If I were actually Homer Simpson, I'd be getting scripts out the wazoo.
quote by Dan Castellaneta
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On First Looking - Parody John KEATS – On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer
On First Looking
Much have I rummaged, bartered books for gold,
and many goodly states of Shakespeare seen,
round many stalls and book fairs have I been
which frauds in fealty to their runners hold.
Oft of some sharp expense had I been told
that Maggs or Quaritch made their pet demesne,
yet never did I seethe with rage so keen
till once a chap-book saw I still unsold.
Then wished I Evoe was, who in disguise,
the superman of planet fame, I ken,
skinned over catalogues with eagle eyes
to stare at price lists with a skill few men
can e’er attain unearthing bargains. Vain
‘twas, a dream, I sink, to sleep again...
[c] Jonathan Robin parody written 2 August 1991
Parody John KEATS 1795_1821 – On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer
________
On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Homer And Laertes
Laertes: Gods help thee! and restore to thee thy sight!
My good old guest, I am more old than thou,
Yet have outlived by many years my son
Odysseus and the chaste Penelope.
Homer: Hither I come to visit thee and sing
His wanderings and his wisdom, tho my voice
Be not the voice it was.
Laertes: First let us taste
My old sound wine, and break my bread less old,
But old enough for teeth like thine and mine.
Homer: So be it! I sing best when such good cheer
Refreshes me, and such a friend as thou.
Laertes: Far hast thou wandered since we met, and told
Strange stories. Wert thou not afraid some God
Or Goddess should have siez'd upon thy ear
For talking what thou toldest of their pranks.
Homer: They often came about me while I slept
And brought me dreams, none painful, none profane;
They loved thy son, and for his sake loved me.
Laertes: Apollo, I well know, was much thy friend.
Homer: He did not treat me quite as Marsyas
Was treated by him: lest he should, I sang
His praise in my best chaunt: for Gods love praise.
Laertes: Have they enricht thee? for I see thy cloak is ragged.
Homer: Ragged cloak is poet's garb.
Laertes: I have two better; one of them for thee.
Penelope, who died five years ago,
Spun it; her husband wore it only once
And but one year, the anniversary
Of their espousal.
Homer: Wear it will I not,
But I will hang it on the brightest nail
Of the first temple where Apollo sits,
Golden-hair'd, in his glory.
Laertes: So thou shalt
If so it please thee: yet we first will quaff
The gift of Bakkos, for methinks his gifts
Are quite as welcome to the sons of song
[...] Read more
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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An Essay on Criticism
Part I
INTRODUCTION. That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public. That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius. That most men are born with some Taste, but spoiled by false education. The multitude of Critics, and causes of them. That we are to study our own Taste, and know the limits of it. Nature the best guide of judgment. Improved by Art and rules, which are but methodized Nature. Rules derived from the practice of the ancient poets. That therefore the ancients are necessary to be studied by a Critic, particularly Homer and Virgil. Of licenses, and the use of them by the ancients. Reverence due to the ancients, and praise of them.
'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill;
But of the two less dangerous is th'offence
To tire our patience than mislead our sense:
Some few in that, but numbers err in this;
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
A fool might once himself alone expose;
Now one in verse makes many more in prose.
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
These born to judge, as well as those to write.
Let such teach others who themselves excel,
And censure freely who have written well;
Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right:
But as the slightest sketch, if justly traced,
Is by ill col'ring but the more disgraced,
So by false learning is good sense defaced:
Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools:
In search of wit these lose their common sense,
And then turn Critics in their own defence:
Each burns alike, who can or cannot write,
Or with a rival's or an eunuch's spite.
All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.
If Mævius scribble in Apollo's spite,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.
Some have at first for Wits, then Poets pass'd;
Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain Fools at last.
Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
Those half-learn'd witlings, numerous in our isle,
As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
[...] Read more
poem by Alexander Pope
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Open The Door, Homer
Now, theres a certain thing
That I learned from jim
That hed always make sure Id understand
And that is that theres a certain way
That a man must swim
If he expects to live off
Of the fat of the land.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before
But I aint gonna hear it said no more.
Now, theres a certain thing
That I learned from my friend, mouse
A fella who always blushes
And that is that evryone
Must always flush out his house
If he dont expect to be
Goin round housing flushes.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before
But I aint gonna hear it said no more.
Take care of all your memories
Said my friend, mick
For you cannot relive them
And remember when youre out there
Tryin to heal the sick
That you must always
First forgive them.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before.
Open the door, homer,
Ive heard it said before
But I aint gonna hear it said no more.
song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Open The Door, Homer (1)
by Bob Dylan
Now, there's a certain thing
That I learned from Jim
That he'd always make sure I'd understand
And that is that there's a certain way
That a man must swim
If he expects to live off
Of the fat of the land.
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before.
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before
But I ain't gonna hear it said no more.
Now, there's a certain thing
That I learned from my friend, Mouse
A fella who always blushes
And that is that ev'ryone
Must always flush out his house
If he don't expect to be
Goin' 'round housing flushes.
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before.
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before
But I ain't gonna hear it said no more.
"Take care of all your memories"
Said my friend, Mick
"For you cannot relive them
And remember when you're out there
Tryin' to heal the sick
That you must always
First forgive them."
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before.
Open the door, Homer,
I've heard it said before
But I ain't gonna hear it said no more.
song performed by Bob Dylan
Added by Lucian Velea
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On a Close-up of Louis Esterhuizen, on His Poem “Winnie”
So tell me Louis, you allege:
“I went to look at the remarks
found in his biographical sketch:
“I love the work of various poets
and my favourites are AG Visser, Eugene Marais,
Ingrid Jonker, D.J. Opperman, N.P. Van Wyk Louw,
William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, John Keats,
Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Yahuda Amichai,
Hannah Szenes, Stevie Smith, Dorothy Parker
and even Homer.””
Further you say: “With the exception of a few names
under the English favourites, all the Afrikaans poets are experts
whom he probably encountered at school,
if a person looks at the verses on his page
you realise that Mr. X has never grown past the incidental
school-contact...In this he is alas not unique.”
Still you are the great master
where it comes to the works of Homer,
as you make a comparison
in your poem “Winnie” between Me. Winnie Mandela
and Homer’s character Penelope,
where there are in reality flagrant contrasts
and the masters canonise this poem
in the “Great Verse Book”
without even being aware of the contrasts?
Let me as just a unfolding poet
who “has never grown past
the incidental school-contact, ”
point out the contrasts clearly:
The story of Penelope comes
out of Homer’s Odyssey where the title
indicates a long historical journey or adventure
or some wanderings
that the main character Odysseus / Ulysses
undertakes before again arriving
at the island Ithaca
where he rules as the king.
For only a very short while
Odysseus / Ulysses is with the nymph Circe
on a island, but the greatest part of the book
is about his wanderings.
In flagrant contrast you write:
”And Penelope comes forward, impatient
and rude as Ulysses is only moving rocks
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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An Abc Of Inner Peace
inner peace: a to z (© Raj Arumugam, September 2008)
Inner peace is effortless, as it’s always there within.
One just has to see it.
And once one truly sees this inner peace – not with words or just
intellectually, but actually see this inner peace within – it is one’s, always;
no one takes away that…
Nothing and no evil and no violent force or even the most difficult
of circumstances in one’s life can remove that inner peace that one
sees within; but let one see this not as a word, or as a phrase
but as an actuality.
Feel that peace, see that inner peace and let it radiate always – for it is
the harmony within each and it is always one’s own.
A
Let amity be your constant companion….Be at peace with all beings, equally at peace with those near and those far, and thus walk hand in hand with amity as in a bounteous garden…
B
Be mindful of your blessings always…To be alive, to breathe in fresh air;
and to be with the family and the companionship of good fellow-human
beings; and the kindness of strangers; and the creatures of this world
and the flowers that bloom, and to have a place in this marvelous planet
of ours….all these too are blessings….
There is a life of the body in the domain of the physical, and
the legitimate needs of the body are just as important as
one’s inner needs…
[...] Read more
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Reverse Reality
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
when one becomes somebody, it is actually nobody
when one happens naturally to be nobody, it is a real somebody by decision
poem by Nyein Way
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Superlative Story
Superlative Story
I Syntaxical Sequence
II Strange Stanza Succession Starts
III Scenario Synopsis
IV Sensuality, sense, sensibility,
V Substitute Spousal Suggestions
VI Seesaw Simplicity: Seraglio Simularities Spurned
VII Solution
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I SYNTAXICAL SEQUENCE
Special scansion ‘S’ syllabic
specious solicisms scraps,
solo solving sounds strabismic,
syllogistic systole scraps.
Syllables spring, shuffle, scuttle,
skittle syntax, scintillate
syntonically sans snuffle, shuttle –
synonyms shake sides, spine straight.
Stanza stanza swift succeeding
senses sweeps, song swifter swims,
succulent succession seeding
substitutions, surface skims.
Scrupulous semantics subtle
switchback spiral, summarize,
seek solutions smart, scrolled, supple,
solve set spectrum's smallish size.
Synonymous synchronising
sympathetic symphony
scores - Socratic symbolizing –
swivelling sonority.
Scansion salvo salvo scansion
strong succeeds, succeeding sends
successors streamlined sampling surging –
sanction seems so slight, scourge spends.
Systematic symbol spreading
'sses something sacred, seeks, -
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I didn't want to be seen as just a guy on a list. I'm interested in good scripts, scripts that are about something, scripts that move your acting along.
quote by Stephen Rea
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Might Actually Care
So many times my heart leans over
Psst David, look, she's pretty, she's nice, she could be your lover
So many times Heart tells me how great she is
Heart prods me: 'Hey what if that your first kiss '
Heart says: 'You've only seen this side of her but she's actually like this'
Heart says: 'This isn't your idea of her this is her' what hypnosis
Heart says: 'She thinks you're worth it '
Heart says: 'She's wants romance, she wants you, you're a perfect fit'
Heart prods me: 'Wouldn't it be wonderful if...'
Heart says: 'Hey she actually cares, don't wait take the risk '
Heart says: 'Hey come this is your chance, she's like your serif'
Heart says: 'You want her, no you need her, like dawn needs dusk.'
Heart says: 'Don't suppress your feelings you were made for it'
Deceit... could this be deceit... Heart are you my friend?
Because of this, no hopefully in spite of this I think you care
I think that maybe I could say this love, maybe it's love... do I dare?
I think you might actually truly value me
Maybe you don't know to say 'you're worth it' but I hope you think that
I sincerely hope if I love you it's for you, not the you I see
I want to love you for who you really are, I want to love you at
Every single, breathing moment of my life, if I say I love you
It means I want to spend my entire life with you, I really do
So now you see why I can't just walk up and say how I feel
I'm not sure if my heart will ever heal
It's destroyed by lust, deceived by Heart... I don't want to offer you that
No you deserve better, but what if you actually care... I dunno if I was at
Even though I want you to have someone better I can't help it
I love you or so I think, I wish I could take a hit
For you and just not pursue so that someone worthy might find you
I'm sorry for my selfishness too
But maybe you don't care... maybe you'd only accept another
I don't want to fall in love with an idea of you
But maybe you could actually love me
Maybe you return my feelings and because maybe you're the first one
Who actually cares. Or maybe Heart has won
Again... do you actually care? Can I say that I love you?
Or could I let you go?
poem by David Knox
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Canto the Seventh
I
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.
II
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things -- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things -- but a show?
III
They accuse me -- Me -- the present writer of
The present poem -- of -- I know not what --
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Danté's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;
IV
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fénélon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so --
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes. -- We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.
V
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
"To know that nothing could be known;" a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only "like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean -- Truth."
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Don Juan: Canto The Seventh
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things- but a show?
They accuse me--Me--the present writer of
The present poem--of--I know not what--
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only 'like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.'
Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'--
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,
[...] Read more
I can’t sleep
I can’t sleep. Homer, and the taut white sails.
I could the list of ships read only to a half:
The long-long breed, the train of flying cranes
Had lifted once the ancient Greece above.
The wedge of cranes to alien far frontier --
On heads of kings, as foam, crowns shine --
Where do you sail? If Helen were not here,
What Troy then means for you, Achaeia’s people fine?
And Homer and the sea are moved by only love.
Whom must I listen to? Homer is silent yet,
And blackened sea with roar comes above,
Sunk in triumphant noise, head of my sleepless bed.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.
To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes –
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings –
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?
The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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The Hang Out Gang
By: jimmy buffett, buzz cason
1971
The tour bus passed here yesterday
Exciting all the fools who pay
To see the naked lady in our yard
The hang out gang is back in town
Rumor has it going 'round they brought back
Four new groupies and a st. bernard
We're peaceful and abiding cats some call gypsies
Some call brats but bare feet don't tear streets up like their bus
Chorus:
All we was doing' was a hangin' and little koochie was sangin'
Mama i'm guilty of a hangin' out
I know it's a shabby old building but after all ain't we god's children
And lord it's a good place for hangin' out
The fast approachin' local heat was poundin' out the southwest beat
When they came upon koochie in our yard
She smiled sir i meant no harm just a little suntan on my arm
They wound up takin' in our st. bernard
It didn't have a tag y'all
Chorus:
All we was doing' was a hangin' and little koochie was sangin'
Mama i'm guilty of a hangin' out
I know it's a shabby old building but after all ain't we god's children
And lord it's a good place for hangin' out
Now you hang with me and i'll hang with you and we'll hang out
'til we both turn blue mama i'm guilty of a hangin' out
Chorus:
All we was doing' was a hangin' and little koochie kept sangin'
Mama i'm guilty of a hangin' out
I know it's a shabby old building but after all ain't we god's children
And lord it's a good place for hangin' out
All we was doin' was a hangin' and little koochie kept sangin'
Mama i'm guilty of a hangin' out
-- spoken (dialogue)
"yeah, they moved up there about a month ago. fixed up that little cabin on the ridge. they really them long hairs? well, homer seen 'em. homer seen how long it was. still reckon i seen it.
A bunch of weirdos. one of them had a little instrument looked like a mandolin. why lord, they might freeze to death up there this winter. well. homer, turn that radio down.
song performed by Jimmy Buffett
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thick At that! ...And Glossy!
How much admitted,
Actually exists?
If you talk about someone
In a negative light,
What makes that which is expressed,
Alright to dance on gossip licked lips?
Thick
At that...
And glossy!
How much admitted,
Actually exists?
We know of no one's true feelings,
But our own.
No conflicts inflicted will be felt,
With a depthness known,
No one knows...
Who's in bed with who,
And who is left alone.
But there is no stopping,
Having a fling or two
With someone new.
Who knows what to do,
With a stiffened bone!
How much admitted,
Actually exists?
How much has been changed
To arrange point of views,
By those who discreetly
Do what they do!
How much admitted,
Actually exists...?
Has driven misfits
To even more exposure.
And Rod Sterling has passed...
To worlds beyond Twilight Zones.
And he was very comfortable,
With discussing 'possibilities'!
If it is worthy to admit
Situations believed to be unfit...
One must sit and evaluate,
Being in someone's business not theirs...
How much actually exists?
And whoever committed an admission...
Please admit it!
So we can move 'that hell',
Away from here and us.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Memory's Kingdom
MEMORY’S KINGDOM
In memory’s kingdom we try to forget
the downsides of life and the sadness and sorrows
that when we recall them induce and upset
the cart that transports us to happy tomorrows.
We may spend a day in solemn memorial
of what happened once and still makes us downcast,
and read in a poem or brief editorial
events that transport us from present to past,
but quickly move back then to pastures much greener
than those where great tragedies once had occurred.
Forgetting’s not classified as misdemeanor,
and memories may feel more blessed when they’re blurred.
Written on Memorial Day, May 25,2009, and inspired by Marc Porter-Zasada’s article “Random Access Memory” which he wrote inspired by a visit to the Veterans’ graveyard in Westwoood:
Random Access Memory
By Marc Porter Zasada
It’s a few days before Memorial Day, right here in the Kingdom of Forgetting, and the Urban Man has gone down to the veteran’s cemetery. Yes, the cemetery. Wait...don’t tune out just yet, my swift and belovèd Angelenos, zipping down the 405 to the next big thing; or just now heading home on the 10 with that nice full-day-at-the-beach feeling; or better yet rushing to apple martinis at your friend’s excellent after-the-barbeque bash...
You only have to do this once a year.
In fact, you don’t have to do it at all, since I have pulled off the 405 to serve as your very own ambassador to the L.A. National Cemetery, right near the Wilshire exit. Maybe you’ve seen it: that glimpse of many white headstones appearing briefly below the crowd of Westwood office towers as you head north.
I went last Thursday to avoid the rush. And sure enough, again this year as I parked among the low rolling hills, I was the only visitor I could see: For a time just me and 86,000 sleeping vets.
I’m sorry to say it wasn’t peaceful. The 405 runs right alongside on an elevated grade, so it’s never peaceful here. I figure even the dead are aware of us roaring ceaselessly into the future.
What do I do on these annual visits? I read a few headstones, here and there, out loud. That’s all. That’s it. I exercise a sort of Random Access Memory by reciting from what you might call the original memory sticks:
Charles O. Wesby, Colonel,158th Infantry, Spanish American War. Walter T. Rowland, PFC, World War II. Bertrand R. Butler, PFC, Vietnam—I see that Bertrand died at age 18.
Here’s a crowd of fresh flowers and a bouquet of happy birthday balloons around the grave of Daniel Patrick Cagle, SPC, U.S. Army, killed during Operation Iraqi Freedom: born May 20,1985, died May 23,2007. Daniel had just made it to age 22. Obviously his family visited this grave just the day before, on his birthday, when they set up little figurines of pirates and Homer Simpson and other small toys, I suppose from his childhood. Birthday candles were stuck in the earth, reading “D-A-N.”
Okay, sorry, now I really am depressing you. I know that images should be more fleeting in the Kingdom of Forgetting, that the names should come more quickly, one after the other. I mean, what would happen if people here paused too long to recall not merely lost lovers and misplaced friends, but lost soldiers and far-off wars? And what if they actually remembered the 7 p.m. news when the 8 p.m. news rolled around? Here in the Kingdom of Forgetting, shouldn’t it always be the moment just after the last update?
It’s not like that in a cemetery, where one headstone does not disappear when you read the next. Here’s Robert Thomas Ayers the third, Sergeant, U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, died 2007 at the age of 23. And further on, Steven Vega, SPC U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, born 1984, died 2008. “Truly one of a kind, ” it says on his marker.
Someone has placed fresh blooms and coins on the headstone of Jin Su Ong, PFC, U.S. Army, Iraqi Freedom, born 1987, died January 4,2009. Me I add a coin, since I forgot to bring flowers.
Then the Urban Man looks at his watch, and finds he’s late for his next appointment. He glances up at the 405 and feels the tug of the current. Still, as he rushes toward his car, he tries to get in just two or three more names:
Paul Thornton, Apprentice Seaman,1954. Richard Duncan, U.S. Navy, Vietnam. Edgar Lopez, Marine, born 1977, died in Iraq August 28,2004, Killed in Action, awarded the Purple Heart.
© 2009 Gershon Hepner 5/24/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
Added by Poetry Lover
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Can I Go On?
Written & composed: quincy jones, nickolas ashford & valerie simpson
Music: quincy jones, nickolas ashford & valerie simpson
Lose it? lose it?
I dont even know the first thing about what theyre feeling;
What am I afraid of?
Dont know what Im made of,
Can I go on, not knowing?
Feeling? feeling?
Something tells me that its more than I can deal with;
Tho I never knew the song,
Some words still catch on like caring,
And sharing being together, no matter,
Can I go on not knowing?
Dont know what Im made of,
Why am I afraid of
Feel-ing? feel-ing? if I dare to take a chance,
Would someone lead me?
song performed by Michael Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Super Samson Simpson
I am Super Samson Simpson,
I'm superlatively strong,
I like to carry elephants,
I do it all day long,
I pick up half a dozen
and hoist them in the air,
it's really somewhat simple,
for I have strength to spare.
My muscles are enormous,
they bulge from top to toe,
and when I carry elephants,
they ripple to and fro,
but I am not the strongest
in the Simpson family,
for when I carry elephants,
my grandma carries me.
poem by Jack Prelutsky
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