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If you use your imagination, you can look at any actress and see her nude... I hope to make you use your imagination.

quote by Hedy Lamarr
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Were There Hope

I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles

To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.

But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Actress

Some day I'm going to grow up
And be every man's dream
Some day I'm going to grow up
And forget this sad little me
I'm going to shine in the spotlight
Wear sexy clothes
Be somebody everybody wants to meet
And no one ever really knows
No one will ever know me
I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
Critics will adore me
At least they will at first
But you see I already know this
So it can't never really hurt
And if it does, I'm an actress
I'll play it nonchalant
In the total scheme of things it's insignificant
(sure I can take the knocks)
Cause I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
I may not be that pretty now
But who's the referee
Standards of beauty
Will be redefined because of me
And then they'll be the scandals
Everywhere my name
Men will jump from balconies
And I'll just shrug and take the blame
(yeah, they'll say I died for love)
Cause I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
Well, I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones
My acceptance speech will be a milestone
Never will such a star
Have ever graced the microphone
And of course I'll thank my agent
The way they always do
Though I could have done it without him
And that goes for the Academy too
And the makeup people and the lighting designers and everybody else
Cause I'm an actress throughand through
And to my bones
I'm an actress through and through
And to my bones

[...] Read more

song performed by Carly Simon
Added by Lucian Velea
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Salut Au Monde

O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next!
Each answering all--each sharing the earth with all.

What widens within you, Walt Whitman?
What waves and soils exuding?
What climes? what persons and lands are here?
Who are the infants? some playing, some slumbering?
Who are the girls? who are the married women?
Who are the groups of old men going slowly with their arms about each
other's necks?
What rivers are these? what forests and fruits are these?
What are the mountains call'd that rise so high in the mists?
What myriads of dwellings are they, fill'd with dwellers?

Within me latitude widens, longitude lengthens;
Asia, Africa, Europe, are to the east--America is provided for in the
west;
Banding the bulge of the earth winds the hot equator,
Curiously north and south turn the axis-ends;
Within me is the longest day--the sun wheels in slanting rings--it
does not set for months;
Stretch'd in due time within me the midnight sun just rises above the
horizon, and sinks again;
Within me zones, seas, cataracts, plants, volcanoes, groups,
Malaysia, Polynesia, and the great West Indian islands.

What do you hear, Walt Whitman?

I hear the workman singing, and the farmer's wife singing;
I hear in the distance the sounds of children, and of animals early
in the day;
I hear quick rifle-cracks from the riflemen of East Tennessee and
Kentucky, hunting on hills;
I hear emulous shouts of Australians, pursuing the wild horse;
I hear the Spanish dance, with castanets, in the chestnut shade, to
the rebeck and guitar;
I hear continual echoes from the Thames;
I hear fierce French liberty songs;
I hear of the Italian boat-sculler the musical recitative of old
poems;
I hear the Virginia plantation-chorus of negroes, of a harvest night,
in the glare of pine-knots;
I hear the strong baritone of the 'long-shore-men of Mannahatta;
I hear the stevedores unlading the cargoes, and singing;
I hear the screams of the water-fowl of solitary north-west lakes;
I hear the rustling pattering of locusts, as they strike the grain
and grass with the showers of their terrible clouds;
I hear the Coptic refrain, toward sundown, pensively falling on the

[...] Read more

poem by Walt Whitman
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Actress, Model...

Dear Mom
I'm dating an actress
And I'm just writing to let you know
Why I'm so far from home
I followed her to Stella Adler
A method man was what she was after
She must have seen them on TV
She's my actress model dancer whatever
I've been watching you
I've been wanting you
Actress model dancer whatever
You're so over there
You're so everywhere
I met her over a cigarette
And though I don't really know her yet
I could see she sees something in me
A thousand bucks won't pay the rent
And I don't know where the money's spent
But it shows Lord cause nothing's free
She's my actress model dancer whatever
I've been watching you
I've been wanting you
Actress model dancer whatever
You're so over there
You're so everywhere
She made a promise
she'd never act with me now
But I saw her move her lips
They were reading scripts
She made a promise
she'd never act with me now
And I saw her move her lips
Line please line please
Dear Mom
I'm dating an actress
And I'm just writing to let you know who who
Actress model dancer whatever
I've been watching you
I've been wanting you
Actress model dancer whatever
You're so over there
You're so everywhere
Dear Mom
I'm dating an actress
Dear Mom
I'm dating an actress
Now I'm an actor too

song performed by Unwritten Law
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The Victories Of Love. Book I

I
From Frederick Graham

Mother, I smile at your alarms!
I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,
But, like all nursery maladies,
Love is not badly taken twice.
Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,
My playmate in the pleasant days
At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,
The twins, so made on the same plan,
That one wore blue, the other white,
To mark them to their father's sight;
And how, at Knatchley harvesting,
You bade me kiss her in the ring,
Like Anne and all the others? You,
That never of my sickness knew,
Will laugh, yet had I the disease,
And gravely, if the signs are these:

As, ere the Spring has any power,
The almond branch all turns to flower,
Though not a leaf is out, so she
The bloom of life provoked in me;
And, hard till then and selfish, I
Was thenceforth nought but sanctity
And service: life was mere delight
In being wholly good and right,
As she was; just, without a slur;
Honouring myself no less than her;
Obeying, in the loneliest place,
Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace
Assured that one so fair, so true,
He only served that was so too.
For me, hence weak towards the weak,
No more the unnested blackbird's shriek
Startled the light-leaved wood; on high
Wander'd the gadding butterfly,
Unscared by my flung cap; the bee,
Rifling the hollyhock in glee,
Was no more trapp'd with his own flower,
And for his honey slain. Her power,
From great things even to the grass
Through which the unfenced footways pass,
Was law, and that which keeps the law,
Cherubic gaiety and awe;
Day was her doing, and the lark
Had reason for his song; the dark
In anagram innumerous spelt
Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt;

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poem by Coventry Patmore
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The Troubadour. Canto 2

THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?

When will the youth feel as he felt,
When first at beauty's feet he knelt?

As if her least smile could confer
A kingdom on its worshipper;
Or ever care, or ever fear
Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere.
And the young bard, the first time praise
Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays,
Though loftier laurel, higher name,
May crown the minstrel's noontide fame,
They will not bring the deep content
Of his lure's first encouragement.
And where the glory that will yield
The flush and glow of his first field
To the young chief? Will RAYMOND ever
Feel as he now is feeling?--Never.

The sun wept down or ere they gain'd
The glen where the chief band remain'd.

It was a lone and secret shade,
As nature form'd an ambuscade
For the bird's nest and the deer's lair,
Though now less quiet guests were there.
On one side like a fortress stood
A mingled pine and chesnut wood;
Autumn was falling, but the pine
Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign
Of season on its leaf was seen,
The same dark gloom of changeless green.
But like the gorgeous Persian bands
'Mid the stern race of northern lands,
The chesnut boughs were bright with all
That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall.

Like stragglers from an army's rear
Gradual they grew, near and less near,
Till ample space was left to raise,
Amid the trees, the watch-fire's blaze;
And there, wrapt in their cloaks around,
The soldiers scatter'd o'er the ground.

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Libelle of Englyshe Polycye

Here beginneth the Prologe of the processe of the Libelle of Englyshe polycye, exhortynge alle Englande to kepe the see enviroun and namelye the narowe see, shewynge whate profete commeth thereof and also whate worshype and salvacione to Englande and to alle Englyshe menne.

The trewe processe of Englysh polycye
Of utterwarde to kepe thys regne in rest
Of oure England, that no man may denye
Ner say of soth but it is one the best,
Is thys, as who seith, south, north, est and west
Cheryshe marchandyse, kepe thamyralte,
That we bee maysteres of the narowe see.

For Sigesmonde the grete Emperoure,
Whyche yet regneth, whan he was in this londe
Wyth kynge Herry the vte, prince of honoure,
Here moche glorye, as hym thought, he founde,
A myghty londe, whyche hadde take on honde
To werre in Fraunce and make mortalite,
And ever well kept rounde aboute the see.

And to the kynge thus he seyde, 'My brothere',
Whan he perceyved too townes, Calys and Dovere,
'Of alle youre townes to chese of one and other
To kepe the see and sone for to come overe,
To werre oughtwardes and youre regne to recovere,
Kepe these too townes sure to youre mageste
As youre tweyne eyne to kepe the narowe see'.

For if this see be kepte in tyme of werre,
Who cane here passe withought daunger and woo?
Who may eschape, who may myschef dyfferre?
What marchaundy may forby be agoo?
For nedes hem muste take truse every foo,
Flaundres and Spayne and othere, trust to me,
Or ellis hyndered alle for thys narowe see.

Therfore I caste me by a lytell wrytinge
To shewe att eye thys conclusione,
For concyens and for myne acquytynge
Ayenst God, and ageyne abusyon
And cowardyse and to oure enmyes confusione;
For iiij. thynges oure noble sheueth to me,
Kyng, shype and swerde and pouer of the see.

Where bene oure shippes, where bene oure swerdes become?
Owre enmyes bid for the shippe sette a shepe.
Allas, oure reule halteth, hit is benome.

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Actress

She uses her innocence as a shield
Hoping no one will ever see past it
See inside her story, once upon a time
For girl-next-door-beautifuls everywhere
She asked him
To her surprise, he refused
It broke her heart like a mirror
with her real face on the other side feeling pain
All I can say is
She's an actress
A great actress
She asks them how their day was
And gives them a grin
She teaches her "philosophy"- Think Win-Win
Yeah, right
But beyond that cheer is something called fear
of being on the outside of life
Beyond that joy is something that boy
left when he walked away
Leaving her in the dark
If she's an actress, she's the best
Or is she being real? Maybe she's happy that it
Happened, but if she's happy,
He's the one that's heartbroken
Walking away cause he saw it was a dare
A dare for herself, but he's wrong
She's an actress
A great actress
She revolves her life around him
When he refused, he broke her heart
Her real girl-next-door life
She failed girl-next-door-beautifuls
Thanks to him
She's an actress
He started a new life for her by refusing
If her philosophy was Think Win-Win,
he would have said yes
He would have said yes
She's an actress
A great actress

poem by Mye3
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

ACT I

Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.

Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.

Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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A Nude Picture

Your love is like a nude picture in my mind and,
It is sweeter than a candy pie;
You are real and i am here to stay.
Like a nude picture,
Your taste is sweeter than the candy;
For it makes me feel so high!

Your love is like a nude picture in my mind and,
I am dying for your love my sweet one;
Oh girl, throw me an apple of your sweet love to run for it.
True love knows no boundary and,
Sweet love knows no barrier;
You are my precious one and, what is your hot-line? !
The only picture i have in my mind is your nude body.

I will wait for you always!
Even in the rain;
I will sing for you always!
Even on your bed;
My nude lover,
My nude picture,
What a beauty that you are! !
Like Romeo and Juliet.

Do rebounce on me always,
For your love is like a nude picture in my mind;
With the reflections of you in the mirror.
You are sweeter than the candy pie,
With much hope and dreams to the world of roses;
I will wait for you always my sweet one.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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A Nude Artist

A Nude Artist

he says he is a nude artist
because he is naked when he paints

such nakedness has
nothing to do with being a nude artist

a naked artist who paints a cat or a chicken
is not a nude artist

there is no nude cat
thyere is no nude chicken

just paint a naked woman
and he will be called a nude artist

an artist is not an art
he must know that

- Frog Mantra, Accents Publishing,2012 -

poem by Suchoon Mo_
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The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Who Do You Love, I Hope

I've got the question
I've had it for days
You've got the answer, dear
I'll put the question
In one little phrase
Say what I want to hear
Who do you love I hope
Who would you kiss I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me
Who do you want I hope
Who do you need I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me
Is it the baker who gave you a cake
I saw that look in his eye
Is it the butcher who brought you a steak
Say that it is and I'll die
Who do you love I hope
Who would you kiss I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me
[2]
I heard your question
The answer you know
Love is my middle name
You asked a question
That worried you so
Mind if I do the same
Who do you love I hope
Who would you kiss I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me
Who do you want I hope
Who do you need I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me
Is it the blondie who acted so shy
I heard the things that she said
Is it the redhead who gave you the eye
Say that it is and your dead
Who do you love I hope
Who would you kiss I hope
Who is it going to be
I hope, I hope, I hope it's me

song performed by Irving Berlin
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If Hope Were...?

Hope...Do you know what is?

Hope, anything that one wants, and at
the moment of 'hope' they do not have.

If hope were a feeling, I would hope,
it be one of honesty and integrity.
I would hope it would be love and empathy.

If hope were a food, I would hope it
would be filled with nourishment.

If hope were music, I would hope, it
was the kind of music, that you loved.

If hope were a sound, I would hope it
would by a symphony of love.

If hope were a religion, I would hope it
was your religion. For as we all know,
the 'right religion' is one that you
believe in. For to think ones religion
is 'the right and only religion'
that would make billions of others,
who did not believe in your religion...wrong.
All religions, if one truly believes in
them, are the right ones...for you.

If hope were belief, then I would hope,
that belief would be, that there is one
Supreme Being; who is by-lingual and
of all faiths, and all creeds and colors.

If hope were knowledge, I would hope,
it had patience, understanding, the
ability of comprehending the other
persons point of view. I would also hope,
that it had an unquenchable thirst,
to continue to learn by experience and
research.

If hope could be seen, I would hope, all
would see, the good in their fellow man.

If hope were a wish, I would hope
that all your dreams, and ambitions
came true.

If hope were you...if hope were me, I
would hope, we never lost sight of

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
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The Growth of Love

1
They that in play can do the thing they would,
Having an instinct throned in reason's place,
--And every perfect action hath the grace
Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood--
These are the best: yet be there workmen good
Who lose in earnestness control of face,
Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base
Reach to their end by steps well understood.
Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains
Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,
--Even as a painter breathlessly who stains
His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--
Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,
Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

2
For thou art mine: and now I am ashamed
To have uséd means to win so pure acquist,
And of my trembling fear that might have misst
Thro' very care the gold at which I aim'd;
And am as happy but to hear thee named,
As are those gentle souls by angels kisst
In pictures seen leaving their marble cist
To go before the throne of grace unblamed.
Nor surer am I water hath the skill
To quench my thirst, or that my strength is freed
In delicate ordination as I will,
Than that to be myself is all I need
For thee to be most mine: so I stand still,
And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

3
The whole world now is but the minister
Of thee to me: I see no other scheme
But universal love, from timeless dream
Waking to thee his joy's interpreter.
I walk around and in the fields confer
Of love at large with tree and flower and stream,
And list the lark descant upon my theme,
Heaven's musical accepted worshipper.
Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud
'Twixt things and me is quash'd in our new truce;
And nature now dearly with thee endued
No more in shame ponders her old excuse,
But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,
So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

4

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Good Thing Called...Hope

Hope, anything that one wants, and at
the moment of 'hope' they do not have.

If hope were a feeling, I would hope,
it be one of honesty and integrity.
I would hope it would be love and empathy.

If hope were a food, I would hope it
would be filled with nourishment.

If hope were music, I would hope, it
was the kind of music, that you loved.

If hope were a sound, I would hope it
would by a symphony of love.

If hope were a religion, I would hope it
was your religion.

If hope were belief, then I would hope,
that belief would be, that there is one
Supreme Being; who is by-lingual and
of all faiths, and all creeds and colors.

If hope were knowledge, I would hope,
it had patience, understanding, the
ability of comprehending the other
persons point of view. I would also hope,
that it had an unquenchable thirst,
to continue to learn by experience and
research.

If hope could be seen, I would hope, all
would see, the good in their fellow man.

If hope were a wish, I would hope
that all your dreams, and ambitions
came true.

If hope were you...if hope were me, I
would hope, we never lost sight of
those less fortunate. I would hope
we would never be so self-centered
or busy, that we neglected to extend
a helping hand, to those in need.

Finally if you hope this ends, let me
conclude by saying....

If hope were a human, I would hope, that it

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poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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If Hope Were A Human

Hope, anything that one wants, and at
the moment of 'hope' they do not have.

If hope were a feeling, I would hope,
it be one of honesty and integrity.
I would hope it would be love and empathy.

If hope were a food, I would hope it
would be filled with nourishment.

If hope were music, I would hope, it
was the kind of music, that you loved.

If hope were a sound, I would hope it
would by a symphony of love.

If hope were a religion, I would hope it
was your religion.

If hope were belief, then I would hope,
that belief would be, that there is one
Supreme Being; who is by-lingual and
of all faiths, and all creeds and colors.

If hope were knowledge, I would hope,
it had patience, understanding, the
ability of comprehending the other
persons point of view. I would also hope,
that it had an unquenchable thirst,
to continue to learn by experience and
research.

If hope could be seen, I would hope, all
would see, the good in their fellow man.

If hope were a wish, I would hope
that all your dreams, and ambitions
came true.

If hope were you...if hope were me, I
would hope, we never lost sight of
those less fortunate. I would hope
we would never be so self-centered
or busy, that we neglected to extend
a helping hand, to those in need.

Finally if you hope this ends, let me
conclude by saying....

If hope were a human, I would hope, that it

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poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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Keep Dreaming...

Hope, anything that one wants, and at
the moment of 'hope' they do not have.

If hope were a feeling, I would hope,
it be one of honesty and integrity.
I would hope it would be love and empathy.

If hope were a food, I would hope it
would be filled with nourishment.

If hope were music, I would hope, it
was the kind of music, that you loved.

If hope were a sound, I would hope it
would by a symphony of love.

If hope were a religion, I would hope it
was your religion. For as we all know,
the 'right religion' is one that you
believe in. For to think ones religion
is 'the right and only religion'
that would make billions of others,
who did not believe in your religion...wrong.
All religions, if one truly believes in
them, are the right ones.

If hope were belief, then I would hope,
that belief would be, that there is one
Supreme Being; who is by-lingual and
of all faiths, and all creeds and colors.

If hope were knowledge, I would hope,
it had patience, understanding, the
ability of comprehending the other
persons point of view. I would also hope,
that it had an unquenchable thirst,
to continue to learn by experience and
research.

If hope could be seen, I would hope, all
would see, the good in their fellow man.

If hope were a wish, I would hope
that all your dreams, and ambitions
came true.

If hope were you...if hope were me, I
would hope, we never lost sight of
those less fortunate. I would hope
we would never be so self-centered

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Fazio
Added by Poetry Lover
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