Bush began helping Enron in the eighties.
quote by Paul Begala
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Related quotes
When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
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That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Children Need A Helping Hand
(featuring various artists)
Children need a helping hand
Children need a promise land
Let the children feel again
That love is alive
Children need a helping hand
Children are so innocent
Make this world a wonderland
So give us a sign
So give us a sign
Children have a heart of gold
Sometimes they feel alone and sold
They need someone to be around
Reach out
A helping hand
So many children dont know what to do
cause no ones there to guide em through
Were living in a world so cold
Dont make them sad and sold
They need a helping hand
Children need a helping hand
Children need a promised land
Let the children feel again
That love is alive
That love is alive
Children need a helping hand
Day by day
Children are so innocent
Show them the way
Make this world a wonderland
Join us and stay
So give us a sign
So give us a sign
Children, need a helping hand
We are all called to change
Into a world of hope
Without war, without pain
Children do have fantasies
The thoughts of far away and free
Dreamin of a wonderland
They live
In a childrens world
We could live in perfect harmony
Wonderland could be reality
Without war and without pain
And no one dies in vain
Thats the promised land
Children need a helping hand
Children need a promise land
Let the children feel again
[...] Read more
song performed by Backstreet Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Afghanistan: Unified Friendly Government Required?
Who will unravel twisted paths
on road to war what really
prompted invasion Afghanistan?
Let us review sly oiled palms crossed
on fascinating road to Afghani invasion?
Who are the players what plot timeline?
Oil Date 1991-1997
fat honey bee major U.S. oil companies
BP Amoco, Enron, ExxonMobil, Shell,
Texaco, Unocal and other players directly
invest billions cash bribing heads of state
in Kazakhstan to secure their equity rights...
what is up for steak prime cuts on table?
huge oil reserves in these regions sly oil
companies commit to direct investments
in Kazakhstan $35 billion more pending
but are not willing to pay exorbitant prices...
why pay Russia to use Russian pipelines?
major oil companies need control options
have no way to recoup their investments?
Oil Date December 4,1997
invited guests representatives of friendly
Taliban arrive at Texas Unocal headquarters
to negotiate pipeline support subsequent
reports indicate negotiation failure allegedly
greedy Taliban wanted too much money...
Oil Date December 4,1997 February 12,1998
later rising star to become favoured status
a shiny Special Ambassador to Afghanistan
Unocal Vice President John J. Maresca testifies
before House International Relations Committee
a single unified friendly government is required...
in place in Afghanistan before a trans-Afghani
pipeline tall order needed to monetize oil can
be built to liberate site vast Afghani oil reserves?
See No Evil Tell No Lies in 1998 the CIA ignores
warnings from Case Officer Robert Baer that Saudi
Arabia is harboring an al-Q'aeda cell led by known
terrorists two next a detailed list of known terrorists
August 2001 offered to Saudi intelligence is refused...
Oil Date April 1999
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Met Pet Goat While Twin Towers Burn
"9/11 justified
invasion Afghanistan?
really Taliban
zero hijackers
zero links
to al-Qaeda?
at the time
hijackers were Arab?
not Afghani?
President George W. Bush
failed nation America
ordered total no shot down"
9: 03 a.m. Bush no action partakes
in a meaningless primary publicity
photo-op ignoring responsibility
continental US is already under attack
at Emma E. Booker Elementary
School in Sarasota, Florida
Mr President beat around the Bush
is reading 'Met Pet Goat'
to school children
for five critical minutes
after he had been told
second World Trade
Center tower had been hit
that America was under attack
wait rewind "What's the time? "
approximately 8: 48 a.m.
morning September 11 2001
first pictures of burning
World Trade Center
are broadcast on live television
reporters news anchors viewers
have had no advance warning
"What has happened in lower Manhattan?
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Bush At Helm
Turkey’s Touristic Problem
Kurds coming over the hill!
Bush’s sovereign
non-interventionist, Foreign
Policy! Mountain
grave sides agore to fill!
Arise with Saddam’s Hitler admired
imitated stylised televised word!
Scapegoats falsely labelled executed
insurgents reduced rankle not dead!
In flight fled fear fed!
Refugee refuge
safe sanitary zones?
Symbolic symptom
(flat-lining) Bush’s!
International problem
ignored (New World Order) !
A few baby refugee corpses
small accountant price to pay!
(collateral damage civilian)
For history sought new world order!
Is this true political point scoring?
Sentiment stripped to bare bone?
Baboon floating his own balloon?
Democracy must accountable mean
no elected esteemed humane official?
Is above pan-morality credibility Check!
Democracy must not be policy tarnished!
Diverted treated acted easily white washed!
Non-accountable an expendable indifference!
An estimated? millions of Kurds!
Fled into neighbouring countries
during the Bush crisis in 1991!
An estimated four to five
million persecuted Iraqi Kurds!
Under Saddam’s dictatorship!
Were forbidden to celebrate
their ethnic culture! Or organize
representative political activities!
Oppressed Iraqi Kurds
were under constant invasive state
censure! Surveillance!
[...] Read more
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Beautiful Land Of Australia
All you on emigration bent,
With home and England discontent,
Come, listen to my sad lament,
All about the bush of Australia.
I once possessed a thousand pounds.
Thinks I—how very grand it sounds
For a man to be farming his own grounds
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Upon the voyage the ship was lost.
In wretched plight I reached the coast,
And was very nigh being made a roast,
By the savages of Australia.
And in the bush I lighted on
A fierce bushranger with his gun,
Who borrowed my garments, every one,
For himself in the bush of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong.
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Sydney town I reached at last,
And now, thinks I, all danger's past,
And I shall make my fortune fast
In this promising land of Australia.
I quickly went with cash in hand,
Upon the map I chose my land.
When I got there 'twas barren sand
In the beautiful land of Australia.
Illawarra, Mittagong,
Parramatta, Wollongong
If you wish to become an ourang-outang,
Then go to the bush of Australia.
Of sheep I got a famous lot.
Some died of hunger, some of rot,
For the devil a dropp of rain they got,
In this flourishing land of Australia.
My convict men were always drunk,
They kept me in a constant funk.
Says I to myself, as to bed I slunk,
How I wish I was out of Australia!
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 4)
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1,2 and 3 first)
I stepped back slightly in amazement,
and then I smiled to myself.
Originally, the mystery of the ghost fire
had poised several questions in my mind.
Question of how, why and by who.
Normal phenomena was generally erratic,
in that you could not predict
when it when it would happen again.
However, the ghost fires were the opposite.
The first three were attention grabbers for the Burning Bush,
which now could be timed
at what time it would start
and at what time it would finish.
It was a very clever illusion
thought out by a very clever person.
I knew now how it was done,
but the remaining questions
of why and by who still needed to be answered.
Like Martin and others
my first thought were
that is was something paranormal.
Having stumbled by accident the truth,
the remaining two questions
could possibly be answered by the local Constable.
Finally I retired to bed with the satisfaction
I had almost solved the mystery.
The morning awoke
with a slight dropp in the temperature
and dark clouds threatening rain.
After breakfast,
I made my first journey to see the Burning Bush.
It was quite an ordinary bush as bushes go.
I walked round it several times
and looked around at the surrounding area.
I then took several photographs
of the area and the bush.
When I had enough,
I went to the Police Station
to talk to the local Constable.
As he saw me approach, he smiled.
His first question was how my investigation was going.
I assured him that it was nearly completed.
There were just a few questions I need answers for,
and then I should be able to solve the mystery of the Burning Bush.
I need to know how many people
had moved into the area
[...] Read more
poem by David Harris
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The King of the Vasse
A LEGEND OF THE BUSH.
MY tale which I have brought is of a time
Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crime,
Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast
Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast
From angry levin on a fair young tree,
That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see.
So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,—
A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run,
And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried
Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died.
Woe's cloak is round her,—she the fairest shore
In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er.
Poor Cinderella! she must bide her woe,
Because an elder sister wills it so.
Ah! could that sister see the future day
When her own wealth and strength are shorn away,
A.nd she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand
To rest on kindred blood in that far land;
Could she but see that kin deny her claim
Because of nothing owing her but shame,—
Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall,
If carted rubble be the basement-wall.
But this my tale, if tale it be, begins
Before the young land saw the old land's sins
Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud
Far-blown, and widening as it neared,—a shroud
Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure,
And mark the leper-land while stains endure.
In the far days, the few who sought the West
Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest
Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain,
And help them live their lives with less of pain
Than crowded Europe lets her children know.
From their old homesteads did they seaward go,
As if in Nature's order men must flee
As flow the streams,—from inlands to the sea.
In that far time, from out a Northern land,
With home-ties severed, went a numerous band
Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk:
Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke,
As year was piled on year, and still their toil
Had wrung poor fee from -Sweden's rugged soil.
One day there gathered from the neighboring steads,
In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads,—
Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons,
[...] Read more
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The City Bushman
It was pleasant up the country, City Bushman, where you went,
For you sought the greener patches and you travelled like a gent;
And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,
Though you know the squalid city needn't keep you from the bush;
But we lately heard you singing of the `plains where shade is not',
And you mentioned it was dusty -- `all was dry and all was hot'.
True, the bush `hath moods and changes' -- and the bushman hath 'em, too,
For he's not a poet's dummy -- he's a man, the same as you;
But his back is growing rounder -- slaving for the absentee --
And his toiling wife is thinner than a country wife should be.
For we noticed that the faces of the folks we chanced to meet
Should have made a greater contrast to the faces in the street;
And, in short, we think the bushman's being driven to the wall,
And it's doubtful if his spirit will be `loyal thro' it all'.
Though the bush has been romantic and it's nice to sing about,
There's a lot of patriotism that the land could do without --
Sort of BRITISH WORKMAN nonsense that shall perish in the scorn
Of the drover who is driven and the shearer who is shorn,
Of the struggling western farmers who have little time for rest,
And are ruined on selections in the sheep-infested West;
Droving songs are very pretty, but they merit little thanks
From the people of a country in possession of the Banks.
And the `rise and fall of seasons' suits the rise and fall of rhyme,
But we know that western seasons do not run on schedule time;
For the drought will go on drying while there's anything to dry,
Then it rains until you'd fancy it would bleach the sunny sky --
Then it pelters out of reason, for the downpour day and night
Nearly sweeps the population to the Great Australian Bight.
It is up in Northern Queensland that the seasons do their best,
But it's doubtful if you ever saw a season in the West;
There are years without an autumn or a winter or a spring,
There are broiling Junes, and summers when it rains like anything.
In the bush my ears were opened to the singing of the bird,
But the `carol of the magpie' was a thing I never heard.
Once the beggar roused my slumbers in a shanty, it is true,
But I only heard him asking, `Who the blanky blank are you?'
And the bell-bird in the ranges -- but his `silver chime' is harsh
When it's heard beside the solo of the curlew in the marsh.
Yes, I heard the shearers singing `William Riley', out of tune,
Saw 'em fighting round a shanty on a Sunday afternoon,
But the bushman isn't always `trapping brumbies in the night',
Nor is he for ever riding when `the morn is fresh and bright',
And he isn't always singing in the humpies on the run --
And the camp-fire's `cheery blazes' are a trifle overdone;
We have grumbled with the bushmen round the fire on rainy days,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Lawson
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Helping Hand
Chorus:
Everybody needs a helping hand
Take a look at your fellow man
And tell me what can I do today
cause everybody needs a helping out
If that aint what its all about
Tell me what
What can I do
What can I do today
Weve all seen trouble from time to time
There is a mountain ahead
Ive got no strength to climb, hey
If youre feeling that youre strong
Reach out to me
I hope this journey wont take long
But wont you please
Have mercy
(repeat chorus)
What can I do today
Im talking bout the soul all alone
Needing the daily bread
Someplace to lay his head, yeah, hey
And Im talking about the neighbor on your street
Wont you look him in the eye
Take time to speak
Thats mercy, yeah, cause...
(repeat chorus)
Love one another
Sister and brother
Love is the only way, hey
(repeat chorus twice)
What can I do today
Everybody needs a helpin, helpin
Everybody needs a helping hand
Everybody needs a helpin, helpin
Everybody needs a helping hand
Everybody needs a helping hand
Everybody needs it, oh, everybody needs it
Everybody needs a helping hand
Oh, everybody needs it, oh, yeah, oh, everybody needs it
Oh, yeah, everybody needs a helping hand
Everybody needs it, oh, everybody needs it
Everybody needs a helping hand
Everybody needs it
song performed by Amy Grant
Added by Lucian Velea
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Throw Yourself Away
Baby's born on the bathroom floor
her mother prays that it'll never cry
but nothing's wrong you got your prom dress on
When they ask you'llsay it isn't mine
Oooh, you know they're gonna know you lied
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God ain't even helping you out
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
So keep the way you feel anonymous
And hide it all until the day you die
your secret's safe at least you thought it was
But you can only keep it for a little while
Oooh, and now you're terrified
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God ain't even helping you out
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
Baby's born on the bathroom floor
Her Mother prays that it'll never cry
but nothing's wrong you got your prom dress on
And when they ask you say it isn't mine
And damn you for thinkin' we would never know
And damn you for thinkin' we would never mind
theOnly reason that you'd made it this far
You never asked him but you never try
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you out
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you out
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you out
Wash my, hands of this
You notice that God aint even helping you
Why the hell don't you throw yourself away
You know they're gonna burn it down
song performed by Nickelback
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tush (Anthony Acid (dirty) Radio Edit)
[Intro: Missy Elliott]
Oohhh... This that fire! Ghostface and Missy
[Ghostface Killah]
Somebody tell that girl that her ass too big
I give it to her right and she let me live
Can't eat that, cuz there's no relationship
I beat that, the next day you called in sick
Frontin', not for nothin', I pop buttons
Off Baby Phat, Levi's, J.Lo's, Guess and Gap
Cuz it's like that, young lady, bet I make you shake
Like the Puffy and Jay-Z's, Dre's and J.D.'s
Come on, if not you, I'mma beat this song
But if you were bout it, our business wouldn't be here this long
Let me break it down for you, all I wanted to know
If I could just feel it and touch it, and break it down into numbers and
Come with me and just leave your friends
Cuz we don't need no cock blocking
Tellin' you this without no option
Tell your friends "Peace, look, I'm bouncin'"
[Chorus: Missy Elliott (Ghostface Killah)]
Tush, tush, tush
Wanna slide in the bush, bush, bush?
(I'm on top, you like push, push, push
Keep it low like shush, shush, shush)
You wanna get up in my tush, tush, tush?
You could slide in the bush, bush, bush
(I'm on top, you like push, push, push
Keep it low like shush, shush, shush)
You wanna get up in that tush, tush, tush?
Wanna slide in my bush, bush, bush
(I'm on top, you like push, push, push
Keep it low like shush, shush, shush)
[Ghostface Killah]
Oh yeah, you jinglin' baby (well let me jump up on that ding-a-ling baby)
Ooh, gosh, you a nasty girl, sassy
Picture me layin' you inside my classic pearls
Toes'll curl, giddy up, you go girl
I'm about to, uh, do it slow girl
Ooh, you in control, it's in your world
She on,
song performed by Ghostface Killah
Added by Lucian Velea
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To Noel Who Has George Bush Senior As His Hero
He say George Bush his hero but with him I don't agree
For George Bush bombers killed thousands just to set Kuwait free
And Saddam been defeated and two Countries been destroyed
And George Bush and John Major in allied victory take pride.
Noel say that I'm for Saddam but he has got it wrong
For on side of one who kill and maim I don't feel I belong
And Hussein is a killer and all who kill are bad
And George Bush just as bad as him which makes it all more sad.
Two hundred thousand Iraqis in Kuwait desert died
And the sands of Kuwait desert the shame of George Bush hide
And the Kuwait oil wells burning and blood's been shed for oil
And Kuwait now free Country but was it all worth while? .
And the sky o'er Kuwait desert from smoke as black as coal
And George Bush, Noel Johnson's hero, you can have your hero Noel
You applaud the allied bombers and condemn the I.R.A.
But they all throw bombs on people though you don't see it that way.
He say George Bush is his hero, George Bush who felt no shame
In murdering Iraqi people just to earn himself a name,
George Bush who bombed and murdered just to prove his country great
And whose crimes and shame lay covered by the white sands of Kuwait.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Helping Hands
You gotta believe we can change the world
Don't turn a blind eye to tomorrow's world
But on the good side looking out
Don't take for granted the silent shout
The hands of time are rolling past
To turn the tide, we must move fast
Let's share the hope and pull some strings
We hold the answer this vision sings
They're holding on
But for how long
Let's set them free
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, time to make a plan, don't sit idle
We are the key to the dreams
It's not as hard as it seems
No
Get up and put your hands together
All your helping hands
Oh yeah
We're three steps down, you're two steps back
No more widgin' and that's a fact
A call to arms, let's take a stand
It's up to you to lend a helping hand
They're holding on
But for how long
Let's set them free
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, time to make a plan, don't sit idle
We are the key to the dreams
It's not as hard as it seems
No
Get up and put your hands together
All your helping hands, yeah
We're the thunder in the storm
That brings the winds of change
Together we can overcome
And start a brand new day
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival (Yeah yeah)
Gotta take a stand, it's time to make a plan, don't sit idle (No, no, no, no)
Put your helping hands together rockin' on for survival
Gotta take a stand, c'mon make a plan, don't sit idle (Oh!)
song performed by Quiet Riot
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thurso’s Landing
I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.
II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Pillage Hangman - Parody LONGFELLOW - The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, -rejoicing, -sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Gorky Park
This is a story not for the dainty elves and pixies
But for the youthful X-generation born in the rolling sixties
Just like Woodstock had a twin in Altamont
The west and the east united in the 80s at the center of a pont
The iron curtain came down in this bygone era
No place for communist royalty nor for a beret or a tiara
As the winds of change blew through Gorky park
Flames of solidarity were lighted for a fervent spark
On the east side of the Brandenburg gate crowds duly did flock
To escape the communism's iron fist lock
As the wall came tumbling down even faster than humpty-dumpty
Rolling on the ground were the scraps of a barrier almighty
Even the oriental east did feel a tremor of change
As in a populous square the mighty tanks were tamed
Even as the Guzheng strummed tunes of freedom
Stubbornly holding was the great wall of the oriental kingdom
As Don Henley was reminding us of the loss of innocence
As naive virgins lined up for a capitalist de-floresence
As invisible blood scattered over the charcoal blue carpets
Gone were the days of love on luscious lawns and concerts
As the dangers of mechanical sex came to the 80s party
The flow of a virus stormed the psyche of the lubby-dubby even flirty
As condoms inflated like balloons and bubble gum
The guns manifested under Reagan's beat of the drum
As the big apple transformed to a green mile
Gun cartels ruled a city bathing in a jaundiced bile
As mustard yellow pollutants left a legacy of gauzy
Night life transformed from a party to a frenzy
This was the era when famine hit the innocence of Africa
As skull bones and the rib cage became visible to the camera
As photographs from Halle's backyard stormed to the west
Marching was the conscience driven to charity's philanthropic quest
As the musician gathered for a show of solidarity
Lech's shipyard in Gdansk was burgeoning with solidarity
Even the pope's rhetoric joined the voices for hope
As the catholic heartland of Eastern Europe leavened to elope
This was a story that unfolded in the face change of the eighties
As the capitalist imperialism stormed to every household in their mighties
Hostages of wealth as independent wealth exponentially grew
The capitalist curtain stormed the west and its submissive crew
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poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 3)
As the news, spread about the burning bush
visitors began to flock to Little Pebblebury.
They were amazed at the sight that greeted them.
Rumours soon began to spread
that someone had heard a voice
coming from the bush.
This prompted speculation
that Christ was warning of his return.
The locals were by now
used to the sight and paid little
or no attention to it,
except to direct visitors to it.
After my lengthy discussions
with several of the locals,
I returned to my room
and began to plan what I was going to do the next day.
I decided the best course of action
was to start where the phenomena first began.
The next morning after having a good English breakfast,
I started out with my camera to the farm
where the first of the ghost fire was first noticed.
The farmer was a very obliging fellow.
He took time away from his duties
to show me the barn in which the ghost fire was
and explained in detail everything that went on that night.
I took a number of photographs
and thanked him for his time.
My next stop was to see the local Constable.
I explained to him what I was doing
and he was happy to help me
in every way he could.
He said the mystery of the fires
had baffled him
and any assistance in solving their cause
was more than welcome.
He took me out to the field
where the fire he was involved in
and showed me where the tramp had fallen asleep.
I examined the area quite thoroughly
and found a small black box
wedged in the bark of one of the trees.
I slipped it in my pocket to examine it later.
I thanked the Constable for his time
and told him I would let him know if I found out anything.
Getting back to the Inn,
the night clouds were beginning
to start closing in.
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poem by David Harris
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