The history of astronomy is a history of receding horizons.
quote by Edwin Powell Hubble
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Les cordiers
Dans son village, au pied des digues,
Qui l'entourent de leurs fatigues
De lignes et de courbes vers la mer,
Le blanc cordier visionnaire
A reculons, sur le chemin,
Combine, avec prudence, entre ses mains,
Le jeu tournant de fils lointains
Venant vers lui de l'infini.
Là-bas, En ces heures de soir ardent et las,
Un ronflement de roue encor s'écoute.
Quelqu'un la meut qu'on ne voit pas ;
Mais parallèlement, sur des râteaux,
Qui jalonnent, à points égaux,
De l'un à l'autre bout la route,
Les chanvres clairs tendent leurs chaînes
Continuement, durant des jours et des semaines.
Avec ses pauvres doigts qui sont prestes encor,
Ayant crainte parfois de casser le peu d'or
Que mêle à son travail la glissante lumière,
Au long des clos et des maisons,
Le blanc cordier visionnaire,
Du fond du soir tourbillonnaire,
Attire à lui les horizons.
Les horizons ? ils sont là-bas :
Regrets, fureurs, haines, combats,
Pleurs de terreurs, sanglots de voix,
Les horizons des autrefois,
Sereins ou convulsés :
Tels les gestes dans le passé.
Jadis - c'était la vie errante et somnambule,
A travers les matins et les soirs fabuleux,
Quand la droite de Dieu, vers les Chanaans bleus,
Traçait la route en or, au fond des crépuscules.
Jadis - c'était la vie énorme, exaspérée,
Sauvagement pendue aux crins des étalons,
Soudaine, avec de grands éclairs à ses talons
Et vers l'espace immense, immensément cabrée.
Jadis - c'était la vie ardente, évocatoire ;
La Croix blanche de ciel, la Croix rouge d'enfer
Marchaient, à la clarté des armures de fer,
Chacune à travers sang, vers son ciel de victoire.
Jadis - c'était la vie écumante et livide,
Vécue et morte, à coups de crime et de tocsin,
[...] Read more
poem by Emile Verhaeren
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Today-the most cursed day
Ordinarily the soles of my feet didn’t bleed an
infinitesimal trifle; even as I traversed over a
blanket of a billion acrimoniously venomous thorns,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just disdainfully
crumbled an infinite feet beneath soil; as the sound
of your invincibly triumphant and gloriously
impeccable footsteps; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the hair on my skin didn’t relent an
inconspicuous iota; even as the most diabolical of
dinosaurs and war; indiscriminately paraded around my
persona,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just shriveled into
pathetic oblivion at the tiniest insinuation of
flaccid wind; as your uninhibitedly untamed valley of
sensuousness; had disappeared forever from the
horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the blood in my veins didn’t quaver an
evanescent bit; even as the most unsparingly
hedonistic apocalypses of the devil perpetuated into
my soul,
But today; the 3rd of April; it just metamorphosed
into a grotesquely frigid white; as your brilliantly
unhindered compassion; had disappeared forever from
the horizons of my veritable sight…
Ordinarily the hollows of my ears didn’t flutter an
ethereal inch; even as unbelievably thunderous roars
of vindictive lightening; flashed left; right and
center from the belly of the murderously ballistic
sky,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just miserably
withered to each of my commands; as your inimitably
divinely and beautifully unparalleled voice; had
disappeared forever from the horizons of my veritable
sight…
Ordinarily the bones of my demeanor didn’t rattle an
infidel centimeter; even as the coffins of inevitable
death scurrilously slandered at me a countless times,
But today; the 3rd of April; they just dissolved into
fecklessly meaningless pulp at the sound of my very
own voice; as your Omnipotently everlasting tenacity;
had disappeared forever from the horizons of my
veritable sight…
Ordinarily the whites and blacks of my eye didn’t
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Astronomy
(originally recorded by blue oyster cult)
The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst
Out at you from their hiding place
Like acid and oil on a madmans face
His reasons tend to fly away
Like lesser birds on the four winds, yeah
Like silver scrapes in may
Now the sands become a crust
And most of you have gone away, then youre gone away
Ah, come susie dear, lets take a walk
Just out there upon the beach
I know youll soon be married
And you want to know where winds come from
Well, its never said at all
On the map that carrie reads
Behind the clock back there you know
At the four winds bar, mm, yeah
Yeah
Hey!
Hey!
Hey!
Hey!
Four winds at the four winds bar
Two doors locked and windows barred
One door left to take you in
The other one just mirrors it
Hey!
Hey! yeah!
Hey! yeah!
Hey!
Ooh, in hellish glare and inference
The other ones a duplicate
The queenly flux, eternal light
Or the light that never warms
Yes, the light that never, never warms
Yes, the light that never, never warms
Never warms, never warms
The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst
Out at you from their hiding place
Miss carrie nurse and susie dear
Would find themselves at four winds bar
Its the nexus of the crisis
And the origin of storms
Just the place to hopelessly
Encounter time and then came me
Yo!
Hey!
Hey!
Hey!
Hey!
[...] Read more
song performed by Metallica
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Home Train Improvisation 04 02 2004
HOME TRAIN:
Improvisation Number 01 24 04
From city light horizons she is going to become my day-lady
rising too soon sprung spouting with tulips and the early spring
on the home train my heart beats fiddle bass tones and sings
desperate reasoning in the heart: why her whole body stands on
my soul softly resting upon that generation of secret separate trusts
intended in the passing smile for the joy of being alive being alive
for just one more day from distant light horizons on the home train
from distant city light horizons my city leaves me with my lady
my joy on the home train to soon sprung early tulips crocus in
the rain in the solar fun my lady to soon sprung in the early spring
all rise to spread the joy and join the fun on the home train for just
one more day from distant light horizons my city leaves me with
my lady on the home train to soon my heartbeats fiddle bass tones
and sings she is too soon sprung joyously into spring my heart beat
sings for her whole body stands on my soul softly resting in my joy
time is passing rapaciously through the night passing city after city
the home train races out of light horizons sucking my city away
fading into the rhythm of the blues quietly my lady to soon sprung
begins to make her midnight move joyously leaping into spring
blooming with the rising sun with tulips and the joy of passing time
rapaciously through the night I will hold her softly for nothing more
than the repetitious passing of time while she will hold me too; city
after city the home train races out of light horizons onto spirit lifted
tracks with my lady to soon sprung from city light horizons on
the home train from distant light horizons the city leaves a mellow
glowing cinder each time I leave her she is the love that draws me
back; city after city now nearer home where my love to soon sprung
in springs come and gone she is my wife my mistress my platonic
friend city after city wherever she lets me in; she’s with me every day
she sits with me on the home train she sits a seat away at the cinema
on the benches in the park in the lobby the dining and the sleeping car
the lounge and café I sleep where the memories stay -on the home train.
Lee Mack copyright 2009. ISBN # 0615318347. Do not reproduce without permission.
poem by Lee B Mack
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The History Of Tomorrow
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of light
By dumping us in the dark with pits everywhere
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of food
By asking us to chop several fire-woods to heat up a pot full of stones
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of job creation
By making us slaves on our own soil
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of education
By dumping us in dilapidated buildings without teachers
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of accountability
By looting our treasury and asking us for yet another term in office
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our leaders fulfilled a promise of safety
By leaving pot holes large enough to swallow countless accident victims on our roads
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of how our bows and arrows
Would secure our future
I want to tell you the history of tomorrow
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless heroes
It’s the history of a country, a country with countless robbers
Robbers with fame
Robbers without shame
Robbers that we would roast with flame
© Adegbenro Adekunle Jacob
Tomorrow’s history is today. All world leaders must make real democracy work. They must be selfless. We must not wait until there is horror and terror before we learn. Nigerian leaders must shun CORRUPTION.
poem by Adegbenro Adekunle
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Astronomy
The middle lane has trapped my car
In red-light claustrophobia.
I slip the shackles, cut the rope ---
Stand naked with a telescope
As the cat walks alone
Under a big sky.
Against the dark so thin and white ---
Gonna be a big sky night.
Miss galileo, come with me
And view the new astronomy.
Black hole dressing on salad plate ---
Quasar at the kissing gate.
Now the cat, he walks alone
Under a big sky.
Umbrella dome pin-pricked in lights ---
Gonna be a big sky night.
My spectacles, my white lab coat ---
My coffee, thermos and my notes.
I pat my pockets. I got the keys
To the secrets of the observatory.
And closing the door,
I feel a new dawn
As the darker slides align ---
You to yours and me to mine.
And now you stand, assisting me ---
I can touch what I can see, see, see.
I look in wonder, I feel no shame ---
See the consequences of the game.
Expand the universe.
Head for the big bang.
Reach for my switch and shout ---
Gonna turn the big sky out.
Theres got to be astronomy.
Astronomy.
song performed by Jethro Tull
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems
March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan
Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.
Sincerely,
George W. Bush
SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III
Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.
They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.
The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.
They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.
The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.
[...] Read more
poem by Tom Zart
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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New Horizons
Once, we were together
Once we were one
Once we were running, we knew where we came from
We were the music, we heard the call
We were giants after the fall
Once we were children, once we were so small
To the new horizons I cast my eyes
When I look at you reaching out to the new horizons
Once and today
Once and today
Once, we were divided, once, we lost our sight
Once, we were freezing in the tv light
You are a rainbow, youre looking fine
Shall we make it one more time
To the new horizons I cast my eyes
When I look at you reaching out to the new horizons
Once and today
Once and today
You are a rainbow
song performed by Alphaville
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Stormy Clouds
I wanted to tell you my story
I wanted to tell you my story
How my life seemed to change in a matter of days
How my life seemed to change in a matter of days
The heavens break I am walking tall
The heavens break I am walking tall
How come change always seems to bring the rain
How come change always seems to bring the rain
Stormy clouds, new horizons
Come and get it, if you want to
Stormy clouds, new horizons
So hop on the train cause it kills the pain
Come and get it, if you want to
Blues player going to another town
So hop on the train cause it kills the pain
Believe me this boy here is sinking
Blues player going to another town
Just drinking
Believe me this boy here is sinking
Just drinking
These streets, these times
They tie me down through with you
But I feel no pain
These streets, these times
Stormy clouds, new horizons
They tie me down through with you
But I feel no pain
Stormy clouds, new horizons
song performed by Verve
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Memory Will Endure (Revised)
‘Cent Mille Chansons’ stirs memory, beautiful
voice, melody of such bitter-sweet nostalgia, a
whispering spirit crying in the cupboard: no drag
worm relates stories of new knights and dragons
Just dream sustained characters who take their
bows, spirits bolstered by lyrics of this song, there
always will be a hundred thousand loves – and
castles and stars to remain untouched by us
One hundred thousand horizons of love, we shall
add new another romance as we join a hundred
thousand lovers in the blue sphere of earth; the
world will never need to know –
but memory endures a hundred thousand years
in my sensitive soul
[ORIGINAL: ]
Listening to Cent Mille Chansons stirred a memory:
a beautiful voice, a melody conveying such bitter-
sweet nostalgia - the whispering spirit in the cup-
board crying: there is no dragworm to tell me a
new story of knights and dragons
Just dreams sustain as my characters take their bows,
the spirit bolstered by the lyrics of this song, there
always will be a hundred thousand loves; castles
and stars will remain untouched by us in this
ocean of love, there will always be
A hundred thousand horizons, we shall add another
romance as we join a hundred thousand lovers in
the blue sphere of the earth; the world will never
know - but the memory will endure a hundred
thousand years in my sensitive soul...
1.Lyrics “Cent Mille Chansons” Frida Boccara
Il y aura cent mille chansons
Quand viendra le temps des cent mille saisons
Cent mille amoureux
Pareils à nous deux
Dans le lit tout bleu de la terre
Cent mille chansons rien qu'à nous
Cent mille horizons devant nous
Partagés de bonheur
[...] Read more
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Naked Ride Home
Just take off your clothes and I'll drive you home I said
Knowing she never could pass on a dare
And knowing it sounded more desperate than reckless or bold
I just put it out there cold, too far gone to care
My eyes on the road, she slid herself down in the seat
And a vision of paradise swung into view
Across those five lanes not one driver glanced over to see
The beauty known only to me, and a big rig or two
On that freeway the light was receding
Her beauty, a sight so misleading
I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone
On the naked ride home
With the trace of a smile and that defiant look in her eye
She hurtled through space in a world of her own
And turning aside my caress spoke of all that she'd not yet done
As if I was the doubting one who would have to be shown
On that freeway the light was receding
Her beauty, a sight so misleading
I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone
On the naked ride home
She gathered her clothes
And ran through the yard in the dark
Up onto the porch like a flash, and inside
Then one room at a time
I watched every light in our house come on
Like the truth that would eventually dawn,
Forcing me to decide
But on that freeway the light was receding
Her beauty, a sight so misleading
I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone
On the naked ride home
song performed by Jackson Browne
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Makin History
Tonight theres a magic that I cant explain
Tune-up and start the show all set now ready to go
This bands gonna really rock tonight
Steppin out upon the stage
Under those lights again
Were gonna shake the place tonight
They gotta new song high in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
When that flat top starts that picking
Hear the bass drum start that kicking
The joint is really jumpin now
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Its a strange kinda magic that never seems to age
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Rock on
They gotta new song
High in the charts you know
You must have heard them play it on the radio
Hear the start and the jumbo gibson
You dont know what youre missing if youre not
Painting the town tonight
Ooh mama its so exiting to feel
That tension rising when they turn the house lights down
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory
That is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Adding a new leaf to the story that is rocknroll
Makin history
Makin history
Playing a new beat to the glory that is rocknroll
Mama its so exiting-oh oh
Dont you find the beat exiting
song performed by Cliff Richard
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The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Every Insight, The Big Bang, And The Thought That Follows, A Universe
Every insight, the Big Bang, and the thought that follows, a universe.
Every image that flashes across the moonscape like a silhouette
in reverse of the dark matter and starmud that surrounds it,
a black swan among the white when there's snow on the river.
Worlds bubbling out of the mouth of a fish through a hole in the ice
that looks like the third eye of a glacier taking a long, hard look
at whether it was worth opening all those lakes
and then filling them like eyes with the runoff of its own tears
as it disappears into a more fertile approach to letting go of itself.
I could always see a human shape hidden in the landscape
and I wanted to free it so I scraped and gouged
and dug my way into it like a dog unearthing the fossil
of a distant ancestor that ran with the wolves.
Even now when their ghosts howl it's a sad ballad
of the lyrical hills going mad by themselves
and sometimes it breaks my heart like water
in the cleft of a pseudomorphic rock to write picture-music
in striated cuneiform on the cliff faces to sing to themselves
like a lost people with more legend than life in its veins.
I can take a single thread and weave it into a flying carpet.
I can take a string theory and make it resonate with membranes
that occasionally break their eardrums like water from a womb.
There are protocols of the imagination that have been imposed
by iconic means like straitjackets fitted to the inside of your psyche.
Cuckoos in your nest, memes in your mind,
nudging your cosmic eggs out to smash on the rocks below
like the stillborn of the sun. Embryos and fractals,
astronomical forensics sweeping the night sky for fetal stars,
hidden paradigms ferreted out like secrets
that will bloom each in their own good time
like the mysteries of life unravelling
the sequel of a waterclock that keeps on outliving itself
by transcending its own emptiness by pouring itself out
like a serpent that's always shedding its own skin
or a zodiac confabulating a false dawn
of mythically deflated metaphors, red giants
burnt out into black dwarfs and sink holes
where the stars plunge like butterflies into
the gaping maw of the dragon that consumes them like krill,
knowing its destiny, too, is just a provisional scaffolding of quicksand.
Yes, but how many make it all the way through
like wild salmon responding to the death call
of the spawning ground on the far side of the white hole
when the hourglass gets turned around like a fountain
instead of leaking out of a mortal wound in the side of the universe?
The morphology of knowledge is the history of shapeshifters.
Cosmology is an aesthetic expression of enculturated preferences.
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
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History Stones People.
History stones people.
They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see
Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.
Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.
History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.
History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.
All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.
All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.
You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.
They are there captive
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Katz
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On Passing Cromwell Street
In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.
He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.
In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.
To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.
I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.
Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.
In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ten Words Circularly
History is ‘Nothing to be done’; and Time passes circularly.
Nothing passes circularly: History and Time is to be done.
Time is circularly Nothing and History passes to be done.
History circularly passes Time and Nothing is to be done.
To be Nothing, Time passes and History is circularly done.
Nothing is to be done: Time and History circularly passes.
Nothing is History and, to be done, Time circularly passes.
To be is History; and Time done circularly passes Nothing.
Time is to be; and Nothing circularly done passes History.
Nothing passes History and Time to be done circularly is.
To be is: Nothing done circularly passes History and Time.
poem by Alex Hamilton
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On The Pleasures Of College Life
With tears I leave these academic bowers,
And cease to cull the scientific flowers;
With tears I hail the fair succeeding train,
And take my exit with a breast of pain.
The Fresh may trace these wonders as they smile;
The stream of science like the river Nile,
Reflecting mental beauties as it flows,
Which all the charms of College life disclose;
This sacred current as it runs refines,
Whilst Byron sings and Shakspeare's mirror shines.
First like a garden flower did I rise,
When on the college bloom I cast my eyes;
I strove to emulate each smiling gem,
Resolved to wear the classic diadem;
But when the Freshman's garden breeze was gone;
Around me spread a vast extensive lawn;
'Twas there the muse of college life begun,
Beneath the rays of erudition's sun,
Where study drew the mystic focus down,
And lit the lamp of nature with renown;
There first I heard the epic thunders roll,
And Homer's light'ning darted through my soul.
Hard was the task to trace each devious line,
Though Locke and Newton bade me soar and shine;
I sunk beneath the heat of Franklin's blaze,
And struck the notes of philosophic praise;
With timid thought I strove the test to stand,
Reclining on a cultivated land,
Which often spread beneath a college bower,
And thus invoked the intellectual shower;
E'en that fond sire on whose depilous crown,
The smile of courts and states shall shed renown;
Now far above the noise of country strife,
I frown upon the gloom of rustic life,
Where no pure stream of bright distinction flows,
No mark between the thistle and the rose;
One's like a bird encaged and bare of food,
Borne by the fowler from his native wood,
Where sprightly oft he sprung from spray to spray,
And cheer'd the forest with his artless lay,
Or fluttered o'er the purling brook at will,
Sung in the dale or soar'd above the hill.
Such are the liberal charms of college life,
Where pleasure flows without a breeze of strife;
And such would be my pain if cast away,
Without the blooms of study to display.
Beware, ye college birds, again beware,
And shun the fowler with his subtile snare;
[...] Read more
poem by George Moses Horton
Added by Poetry Lover
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Cowboy Love
(bill douglas/jeff wood)
You drive a baby blue beamer
I drive a pickup truck
Im a member of the good ol boys
Youre a member of the country club
You keep turnin me down when I ask you out
But I aint givin up
Im gonna show you darlin a little cowboy love
Let me broaden your horizons
Teach you bout the finer things in life
Like some late night horseback ridin
Sippin on some southern homemade wine
If a little two steppin, star gazin, breathtakin, lovemakin
Is what your dreamin of
Then let me show you darlin a little cowboy love
You need a little adventure
To ignite your world
I can picture you in cowboy boots
I can picture you a country girl
Once you give me a try then youll know why
You cant get enough
So let me show you darlin a little cowboy love
Let me broaden your horizons
Teach you bout the finer things in life
Like some late night horseback ridin
Sippin on some southern homemade wine
If a little two steppin, star gazin, breathtakin, lovemakin
Is what your dreamin of
Then let me show you darlin a little cowboy love
Underneath the midnight moonlight
Cuddled up real tight
Cozied down by a fire
Listenin to some george strait, george jones
Country love songs youll change your mind
Well let me broaden your horizons
Teach you bout the finer things in life
Like some late night horseback ridin
Sippin on some southern homemade wine
If a little two steppin, star gazin, breathtakin, lovemakin
Is what your dreamin of
Then let me show you darlin a little cowboy love
Let me show you darlin a little cowboy love
song performed by John Michael Montgomery
Added by Lucian Velea
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