as well as he:
As blindly grop'd they for a future state;
As rashly judg'd of Providence and Fate:
But least of all could their endeavours find
What most concern'd the good of human kind.
For happiness was never to be found;
But vanish'd from 'em, like enchanted ground.
One thought content the good to be enjoy'd:
This, every little accident destroy'd:
The wiser madmen did for virtue toil:
A thorny, or at best a barren soil:
In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep;
But found their line too short, the well too deep;
And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep.
Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll,
Without a centre where to fix the soul:
In this wild maze their vain endeavours end:
How can the less the greater comprehend?
Or finite reason reach infinity?
For what could fathom God were more than He.

The Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground;
Cries [lang g]eur{-e}ka[lang e] the mighty secret's found:
God is that spring of good; supreme, and best;
We, made to serve, and in that service blest;
If so, some rules of worship must be given;
Distributed alike to all by Heaven:
Else God were partial, and to some deny'd
The means his justice should for all provide.
This general worship is to PRAISE, and PRAY:
One part to borrow blessings, one to pay:
And when frail Nature slides into offence,
The sacrifice for crimes is penitence.
Yet, since th'effects of providence, we find
Are variously dispens'd to human kind;
That vice triumphs, and virtue suffers here,
(A brand that sovereign justice cannot bear
Our reason prompts us to a future state:
The last appeal from fortune, and from fate:
Where God's all-righteous ways will be declar'd;
The bad meet punishment, the good, reward.

Thus man by his own strength to Heaven would soar:
And would not be oblig'd to God for more.
Vain, wretched creature, how art thou misled
To think thy wit these god-like notions bred!
These truths are not the product of thy mind,
But dropt from Heaven, and of a nobler kind.
Reveal'd religion first inform'd thy sight,
And reason saw not, till faith sprung the light.
Hence all thy natural worship takes the source:
'Tis revelation what thou think'st discourse.
Else how com'st thou to see these truths so clear,
Which so obscure to heathens did appear?
Not Plato these, nor Aristotle found:
Nor he whose wisdom oracles renown'd.
Hast thou a wit so deep, or so sublime,
Or canst thou lower dive, or higher climb?
Canst thou, by reason, more of God-head know
Than Plutarch, Seneca, or Cicero?
Those giant wits, in happier ages born,
(When arms, and arts did Greece and Rome adorn)
Knew no such system; no such piles could raise
Of natural worship, built on pray'r and praise,
To one sole God.
Nor did remorse, to expiate sin, prescribe:
But slew their fellow creatures for a bribe:
The guiltless victim groan'd for their offence;
And cruelty, and blood was penitence.
If sheep and oxen could atone for men
Ah! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin!
And great oppressors might Heaven's wrath beguile
By offering his own creatures for a spoil!

Dar'st thou, poor worm, offend Infinity?
And must the terms of peace be given by thee?
Then thou art justice in the last appeal;
Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel:
And, like a king remote, and weak, must take
What satisfaction thou art pleas'd to make.

But if there be a pow'r too just, and strong
To wink at crimes, and bear unpunish'd wrong;
Look humbly upward, see his will disclose
The forfeit first, and then the fine impose:
A mulct thy poverty could never pay
Had not Eternal Wisdom found the way:
And with celestial wealth supply'd thy store:
His justice makes the fine, his mercy quits the score.
See God descending in thy human frame;
Th'offended, suff'ring in th'offender's name:
All thy misdeeds to him imputed see;
And all his righteousness devolv'd on thee.

For granting we have sinn'd, and that th'offence
Of man, is made against omnipotence,
Some price, that bears proportion, must be paid;
And infinite with infinite be weigh'd.
See then the Deist lost: remorse for vice,
Not paid, or paid, inadequate in price:
What farther means can reason now direct,
Or what relief from human wit expect?
That shows us sick; and sadly are we sure
Still to be sick, till Heav'n reveal the cure:
If then Heaven's will must needs be understood,
(Which must, if we want cure, and Heaven be good)
Let all records of will reveal'd be shown;
With Scripture, all in equal balance thrown,
And our one sacred Book will be that one.

Proof needs not here, for whether we compare
That impious, idle, superstitious ware
Of rites, lustrations, offerings, (which before,
In various ages, various countries bore)
With Christian faith and virtues, we shall find
None answ'ring the great ends of human kind,
But this one rule of life: that shows us best
How God may be appeas'd, and mortals blest.
Whether from length of time its worth we draw,
The world is scarce more ancient than the law:
Heav'n's early care prescrib'd for every age;
First, in the soul, and after, in the page.
Or, whether more abstractedly we look,
Or on the writers, or the written Book,
Whence, but from Heav'n, could men unskill'd in arts,
In several ages born, in several parts,
Weave such agreeing truths? or how, or why
Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?
Unask'd their pains, ungrateful their advice,
Starving their gain, and martyrdom their price.

If on the Book itself we cast our view,
Concurrent heathens prove the story true:
The doctrine, miracles; which must convince,
For Heav'n in them appeals to human sense:
And though they prove not, they confirm the cause,
When what is taught agrees with Nature's laws.

Then for the style; majestic and divine,
It speaks no less than God in every line:
Commanding words; whose force is still the same
As the first fiat that produc'd our frame.
All faiths beside, or did by arms ascend;
Or sense indulg'd has made mankind their friend:
This only doctrine does our lusts oppose:
Unfed by Nature's soil, in which it grows;
Cross to our interests, curbing sense, and sin;
Oppress'd without, and undermin'd within,
It thrives through pain; its own tormentors tires;
And with a stubborn patience still aspires.
To what can reason such effects assign,
Transcending Nature, but to laws divine:
Which in that sacred volume are contain'd;
Sufficient, clear, and for that use ordain'd.

But stay: the Deist here will urge anew,
No supernatural worship can be true:
Because a general law is that alone
Which must to all, and everywhere be known:
A style so large as not this Book can claim
Nor aught that bears reveal'd religion's name.
'Tis said the sound of a Messiah's Birth
Is gone through all the habitable earth:
But still that text must be confin'd alone
To what was then inhabited, and known:
And what Provision could from thence accrue
To Indian souls, and worlds discover'd new?
In other parts it helps, that ages past,
The Scriptures there were known, and were embrac'd,
Till sin spread once again the shades of night:
What's that to these who never saw the light?

Of all objections this indeed is chief
To startle reason, stagger frail belief:
We grant, 'tis true, that Heav'n from human sense
Has hid the secret paths of Providence:
But boundless wisdom, boundless mercy, may
Find ev'n for those bewilder'd souls, a way:
If from his nature foes may pity claim,
Much more may strangers who ne'er heard his name.
And though no name be for salvation known,
But that of his eternal Son's alone;
Who knows how far transcending goodness can
Extend the merits of that Son to man?
Who knows what reasons may his mercy lead;
Or ignorance invincible may plead?
Not only charity bids hope the best,
But more the great Apostle has expressed.
That, if the Gentiles (whom no law inspir'd,)
By nature did what was by law requir'd;
They, who the written rule had never known,
Were to themselves both rule and law alone:
To nature's plain indictment they shall plead;
And, by their conscience, be condemn'd or freed.
Most righteous doom! because a rule reveal'd
Is none to those, from whom it was conceal'd.
Then those who follow'd reason's dictates right;
Liv'd up, and lifted high their natural light;
With Socrates may see their Maker's Face,
While thousand rubric-martyrs want a place.

Nor does it baulk my charity, to find
Th'Egyptian Bishop of another mind:
For, though his Creed eternal truth contains,
'Tis hard for man to doom to endless pains
All who believ'd not all, his zeal requir'd,
Unless he first could prove he was inspir'd.
Then let us either think he meant to say
This faith, where publish'd, was the only way;
Or else conclude that, Arius to confute,
The good old man, too eager in dispute,
Flew high; and as his Christian fury rose
Damn'd all for heretics who durst oppose.

Thus far my charity this path has tried;
(A much unskilful, but well meaning guide
Yet what they are, ev'n these crude thoughts were bred
By reading that, which better thou hast read,
Thy matchless Author's work: which thou, my friend,
By well translating better dost commend:
Those youthful hours which, of thy equals most
In toys have squander'd, or in vice have lost,
Those hours hast thou to nobler use employ'd;
And the severe delights of truth enjoyed.
Witness this weighty book, in which appears
The crabbed toil of many thoughtful years,
Spent by thy author in the sifting care
Of rabbins' old sophisticated ware
From gold divine; which he who well can sort
May afterwards make algebra a sport.
A treasure, which if country-curates buy,
They Junius and Tremellius may defy:
Save pains in various readings, and translations;
And without Hebrew make most learn'd quotations.
A work so full with various learning fraught,
So nicely ponder'd, yet so strongly wrought,
As nature's height and art's last hand requir'd:
As much as man could compass, uninspir'd.
Where we may see what errors have been made
Both in the copier's and translator's trade:
How Jewish, Popish, interests have prevail'd,
And where infallibility has fail'd.

For some, who have his secret meaning guess'd,
Have found our author not too much a priest:
For fashion-sake he seems to have recourse
To Pope, and Councils, and tradition's force:
But he that old traditions could subdue,
Could not but find the weakness of the new:
If Scripture, though deriv'd from Heavenly birth,
Has been but carelessly preserv'd on earth;
If God's own people, who of God before
Knew what we know, and had been promis'd more,
In fuller terms, of Heaven's assisting care,
And who did neither time, nor study spare
To keep this Book untainted, unperplex'd;
Let in gross errors to corrupt the text:
Omitted paragraphs, embroil'd the sense;
With vain traditions stopp'd the gaping fence,
Which every common hand pull'd up with ease:
What safety from such brushwood-helps as these?
If written words from time are not secur'd,
How can we think have oral sounds endur'd?
Which thus transmitted, if one mouth has fail'd,
Immortal lies on ages are entail'd:
And that some such have been, is prov'd too plain;
If we consider interest, church, and gain.

Oh but says one, tradition set aside,
Where can we hope for an unerring guide?
For since th' original Scripture has been lost,
All copies disagreeing, maim'd the most,
Or Christian faith can have no certain ground,
Or truth in Church tradition must be found.

Such an omniscient church we wish indeed;
'Twere worth both Testaments, and cast in the Creed:
But if this Mother be a guide so sure,
As can all doubts resolve, all truth secure;
Then her infallibility, as well
Where copies are corrupt, or lame, can tell?
Restore lost Canon with as little pains,
As truly explicate what still remains:
Which yet no Council dare pretend to do;
Unless like Esdras, they could write it new:
Strange confidence, still to interpret true,
Yet not be sure that all they have explain'd,
Is in the blest Original contain'd.
More safe, and much more modest 'tis, to say
God would not leave mankind without a way:
And that the Scriptures, though not everywhere
Free from corruption, or entire, or clear,
Are uncorrupt, sufficient, clear, entire,
In all things which our needful faith require.
If others in the same glass better see
'Tis for themselves they look, but not for me:
For my salvation must its doom receive
Not from what others , but what I believe.

Must all tradition then be set aside?
This to affirm were ignorance, or pride.
Are there not many points, some needful sure
To saving faith, that Scripture leaves obscure?
Which every sect will wrest a several way
(For what one sect interprets, all sects may
We hold, and say we prove from Scripture plain,
That Christ is God ; the bold Socinian
From the same Scripture urges he's but man .
Now what appeal can end th'important suit;
Both parts talk loudly, but the Rule is mute?

Shall I speak plain, and in a nation free
Assume an honest layman's liberty?
I think (according to my little skill,
To my own Mother-Church submitting still)
That many have been sav'd, and many may,
Who never heard this question brought in play.
Th' unletter'd Christian, who believes in gross,
Plods on to Heaven; and ne'er is at a loss:
For the Strait-gate would be made straiter yet,
Were none admitted there but men of wit.
The few, by nature form'd, with learning fraught,
Born to instruct, as others to be taught,
Must study well the sacred page; and see
Which doctrine, this, or that, does best agree
With the whole tenor of the Work divine:
And plainliest points to Heaven's reveal'd design:
Which exposition flows from genuine sense;
And which is forc'd by wit and eloquence.
Not that tradition's parts are useless here:
When general, old, disinteress'd and clear:
That ancient Fathers thus expound the page,
Gives truth the reverend majesty of age:
Confirms its force, by biding every test;
For best authority's next Rules are best.
And still the nearer to the Spring we go
More limpid, more unsoil'd the waters flow.
Thus, first traditions were a proof alone;
Could we be certain such they were, so known:
But since some flaws in long descent may be,
They make not truth but probability.
Even Arius and Pelagius durst provoke
To what the centuries preceding spoke.
Such difference is there in an oft-told tale:
But truth by its own sinews will prevail.
Tradition written therefore more commends
Authority, than what from voice descends:
And this, as perfect as its kind can be,
Rolls down to us the Sacred History:
Which, from the Universal Church receiv'd,
Is tried, and after, for its self believ'd.

The partial Papists would infer from hence
Their church, in last resort, should judge the sense.
But first they would assume, with wondrous art,
Themselves to be the whole, who are but part
Of that vast frame, the Church; yet grant they were
The handers down, can they from thence infer
A right t'interpret? or would they alone
Who brought the present, claim it for their own?
The Book's a common largess to mankind;
Not more for them, than every man design'd:
The welcome news is in the letter found;
The carrier's not commission'd to expound.
It speaks itself, and what it does contain,
In all things needful to be known, is plain.

In times o'ergrown with rust and ignorance,
A gainful trade their clergy did advance:
When want of learning kept the laymen low,
And none but priests were authoriz'd to know:
When what small knowledge was, in them did dwell;
And he a God who could but read or spell;
Then Mother Church did mightily prevail:
She parcell'd out the Bible by retail:
But still expounded what she sold or gave;
To keep it in her power to damn and save:
Scripture was scarce, and as the market went,
Poor laymen took salvation on content;
As needy men take money, good or bad:
God's Word they had not, but the priests they had.
Yet, whate'er false conveyances they made,
The lawyer still was certain to be paid.
In those dark times they learn'd their knack so well.
That by long use they grew infallible:
At last, a knowing age began t'enquire
If they the Book, or that did them inspire:
And, making narrower search they found, though late,
That what they thought the priest's was their estate:
Taught by the will produc'd, (the written Word)
How long they had been cheated on record.
Then, every man who saw the title fair,
Claim'd a child's part, and put in for a share:
Consulted soberly his private good;
And sav'd himself as cheap as e'er he could.

'Tis true, my friend, (and far be flattery hence)
This good had full as bad a consequence:
The Book thus put in every vulgar hand,
Which each presum'd he best could understand,
The common rule was made the common prey;
And at the mercy of the rabble lay.
The tender page with horny fists was gall'd;
And he was gifted most that loudest bawl'd:
The spirit gave the doctoral degree:
And every member of a company
Was of his trade, and of the Bible free.
Plain truths enough for needful use they found;
But men would still be itching to expound:
Each was ambitious of th'obscurest place,
No measure ta'en from knowledge, all from grace .
Study and pains were now no more their care:
Texts were explain'd by fasting, and by prayer:
This was the fruit the private spirit brought;
Occasion'd by great zeal, and little thought.
While crowds unlearn'd, with rude devotion warm,
About the sacred viands buzz and swarm,
The fly-blown text creates a crawling brood;
And turns to maggots what was meant for food.
A thousand daily sects rise up, and die;
A thousand more the perish'd race supply:
So all we make of Heaven's discover'd Will
Is, not to have it, or to use it ill.
The danger's much the same; on several shelves
If others wreck us, or we wreck ourselves.

What then remains, but, waving each extreme,
The tides of ignorance, and pride to stem?
Neither so rich a treasure to forego;
Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know:
Faith is not built on disquisitions vain;
The things we must believe, are few, and plain:
But since men will believe more than they need;
And every man will make himself a creed:
In doubtful questions 'tis the safest way
To learn what unsuspected ancients say:
For 'tis not likely we should higher soar
In search of Heav'n, than all the Church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The Scripture, and the Fathers disagree.
If after all, they stand suspected still,
(For no man's faith depends upon his will
'Tis some relief, that points not clearly known,
Without much hazard may be let alone:
And, after hearing what our Church can say,
If still our reason runs another way,
That private reason 'tis more just to curb,
Than by disputes the public peace disturb:
For points obscure are of small use to learn:
But common quiet is mankind's concern.

Thus have I made my own opinions clear:
Yet neither praise expect, nor censure fear:
And this unpolish'd, rugged verse, I chose;
As fittest for discourse, and nearest prose:
For, while from sacred truth I do not swerve,
Tom Sternhold's, or Tom Shadwell's rhymes will serve.

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script 1 of Ella 10 hours ago.

DEPRESSION is not a sign of weakness
it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long.

Put this as your status if you know someone who has
or has had depression.

Will you do it and leave it on your status for at least an hour?
Most people won't, but it's mental health week
and 1 in 3 of us will suffer at some point in our lives.

Show your support good people.
I copy and pasted, will you?

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Do You Know What's Behind That Door?

Well no, I'm not exactly sure.
Tell me good sir, what is behind it?
Is it the land of make believe and fantasy?
Or a harsh reality that makes you feel as if you are still standing out in the cold?
Upon entering the door is their some kind of transformation that occurs?
Wisdom gained with patiences endured.
A magical cure that lures.
An entrance to a completely different world.
A view point that is not so obscure.
Suddenly you can see across the horizon as the sun is setting you see all your previous hope and dreams.
And come to a realization that can be still be achieved.
Wow what a philosophy.

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Harsh Reality for M 'lady Fay

Although I truly empathise
with your desire to fantasise.
It is my task to emphasise.

Although you day dream happily
escaping from reality
Your must return eventually.

There is one rule all must obey
although you would much rather stay.
Your fantasies must fade away.

You know that what I say is true.
Although your job is boring you.
Its something that you have to do.

So save your dreams for when you sleep
and have no deadlines you must keep.
If you do not the price is steep.

You will get fired right away
you’ll have no job and get no pay
But you’ll be free to dream all day.

If you are wise you’ll listen to
the sound advice I’m giving you
and do what you are paid to do.

You cannot live on fantasies
you have to pay for groceries.
Thats one of life’s realities.


http: //

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The Reality Which Is My Life

As I age,
Most of my decisions...
Have become easier to make.
Especially when it comes to living,
The reality which is my life.
And the one others have created,
With lies that are spiced.

And laced with eye popping controversy,
I would never consider doing...
In my most exciting days.
But listening to others,
What it was that I had supposedly done...
I've learned to keep my mouth closed,
Knowing privately I would think this was fun.

As I age and reminisce,
How I've been focused and devoted...
To accomplish with a doing free of nonsense.
I must admit there have been days that I have hinted,
Of not knowing what it was I wished to do.
With a hoping someone would volunteer,
Something outrageous...
They heard through gossip too!

'Did you hear what he did now? '

He who?
And what did he do?

'That Larry Pertillar.
Do you know him? '

I've never met him.

'Me either.
But I am told he has preferences.'

You're kidding?
Oh please share.
And don't leave out the details.

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It's Reality That's Making People Real Mad

Status quoters on the ropes with hopes...
They could pull times long passed,
Back to have them in their grasp.
Since realities created,
Slips quickly and fast.

Status quoters on the ropes with hopes...
For a return of conditions,
When they had control of it!
And now they see no benefit,
To pick from empty pockets.

Elected politicians seem to dismiss all their wishes.
And people who had missions to keep all their interests fixed...
Thought paying politicians would keep business as it is.

Oooooooo remember when a hoopla was favored?
Oooooooo remember when this hoopla had flavor,
To savor!

Status quoters on the ropes with hopes...
They could pull times long passed,
Back to have them in their grasp.
Since realities created,
Slips quickly and fast.

Oooooooo remember when a hoopla was favored?
Oooooooo remember when this hoopla had flavor,
To savor!

Now realities are slipping quickly and fast.
Oooooooo remember when a hoopla was the favored flavor?
Now realities are slipping quickly and fast.
Oooooooo remember when a hoopla was the favored flavor?
Now realities are slipping quickly and fast.
Oooooooo remember when a hoopla was the favored flavor?
Now realities are slipping quickly and fast.

And reality is making people real mad!
It's reality that's making people real mad.
It's reality that's making people real mad.
It's reality that's making people real mad.

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The Rape(S) That Didn't Go As Planned......[Very Long; Lust; Humor; Drama]

When I was 22 I met a girl,17, who was very slim and pretty.
She was kind of shy and had bad breath, but once she let me touch one titty.
Except for the bad breath and shyness she was my dream girl, I swear.
In fact from that day, when I dreamt, I dreamt of her (in underwear) .

One Sunday eve I drove her quite a distance, to a place in the dark;
it was a seldom-used but well-kept San Mateo County park.
I thought ahead about my plan as we hiked on down a trail.
I had plenty of beer and a blanket. I knew my plan would not fail.

We spread out our blanket on a soft secluded patch of beach.
We each opened a can of beer and kept the rest within our reach.
I was already quite aroused but I kept it in my pants.
After 2 or 3 more beers each, we both got up to dance.

Back on the blanket once more, I decided I had waited long enough;
it was now or NEVER!
My plan was calculated, because I am so very clever.

When she was daydreaming I pulled out some gauze, and a vial of chloroform.
(The stars were out, the moon shown brightly, the sea was calm, and the evening warm.)
Then I quickly poured some liquid on the gauze and clamped it to her face.
But I only used a little bit as I did not wish to have a murder now take place.

When she was limp, I pulled my pants off (but kept shoes on) , and lowered my shorts a little.
I took a quick peek at her tits and then exposed her middle.
I got on her then and knew she could NOT be shy NOW.

I was pumping her good and hard, like I'd seen a bull do to a cow.

But suddenly I had to pee but I had NO time to withdraw,
and I peed a mighty pee inside her. Some of it flowed from her, like yellow new-mown straw.
I was shocked then when she opened up her eyes and looked me in the face.
My God what could I do now, I thought; she might spray me with some Mace.

Instead she reached up and grabbed my neck with an amazingly strong arm.
I shouted out 'I love you girl. NOT a hair of you I'll harm! '

I'd never treated a girl rudely before, unless you count that whore.
That one (she was 29) loved sex, and always yelled out for more.
That's what really turned me off to the tart; I hate feeling I'm being used.
Every time I fucked her she screamed for more and MORE. Finally I REFUSED.

Now my friend on the blanket said 'mount me from behind RIGHT NOW!
Then you can really feel what it's like to be inside a cow.'

(She must have been reading my mind before, when she'd been out like a light.)

I really didn't like being ordered around but how could I resist?
Besides the thought of something new was luring me, and she did INSIST.

And so I let her get on hands and knees and I leaned some on her back.
I aimed my swollen member at her gaping hole and gave her quite a whack.
But my better judgment said that 'to stop and leave there would be best'. Perhaps.
(For what followed the next half hour, I wish I could have a memory lapse.)

Her vaginal walls clamped ahold of me with more strength than I care to remember;
the last time that happened to me was with the whore, last November.
I thought to say but didn't 'please stop. You are hurting me! '
But it seemed clear to me by then that she did NOT intend to let me free.

I tried to pull away from her. It began to really REALLY HURT.
But somehow, from her back-to-me position, she grabbed ahold of my new shirt.
I tried again by pleading loudly 'PLEASE MY LOVE, let me go right now.'
To that she responded 'don't you remember DEAR? YOU treated ME first like a COW!
Can't you take your own medicine Mr. BULL? '..., and
with that she began to TWIST and PULL. (HARD!)

Again I failed to talk her into stopping.
I envisioned that my balls both would soon be popping.

Then somehow I managed to reach down and pull off my right shoe.
I hit her lightly on the head, but she only called out 'I want more; I do I DO! '
To my horror the pain escalated even MORE in my cock.
I felt it was in a machine made for crushing rock.

I hit her a bit harder but she never let me loose.
My member felt as though it were a murderer hanging from noose.
Then I got my left shoe off, and with BOTH shoes I hit her GOOD!
My God her strength was unreal! She must pump iron each day in the ‘hood.

And then I thought of a new begging line, and I said 'I've got to get up early. I NEED my sleep.'
I was then amazed when, a moment later, she released her grip and let me get up....., without a peep.
(She must have remembered her homework. Maybe she too needed to get up early?)
In this country's present economic downturn time,
many need to clock in early at work to make a dime.

We walked back to the car after she turned me loose,
but, as I walked ahead of her, several times she gave me a BIG goose.
I drove her to a young-people's club in her neighborhood.
I was tempted to kiss her goodnight, but I didn't think I should.

That night at home I thought maybe I should become a fairy,
but the more I thought of it, I realized that it too could be scary.

At my next confession, I think the old priest did blanch.
It was the most frightening story he'd heard since, as a boy, he'd worked on a big dude ranch.
I attend Mass more frequently now, where me and God often talk, and
I volunteer on weekends and evenings to take old nuns for their walks.
N0W I say MORE than my share of Hail Mary's,
and think no more of girls in panties....., nor of fairies.

I can't now get an erection, even those times when I 'wanna';
I've tried music videos of JLo, and Beyonce, and Madonna.

And since that HORRIBLE seaside experience I've not seen HER. (Well yes, I DID, twice.)
But when I saw her coming my way, I ran off, with my body trembling ……, and I HID (twice) .

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The Pride That I Have In Me

You will
Never know the pride
That I have in me
That is because you never discovered it

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Please Open The Page And Read The Poem That I Have Written Only For You

this is the best poem that i have
once written
only for you and i think
and shall always think it
to be so

my best poem:

i love you.

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