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All sweeping assertions are erroneous.

quote by Letitia Landon
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Broomstick Rhythm

As youre sweeping
Autumn leaves up
You are sweeping
My fallen heart up with em
As youre sweeping
Autumn leaves up
You are sweeping
In swish-back broomstick rhythm
Youre dressed in red
Your hair [would had a] brush on fire
To make leaves dress up dead
Ordered to parade
Swayed by broomstick rhythm
Hey!
As youre sweeping
Winter snow up
They have fallen
For you so please forgive em
As youre sweeping
Winter snow up
You are sweeping
In swish-back broomstick rhythm
Youre dressed in white
There is no; why dont we surrender
And in envy of you
Melting drips will rush
Brushed in broomstick rhythm
Hey! hey!
As youre sweeping
Summer dust up
See a squirrel
In homage making rhythms
As youre sweeping
Summer dust up
You are sweeping
In swish-back broomstick rhythm
Youre dressed in blue
The sky and sun a hue more paler
Than the glow in your heart
I bask in your rays
Days of broomstick rhythm
As youre sweeping
Springtime rain up
You are sweeping
My tears up for [i live em / a living? ]
As youre sweeping
Springtime rain up
You are sweeping up
What there remains
Of fears I earn

[...] Read more

song performed by Xtc
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Unincorporated Insights

What context contributes toward meaning?
What illusive patterns outline our thoughts?
What process prevents mindless careening
Into tangles of intangible knots—
Into the depths of deeply-rooted seeds
Of imponderable definition?
And what flower does theodicy breed
By the threat of holistic omission?
What cryptic mysteries do we express,
Though in traces of vagrant memories—
Perhaps causing us to hide and repress
Them beneath our transient reveries?
What codex—so voiceless—do we create?
What emergent grammar elucidates?

What emergent grammar elucidates
The syntax of our juxtaposition?
Why must we meander and gravitate
Toward the pull of blank exposition?
We speak in indefinite articles,
Communicating as a formality?
Our dreams are overlapping particles,
Transposed over strips of reality.
Our intellects are woven by conflict,
Disproportionate threads that braid our lives.
Ideas coalesce to contradict
Where what we call logic attempts to thrive.
We design ignorance, always preening
The language that has been intervening.

The language that has been intervening
Interrupts the words we would like to say,
Mercilessly and stringently cleaning
Our voice, removing what viewpoints convey.
Therefore, we conjure the chiffon lexis:
A vagary of coded expressions
That dilute our colloquial axis—
Our terminology of discretion.
We relinquish comprehension and
Dilapidate whatever we might learn
In the grip of the Invisible Hand
Which guides us to our tenuous concerns.
All the while, idiocy saturates
With our illocutionary mandates.

With our illocutionary mandates,
Why does anyone make sense anymore?
Verbally, our tongue only translates
All the talk that has been spoken before.
We erase our culture with social platforms.

[...] Read more

poem by Tim Stensloff
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Insect Assassins

Injects no survive. Efforts control the
Animal survive. Survive. Animal survive. Survive. Injects no survive.

In nasty spitting eye cost. This
Assassin spitting spitting assassin spitting spitting in nasty spitting

Insectivorous nutriment species encounter Charles to
Are species species are species species insectivorous nutriment species

Into notoriety. Sweeping eastern capture testimony
As sweeping sweeping as sweeping sweeping into
notoriety. Sweeping

Interest nervous succumb easily: composed tube
Adhesive succumb succumb adhesive succumb succumb interest
nervous succumb

It near spider East closes thorax.
And spider spider and spider spider it near spider

Its needle. Specialized enlarged? Cutting tough
A specialized specialized a specialized specialized its needle.
Specialized

Is nontoxic secretion extremely contains that
Assassin-bug secretion secretion assassin-bug secretion secretion
is nontoxic secretion

I needle-like snake. Enzymes compound TENDON
ANCHORING snake, snake, ANCHORING snake, snake, I
needle-like snake,

INLET not significant, effect cockroach. Thus
About significant, significant, about significant, significant,
INLET not significant,

Insect "natural" surround enzyme constituents time
After surround surround after surround surround insect "natural"
surround

Internal nerve. Sucks especially contents through.
Against sucks sucks. Against sucks sucks. Internal nerve. Sucks

Immediate now share extinguishing controlling them.
Arises: share share arises: share share immediate now share

Insecticide? Needs. Sap; episode. Cimicidae thoroughly
Attributed sap; sap; attributed sap; sap; insecticide? Needs. Sap;

Insects numbing seconds. Each channels. They.

[...] Read more

poem by Jackson Mac Low
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Vision of Columbus – Book 3

Now, twice twelve years, the children of the skies
Beheld in peace their growing empire rise;
O'er happy realms, display'd their generous care,
Diffused their arts and soothd the rage of war;
Bade yon tall temple grace the favourite isle.
The gardens bloom, the cultured valleys smile,
The aspiring hills their spacious mines unfold.
Fair structures blaze, and altars burn, in gold,
Those broad foundations bend their arches high,
And heave imperial Cusco to the sky;
From that fair stream that mark'd their northern sway,
Where Apurimac leads his lucid way,
To yon far glimmering lake, the southern bound,
The growing tribes their peaceful dwellings found;
While wealth and grandeur bless'd the extended reign,
From the bold Andes to the western main.
When, fierce from eastern wilds, the savage bands
Lead war and slaughter o'er the happy lands;
Thro' fertile fields the paths of culture trace,
And vow destruction to the Incan race.
While various fortune strow'd the embattled plain,
And baffled thousands still the strife maintain,
The unconquer'd Inca wakes the lingering war,
Drives back their host and speeds their flight afar;
Till, fired with rage, they range the wonted wood,
And feast their souls on future scenes of blood.
Where yon blue summits hang their cliffs on high;
Frown o'er the plains and lengthen round the sky;
Where vales exalted thro' the breaches run;
And drink the nearer splendors of the sun,
From south to north, the tribes innumerous wind,
By hills of ice and mountain streams confined;
Rouse neighbouring hosts, and meditate the blow,
To blend their force and whelm the world below.
Capac, with caution, views the dark design,
From countless wilds what hostile myriads join;
And greatly strives to bid the discord cease,
By profferd compacts of perpetual peace.
His eldest hope, young Rocha, at his call,
Leaves the deep confines of the temple wall;
In whose fair form, in lucid garments drest,
Began the sacred function of the priest.
In early youth, ere yet the genial sun
Had twice six changes o'er his childhood run,
The blooming prince, beneath his parents' hand,
Learn'd all the laws that sway'd the sacred land;
With rites mysterious served the Power divine,
Prepared the altar and adorn'd the shrine,
Responsive hail'd, with still returning praise,
Each circling season that the God displays,

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Erroneous zones

Be it any part on woman’s body;
It’s an erroneous zone in man’s touch.
Man’s erroneous zone is confined only
On his private part in woman’s handling.
07.08.2011

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Some would deny any legitimate use of the word God because it has been misused so much. Certainly it is the most burdened of all human words. Precisely for that reason it is the b imperishable and unavoidable. And how much weight has all erroneous talk about God's nature and works (although there never has been nor can be any such talk that is not erroneous) compared with the one truth that all men who have addressed God really meant him? For whoever pronounces the word God and really means Thou, addresses, no matter what his delusion, the true Thou of his life that cannot be restricted by any other and to whom he stands in a relationship that includes all others.

quote by Martin Buber
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love Is Sweeping The Country

Why are people gay
All the night and day
Feeling as they never felt before
What is the thing
That makes them sing?
Rich man, poor man, thief
Doctor, lawyer, chief
Feel a feeling that they cant ignore
It plays a part in every heart
And every heart is shouting, encore
Love is sweeping the country,
Waves are hugging the shore,
All the sexes
From maine to texas
Have never known such love before!
See them billing and cooing
Like the birdies above
Each girl and boy alike
Sharing joy alike
Feels that passion ll
Soon be national!
Love is sweeping the country
There never was so much love
(bridge)
See them billing and cooing
Like the birdies above
Each girl and boy alike
Sharing joy alike
Feels that passion ll
Soon be national!
Love is sweeping the country
There never was so much love

song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
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The Columbiad: Book III

The Argument

Actions of the Inca Capac. A general invasion of his dominions threatened by the mountain savages. Rocha, the Inca's son, sent with a few companions to offer terms of peace. His embassy. His adventure with the worshippers of the volcano. With those of the storm, on the Andes. Falls in with the savage armies. Character and speech of Zamor, their chief. Capture of Rocha and his companions. Sacrifice of the latter. Death song of Azonto. War dance. March of the savage armies down the mountains to Peru. Incan army meets them. Battle joins. Peruvians terrified by an eclipse of the sun, and routed. They fly to Cusco. Grief of Oella, supposing the darkness to be occasioned by the death of Rocha. Sun appears. Peruvians from the city wall discover Roch an altar in the savage camp. They march in haste out of the city and engage the savages. Exploits of Capac. Death of Zamor. Recovery of Rocha, and submission of the enemy.

Now twenty years these children of the skies
Beheld their gradual growing empire rise.
They ruled with rigid but with generous care,
Diffused their arts and sooth'd the rage of war,
Bade yon tall temple grace their favorite isle,
The mines unfold, the cultured valleys smile,
Those broad foundations bend their arches high,
And rear imperial Cusco to the sky;
Wealth, wisdom, force consolidate the reign
From the rude Andes to the western main.

But frequent inroads from the savage bands
Lead fire and slaughter o'er the labor'd lands;
They sack the temples, the gay fields deface,
And vow destruction to the Incan race.
The king, undaunted in defensive war,
Repels their hordes, and speeds their flight afar;
Stung with defeat, they range a wider wood,
And rouse fresh tribes for future fields of blood.

Where yon blue ridges hang their cliffs on high,
And suns infulminate the stormful sky,
The nations, temper'd to the turbid air,
Breathe deadly strife, and sigh for battle's blare;
Tis here they meditate, with one vast blow,
To crush the race that rules the plains below.
Capac with caution views the dark design,
Learns from all points what hostile myriads join.
And seeks in time by proffer'd leagues to gain
A bloodless victory, and enlarge his reign.

His eldest hope, young Rocha, at his call,
Resigns his charge within the temple wall;
In whom began, with reverend forms of awe,
The functions grave of priesthood and of law,

In early youth, ere yet the ripening sun
Had three short lustres o'er his childhood run,
The prince had learnt, beneath his father's hand,
The well-framed code that sway'd the sacred land;
With rites mysterious served the Power divine,
Prepared the altar and adorn'd the shrine,
Responsive hail'd, with still returning praise,
Each circling season that the God displays,

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Oboe Me Over

Strings of violins,
Can mean so many things.
To a heart,
Missing...
The kissing,
Of a touch dipped in romance.

Strings of violins,
Gently bowed by those who know...
The missing,
And touch that's kissed,
By one who seeks romance.

Oboe me over,
With French horns caressing my need.
Sweeping me up into ecstasy.
Enthralled am I,
And timpanied.

Oboe me over,
With French horns caressing my need.
Sweeping me up into ecstasy.
Enthralled am I,
And timpanied.
Captured I am in your rhapsody.

Those strings of violins,
Can mean so many things.
To a heart,
Missing...
The kissing,
Of a touch dipped in romance.

Strings of violins,
Played over and over again.
Will never for me end...
My quest to be romanced.

Ooohhh,
Bowl me over,
With French horns caressing my need.
Sweeping me up into ecstasy.
Enthralled am I,
And timpanied.

And,
Captured I am...
In your rhapsody.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Society Needs Relief

Minds adopting violence as a crop,
That grows.
Exposes those who show,
A hopelessness invested.
With a manifesting,
Gone unarrested.

Minds adopting violence as a crop,
That grows.
And bestowing,
An assessed uselessness.
That has been infested,
Fed and digested.

Society needs relief...
With a sweeping of the weeping.
Too many left on knees and grieving.
Too many say they seek a meaning.

Society needs relief...
With a sweeping of the weeping.
Too many left on knees and grieving.
Too many say they seek a meaning.

Although the answers come,
They can't let go.
Although the answers come,
Their tears still flow.

Minds adopting violence as a crop,
That grows.
And bestowing,
An assessed uselessness.
That has been infested,
Fed and digested.

Society needs relief...
With a sweeping of the weeping.
Too many left on knees and grieving.
Too many say they seek a meaning.

Although the answers come,
They can't let go.
Although the answers come,
Their tears still flow.

Society needs relief.
Society needs relief.
Society needs relief.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Head Bent Low and My Eyes Filled With Tears

My head bent low and my eyes filled with tears,
Drops of self-pity, not pearls of compassion.
Had I not procrastinated but acted in time,
I could have saved an isolated human life,
Reduced the unhappiness of a tortured soul,
Relieved the pain of a suffering heart.

I remember noticing her everyday from my window,
A diminutive figure dressed in a worn out sari,
Her head neatly covered with the end of her drape,
Slowly sweeping the fallen leaves into a heap
Finally lighting a bonfire of the dead leaves.

On the second of every month she stood before me,
Her rough hand outstretched, large eyes lowered,
I put in her hand a meagre reward for her labour.

Sita, my impudent maid, knew her fairly well.
A lonely, childless soul, abandoned by her husband
Driven out of the home she had struggled to set up.
For a more beautiful, younger woman
‘Greener pastures' muttered Sita, with a wicked smile.

I watched her with heightened curiosity,
The calm face and the vigorous sweeping
And felt a surge of pity for the poverty stricken life
Not even a sinner deserved such poverty and loneliness.

While resting in my warm, comfortable living- room,
I decided that I would do a worthy deed.
A feeling of satisfaction pervaded my being,
I would offer to help her when she came the next day.

Being busy with my numerous assignments,
And preparing my lecture titled, `Poverty Stricken Women.'
The next day did not come for many months!

I looked out of the window at the sudden downpour,
And noticed the figure standing under the narrow ledge,
Not broad enough to protect her from getting wet.
I watched pitifully as I sipped the sweet hot coffee.
Being a kind person I wanted to carry out my resolution.
Yet it was raining too heavily to go out,
Tomorrow, I decided, I would certainly help her.

A week passed busily in my various assignments,
I looked out of the window, now a habitual action.

[...] Read more

poem by Renu Beri
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Making Love On The Moon

Erotic rewrite of David Cook's Life On The Moon

Here in this crowd
We've both been feeling
So very alone
Now babe I think it's time we both turn around
Look at one another
Maybe even take each other home
Falling in lust with you and me
More and more everyday
This time
Don't think that I've gonna tear myself away
From the man bringing the stars and the lights
To my steamy dreamy nights

Here on my terms
I would love to feel you
Hard
Deep inside of me
And I will be whatever fantasy you want me to be

Feels like we're making love on the moon
Nothing could be any hotter then
Making love on the moon
Feeling our clothes and the earth just drifting away
Desire through and through
Sweeping us away
And I know with you love is gonna be better then ever
When we're together
Making love on the moon

Floating off the ground
My legs wrap around you
My lungs gasp for air
As your hands explore me everywhere
I'm so wet and you're so hard
Could't be a better combination tonight
Fit me just like a glove, you do
So right, so tight
Laying with you lover
Side by side

Here on my terms
I would love to feel you
Hard
Deep inside of me
And I will be whatever fantasy you want me to be

Feels like we're making love on the moon
Nothing could be any hotter then

[...] Read more

poem by Ramona Thompson
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Evening In Summer

Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds,
All ether softening, sober Evening takes
Her wonted station in the middle air;
She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye
Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still,
In circle following circle, gathers round,
To close the face of things. A fresher gale
Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,
Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;
While the quail clamours for his running mate.
Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze,
A whitening shower of vegetable down
Amusive floats. The kind impartial care
Of Nature nought disdains: thoughtful to feed
Her lowest songs, and clothe the coming year,
From field to field the feather'd seed she wings.
Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glowworm lights his gem; and through the dark
A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields
The world to Night; not in her winter robe
Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array'd
In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,
Glanced from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flings half an image on the straining eye;
While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain tops, that long retain'd
Th' ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.

poem by James Thomson
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The Task: Book IV. -- The Winter Evening

Hark! ‘tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,
Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn,
And, having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But O the important budget! usher’d in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprison’d wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such his evening, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed
And bored with elbow points through both his sides,
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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The partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own assertions.

Plato in Dialogues, Phaedo
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The reserve of modern assertions is sometimes pushed to extremes, in which the fear of being contradicted leads the writer to strip himself of almost all sense and meaning.

quote by Winston Churchill
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The partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own assertions.

quote by Plato
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All our thoughts and concepts are called up by sense-experiences and have a meaning only in reference to these sense-experiences. On the other hand, however, they are products of the spontaneous activity of our minds they are thus in no wise logical consequences of the contents of these sense-experiences. If, therefore, we wish to grasp the essence of a complex of abstract notions we must for the one part investigate the mutual relationships between the concepts and the assertions made about them for the other, we must investigate how they are related to the experiences.

quote by Albert Einstein
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An ounce of proof is worth a ton of assertions.

American proverbs
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Make definite assertions. Avoid tame, colorless, hesitating, non-committal language.

quote by William Strunk, Jr.
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