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It takes between three and six hours to make each snowball, depending on snow quality. Wet snow is quick to work with but also quick to thaw, which can lead to a tense journey to the cold store.

quote by Andy Goldsworthy
Added by Lucian Velea
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Song Of The Evergreens

Listen to the briskly whistling winter evergreen
Whispering through the frozen morning light
And tell me whats to come
Saying my time is near
Never fear
I close each year
Im winter
Reminding me to trade my t-shirts for my woven wools
Trade my sandals for my skis
Whispered warnings in the wind
Saying soon come the dancing snowflakes
Theyre kissing every tree
Theyre kissing you and me
Please hurry
Falling
Dazzling dancing diamonds from the sky
Prisms
Rainbow sparkled flurries in our eyes
Whipping across the frozen crystal meadow
Pond of ice
Race the snow
Well build a warming fire there
And cuddle close and wine and dine
The setting sun
The morning light will find us high
Shooting down the glistening mountain side
Screaming through the whispering pines
The freedom of each day
Will cleanse our minds
I can hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
I can hardly hardly wait for winter
I can hardly wait for the snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow
Snow snow snow snow snow snow snow snow

song performed by Chicago
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lead Balloon

Kiss my ass! I said
And I threw my drink
Tequila trickling
Down his business suit
Must be the irish blood
Fight before you think
Turn it now
You cant cowtow
You cant undo it
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
An angry man is just an angry man
But an angry woman
Bitch!
I had to ask him for a helping hand
It came with the heart
Of a bonaparte
Of a frozen fish
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon, lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Its his town
And that went down
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead balloon
He said sic her, rover
That went over
Like a lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead lead lead lead balloon
Lead balloon

song performed by Joni Mitchell
Added by Lucian Velea
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the Eternal Question

THE ETERNAL QUESTION

She was just a child, really,
A girl of sixteen,
when Stanford White took her
in a champagne fueled dream.

White was an architect of great renown,
He had designed the Garden at Madison Square.
He had designs on this chorus girl now,
whose raven haired beauty drew many men’s stares.

He had dined her and wined her
They had toasts with Champagne
On a red velvet swing
In his quarters they played.

In a room full of mirrors
A virgin lay down
When she awoke the next morning
No virgin was found.

It was Evelyn Nesbit’s fate
To be seen as a pawn or a prize.
Harry Thaw sought her in marriage
To take her from a man he despised.

Stanford White was wealthy, urbane,
and had his pick of life’s pleasures
Harry K Thaw was a wastrel and strange,
living off of his Father’s massed treasures.
White and Thaw had competed
for Evelyn’s affections.
White won, then soon lost interest.
Poor Evelyn lost his protection.

Thaw was an addict and deviant
He injected himself with cocaine.
He enjoyed whipping girls and sometimes young boys
with his riding whip or his cane.

He’d pursued Evelyn Nesbit for years
She’d denied all of his advances
Then her forced her and whipped her and beat her
It was one of life’s stranger romances.

He soon learned that the girl he had married
was no demure and virginal bride.
He learned that his rival, Stanford White

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Work To Make It Work

(r palmer)
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve it
Push it along
It's all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you can't deal with
Ain't no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy
Ah push
Work work work to make it work push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Don't confine your dreams to bed
You'll get scared if you get lazy
If you can't take enough to satisfy yourself
Then you'll go crazy
Wont do no good thinking
You got to do it
So it don't come easy the first time
Practice makes perfect, you know that i'll try hard
Use it or lose it
You got to put your heart and soul into it
Yeaheheh
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it
Push it along
Work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
It's all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you can't deal with
Ain't no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy forget wishful thinking
You can do it
You just need a push to make a start
If you don't succeed the first time
Try and try again
Use it or lose it
You got to put your back into it
Work work work to make it work
Push it along

[...] Read more

song performed by Robert Palmer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Payment

A tortuous path of neurons arced a call: ‘Awake! ’
I did; in rising, peering, stretching, bearing,
Pained anticipation saw it all:
Foretold, another filthy day.

I drew the drape: diluvian lay the ground
Beneath a lazy leaden cloud – apissing out
The puddles; irksome on the roof –
The drumming drops of bitter glee
Were hounding out a hapless me –
Reinforcing doubt that I am sound.

I left the house
to go to work
to earn a crust
without a perk
then on to bust
another straining vessel.

Trudging on thro’ mud and clay, I pondered:
‘Why a drought of happy times?
Auspicious climes were
Old and fusty books
Atop a dusty shelf
Inside a morgue-of-a-room,
Somewhere in a long-forgotten library
Down a lane without a way.’

I thought again: ‘And still I pay.’

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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Cold Feet

There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - his house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He grew up to be a worker determined to succeed
He made a life for himself, free from worldly wants or needs
But with nobody to share the life hed made
No body to keep him warm at night
When hed go to sleep hed sleep alone with his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
One night he walked the street looking to the heavens above
Searching for a shooting star a benevolent god
When a woman passing by brushed his arm
He turned and found love
He then wished for the courage to ask this stranger
Who she was to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought shed like the party life and want the finer things
So he promised more than he could buy
And he promised her the sun and moon to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He worked day and night his fingers to the bone
Hi worried mind guilty conscience drive him on
He cant give her what she needs
He wants to give her what he thinks she wants
Her sad-eyed face, his empty pockets drive him on and his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Hed struggled all his life to be an honest man
Proud that the dirt on his palms was the soil of the land
But some guys he knew from high school days
Said they had a plan to get rich quick
And they could count him in if he dont have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought about their offer accepted it without qualms
Dreamt about the life hed buy
The comfort that would come without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He decided to tell his wife things would soon turn around
He said the little boy is dead
A man stands with you now without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet

[...] Read more

song performed by Tracy Chapman
Added by Lucian Velea
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

[...] Read more

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Work To Make It Work 99

Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve it
Push it along
Its all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you cant deal with
Aint no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy
Ah push
Work work work to make it work push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Dont confine your dreams to bed
Youll get scared if you get lazy
If you cant take enough to satisfy yourself
Then youll go crazy
Wont do no good thinking
You got to do it
So it dont come easy the first time
Practice makes perfect, you know that Ill try hard
Use it or lose it
You got to put your heart and soul into it
Yeaheheh
Push it along
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it
Push it along
Work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to improve
Its all there for you to feel it
Help your self to one that you cant deal with
Aint no way that you could steal it
You misunderstand if you get greedy forget wishful thinking
You can do it
You just need a push to make a start
If you dont succeed the first time
Try and try again
Use it or lose it
You got to put your back into it
Work work work to make it work
Push it along
Work work work if you want to move it

[...] Read more

song performed by Robert Palmer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lead Them Home My Dreams

Intro:
Lead them home
Lead them home my dreams,
My dreams
Verse 1:
Some people stand
Some choose not to understand
Some people fight (fight, fight)
Some people dream
Some people wake up
In the middle of the night
With the eyes of a tiger and a childs curiosity
Cant turn from my conscience when its starin at me
Chorus:
Lead them home
Lead them home my dreams
You can hear
When you disguise whispers as screams
(lead them home my, lead them home my...dreams)
Verse 2:
Some people climb
Some people wait for time to pass
Looking for a miracle (a miracle)
Some people could care less
Some people dwell on the impossible
And I always remember the times I let myself slide
And I put all the bad things like money
Far lower on the list than pride
Bring me home
Bring them home my dreams (lead the home)
Bring them home my dreams
(bring the home my, lead them home my)
You can hear, you can hear (you can hear)
When you disguise whispers as screams
(lead them home my, lead them home my)
Bring them home (bring them home, bring them home)
Bring them home my dreams
(lead them home my, bring them home my)
You can hear, you can hear when you
Disguise whispers as screams
(lead them home my, bring them home my...dreams)
Verse 3:
Wait a lifetime
Then my wish will drag on slowly
Come into ones own
At the time of conception (ooooo...)
Give in over time
You may as well change your mind
Now is when I see the light (I see it)
Im gonna touch it, grab it -

[...] Read more

song performed by Debbie Gibson
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The Child Of The Islands - Winter

I.

ERE the Night cometh! On how many graves
Rests, at this hour, their first cold winter's snow!
Wild o'er the earth the sleety tempest raves;
Silent, our Lost Ones slumber on below;
Never to share again the genial glow
Of Christmas gladness round the circled hearth;
Never returning festivals to know,
Or holidays that mark some loved one's birth,
Or children's joyous songs, and loud delighted mirth.
II.

The frozen tombs are sheeted with one pall,--
One shroud for every churchyard, crisp and bright,--
One foldless mantle, softly covering all
With its unwrinkled width of spotless white.
There, through the grey dim day and starlit night,
It rests, on rich and poor, and young and old,--
Veiling dear eyes,--whose warm homne-cheering light
Our pining hearts can never more behold,--
With an unlifting veil,--that falleth blank and cold.
III.

The Spring shall melt that snow,--but kindly eyes
Return not with the Sun's returning powers,--
Nor to the clay-cold cheek, that buried lies,
The living blooms that flush perennial flowers,--
Nor, with the song-birds, vocal in the bowers,
The sweet familiar tones! In silence drear
We pass our days,--and oft in midnight hours
Call madly on their names who cannot hear,--
Names graven on the tombs of the departed year!
IV.

There lies the tender Mother, in whose heart
So many claimed an interest and a share!
Humbly and piously she did her part
In every task of love and household care:
And mournfully, with sad abstracted air,
The Father-Widower, on his Christmas Eve,
Strokes down his youngest child's long silken hair,
And, as the gathering sobs his bosom heave,
Goes from that orphaned group, unseen to weep and grieve.
V.

Feeling his loneliness the more this day
Because SHE kept it with such gentle joy,
Scarce can he brook to see his children play,
Remembering how her love it did employ

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Virginia's Story

Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.

She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.

When she was old enough she got married.

First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.

Agnes was my mother.

Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.

Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.

Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.

Anna was a maid and cook.

She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth

They were both good cooks

They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.

My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.

She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.

[...] Read more

poem by Talile Ali
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Second Book

TIMES followed one another. Came a morn
I stood upon the brink of twenty years,
And looked before and after, as I stood
Woman and artist,–either incomplete,
Both credulous of completion. There I held
The whole creation in my little cup,
And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank,
'Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine
And all these peoples.'
I was glad, that day;
The June was in me, with its multitudes
Of nightingales all singing in the dark,
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.
I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!
So glad, I could not choose be very wise!
And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull
My childhood backward in a childish jest
To see the face of't once more, and farewell!
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth
At early morning,–would not wait so long
As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,
But, brushing a green trail across the lawn
With my gown in the dew, took will and way
Among the acacias of the shrubberies,
To fly my fancies in the open air
And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on,
As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves;
'The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned
Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone,
And so with me it must be, unless I prove
Unworthy of the grand adversity,–
And certainly I would not fail so much.
What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,
Before my brows be numb as Dante's own
To all the tender pricking of such leaves?
Such leaves? what leaves?'
I pulled the branches down,
To choose from.
'Not the bay! I choose no bay;
The fates deny us if we are overbold:
Nor myrtle–which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dare not touch
So early o' mornings. This verbena strains
The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
Ah–there's my choice,–that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Snowball In Hell

Avalanche or roadblock
I was a snowball in hell
Avalanche or roadblock
A jailer trapped in his cell
Moneys all broke, and foods going hungry
If it wasnt for disappointment
I wouldnt have any appointments
Side effect or drug trip
Dont tease me with all of your might
Side effect or drug trip
My panaceas in a xerox shop
Have a nice day, you want it when?
Have a nice day, have a nice day
I didnt expect to find a salesman drinking coffee this late in the morning. how long you been here, joe?
Oh, I dont know, I guess thirty, forty-five minutes maybe. why do you ask?
You must be making a lot of sales, piling up good income.
Oh... uh... Im doing all right. I could do better, but... ohahaha I get it paul. back on that old time is money kick, right?
Not back on it, joe, still on it.
Avalanche or roadblock
I was a snowball in hell
Avalanche or roadblock
A jailer trapped in his cell
Money I owe, money-iy-ay
Money I owe, money-iy-ay
Avalanche or roadblock
I was a snowball in hell
Notes
The frank otoole demo version adds more of the spoken dialogue ad nauseum as follows:
Okay, okay
Okay, okay, okay lets
Okay, okay
Okay, okay, okay lets
Okay, okay
Okay, okay, okay lets
Avalanche or roadblock
I was a snowball in hell
Avalanche or roadblock
A jailer trapped in his cell
Moneys all broke, and foods going hungry
If it wasnt for disappointment
I wouldnt have any appointments
Did I affect your drug trip
Dont tease me with all of your might
Did I affect your drug trip
You threw my wallet in the wishing well
Have a nice day, you want it when?
Have a nice day, have a nice day
I didnt expect to find a salesman drinking coffee this late in the morning. how long you been here, joe?
Oh, I dont know, I guess thirty, forty-five minutes maybe. why do you ask?
You must be making a lot of sales, piling up good income.

[...] Read more

song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Journey (feat. Lateef)

That journey-a call me quick,
That journey-a call my name,
That journey-a call have it's way,
an' have me wonderin' all my days
That journey-a call me quick,
That journey-a call my name,
That journey-a call have it's way,
an' have me wonderin' all my days.
I can't stay home, I gotta keep movin,
I gotta keep doin', I gotta get out,
I gotta roam, it's somethin' that moves me,
It's somethin' that uses me without a doubt,
'cause somewhere abstract coincidence happens,
see someone in passin' while out and about,
next thing I know I'm happily travelin',
puttin' in action ideas that I mouth,
cause I speak it and do it, talk it and walk it,
I'm so bad about it, I shout it out loud,
but try to stay open, the forces in motion,
They keep me on course, it's just clear that i've found (?),
Imprissoned in flesh and reality's blesses,
that made manifest every woman and child,
I'll keep on expressin' reality's lessons,
explorin' my prison until I'm let out.
That journey-a call me quick,
That journey-a call my name,
That journey-a call have it's way,
an' have me wonderin' all my days
That journey-a call me quick,
That journey-a call my name,
That journey-a call have it's way,
have me wonderin' all my days.
Travelin' East and West, on every known highway,
South to North carryin' that torch until I'm old and grey.
Well in the mean time inbetween I'm pushin' through this,
I said in the main time inbetween I'm on my duty.
Sometimes I get beat up, sometimes I'm the beater,
Sometimes man my feet hurt from walkin' so long,
Sometimes I'm defeated, sometimes I get cheated,
Sometimes I just need it, 'cause sometimes I'm wrong,
So the question's repeated, why even try?
When there's rocks in the road, pot-holes in the lawn,
The victory's sweeter when obstacles either,
Are side-stepped or crushed on the way to the door,
So I go on my own, have faith in the road,
I can share that control cause I'm never alone.
I hear the creator speak to me through wispers,
On winds the voices of friends and of foes,
I listen to omens, the things that he shows me,
Shows that he knows me and helps me along,

[...] Read more

song performed by Fatboy Slim
Added by Lucian Velea
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Cold Feet

He just turned seventeen
When the moment came
He was standing on the corner
In the pouring rain
She pulled up along side
And rolled the window down
And said can I drive you
To some part of town
Hes sitting beside her
With a great big smile
The lady had class
It stood out a mile
His heart was beating
Like a big bass drum
Thinking at last
His time had finally come
He started talkin fast
Trying to loosen up
But he just felt kinda stupid
So he shut up
She said dont think Im fast
cause Im really not
But his fever went all wild
It was getting hot
She pulled into the driveway
Of a big brown stone
He was champing at the bit
And then her heart be told
She said my husbands working
Hell be gong all day
But he couldnt believe it
When he heard himself say
Im getting cold feet
Im getting cold feet
Lady dont ya hear me talking to you
Hey theres something that you can do
Im so nervous I just might shoot you
Ive got them cold, cold feet
Well a couple years on
And our heros grown
Hes a professional musician
With a band of his own
Hadnt had much luck
With the girls that he meets
Might get another case of terminal cold feet
He met a girl not too long ago
She thought she could change him
But it wasnt so
As soon as she mentioned long term romance
He went into that same old song and dance

[...] Read more

song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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The quality of mercy (conditions apply)

The quality of mercy,
Portia declared,

the quality of mercy is
suspended during the present conflict

the quality of mercy is
not the business of a Minister of Justice

the quality of mercy is
not a matter of individual conscience

the quality of mercy is
too subtle for public discussion
or law

the quality of mercy is
only for Shakespeare and stuff

the quality of mercy is
less stimulating than revenge

the quality of mercy is
no business of yours

the quality of mercy is
no concern of religious authorities
who should stay silent

the quality of mercy is
an outdated concept

the quality of mercy is
nothing to do with forgiveness
or circumstantial evidence
or the remission of sins

the quality of mercy is
no longer a matter of pride

the quality of mercy is
no longer a mark of humanity

the quality of mercy
would be OK if Obama said so

the quality of mercy
is one hell of a hot potato
cooked in oil

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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John Cornstalk

Jack Cornstalk lives in the Southern Land—
What says Cornstalk John?
Jack Cornstalk says in a loud firm voice:
“Land of the South, lead on.”

CHORUS:
Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Land of the South, lead on!
Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Lead on, Land of the South!

John Bull lays claim to the Southern Land.
Jack, is the South Land thine?
John Cornstalk cries in a loud, firm voice:
“The Land of the South is mine!”

Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Land of the South, lead on!
Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Lead on, Land of the South!

“By the long, long years my father toiled
In the pioneering band;
By the hardships of those early days,
I claim the Southern Land!”

Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Land of the South, lead on!
Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Lead on, Land of the South!

But where shall the Land of the South lead to?
Where lead the nation’s van?
Jack Cornstalk cries from his strong young heart:
“To the Dynasty of Man.”

Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Land of the South, lead on!
Land of the South, lead on, lead on,
Lead on, Land of the South!

poem by Henry Lawson
Added by Poetry Lover
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