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The Art Of Sport And Humility

Hollow is self praise.
Hollow is the acceptance of it taken.

In the art of sport and humility,
Those who are truly champions...
Of undenied ability and integrity,
Aren't those first to cross the finish line...
Most of the time.

Often those who are true 'victors',
Can be found behind the scenes...
Giving their support and motivation,
To others on the team with praise.
To receive with beliefs they are the winners.

Each minute.
Every hour in days lived and those to come.
If a maintaining of faith stays,
No one loses what is sought to successfully keep...
Within their minds engrained.

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With Beliefs They Are Entitled

When one is young and alone.
And survives in environments,
Not previously known...
One learns to observe,
With a keener consciousness.

Those who have not had this experience,
Are subjected not to take their lives as serious.
And...
They are not that observant.
Although express wishes to be entertained.

With beliefs they are entitled...
To what they did not earn.
With demands commanded,
To get that which is believed they deserve.

And with a narcissistic nerve,
Believe their wants and needs...
To be delivered at the expense,
Paid by someone else...
Who provides to them the serving.

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Self Praise Stages

When people are in their self praise stages...
They should be given the attention.
Today...
Very few people have hobbies,
Or interests that makes them feel proud.

When people are in their self praise stages...
They should be given the attention.
There is something about people like this,
Others would say are egotistical.
I find them to be inspirational.

So many of the others are caught up,
In backstabbings, defamation of character...
And deep they are in self deception.
So whenever I am around those,
Who are in their self praise stages...
I am amazed they are not professing a self hate.
Or in the reception of doubts and complaints.

However...
Those on stages self praising themselves,
Is a different perspective.
These folks don't have time to be introspective.
Self praising from stages most get paid to do.
This can be compared to individuals,
Who have been 'called' to administer...
A self righteousness affixed to wholesome boredom.

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These Tests Given Are Not Transferrable

Remember those days, months and years...
When I looked as if I could break down any moment,
In a pool of tears?
I could not sleep or eat?
Or release those emotions inside of me.
Nor any tears on my sleeves appeared.
A weeping was done.
Lots of it.
Although well hidden.
Struggling in darkness left me bruised.
To heal.
As I awaited alone for light.

Even my steps taken then...
Were prejudged, rejudged, misunderstood and misjudged.
Yes...
I was a mess.
A total wreck.
No one suspected what I kept protected.
I'm only now...
Able to confess it!
Address it and keep stepping...
Forward towards a brighter life.

And today?
Oh,
I know blessings have come my way.
Theres' not a church or scripture,
I have to obey!
Not to feebly portray...
Lessons learned have been lived.
I wallowed away in pigsties...
As if I was a natural pig.
With awareness...
I didn't care who though what,
About 'where' I was.

Sometimes agonies are not self inflicted.
Sometimes the giving of love allows this to happen.

Peace of mind has come.
And hear me when I say...
It aint gon' be given up anytime soon.
I've earned it.
God knows this.
From every 'pore' I've got!
God knows this!

I can understand what you are going through!
I do.
And that's all I am going to give it!
An understanding.
Mine.

However,
Sharing my past griefs and dilemmas...
With an emphasis on issues,
Will not do a thing for you.
Borrowed teardrops are not appreciated.

Pick up that up that cross.
And bear it.
Feel every despair for what it is.
Pretending makes for a bad masquerade party.
You will always be identified.
No matter how many countless masks you wear.

Pretending makes for a bad masquerade party.

These tests given are not transferrable.
If you don't know that by now...
You will!
That's not the world God has made for us to endure!

Pray.
Every hour of each day.
Pray.
You will get your answers.
And you will comprehend.
With a clarity...
No one will ever take away.
Pray.
A delivery from your depths,
Will definitely be your own to treasure.

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The Finish Line

Hello friend
It's been too long
And every town sings the same sad song
Without you here
This hotel year
Will sure slow down with so much left to hear
Let's jet back down
Blast stereos loud
Let's jet back down that highway now
The finish line is almost here
And someone softly whispers in my ear
That times like these
Are memories
To hold deep down
Inside of you and me
I'm not leaving
I'm not leaving you
Good-bye friend
It won't be long
And until then we'll sing the same sad song

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The Finish Line

Hello friend
It's been too long
And every town sings the same sad song
Without you here
This hotel year
Will sure slow down with so much left to hear
Let's jet back down
Blast stereos loud
Let's jet back down that highway now
The finish line is almost here
And someone softly whispers in my ear
That times like these
Are memories
To hold deep down
Inside of you and me
I'm not leaving
I'm not leaving you
Good-bye friend
It won't be long
And until then we'll sing the same sad song

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If You Must Limp Alone Across the Finish Line

If you must limp alone across the finish line,
Do it and be proud.
You have no challengers to win this race.
Goals you've chosen,
No one can deface or cheapen.
Or replace your dreams with their wishes.

You have already won your prize.
By keeping your eyes focused.
And remaining unvictimzed by fear.
You were able to fight it off.
And it did not cost you a thing!
But initiative.

You are to be congratulated.
What you desire,
Is so close.
So near.
So very clear.
Just choose to see it!

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The Winners Are Always The Heroes

The winners are always the heroes in life it is always this way
The losers are quickly forgotten though a fine and sporting
game they did play
'Tis only a sport it may well seem where people chase after a ball
But many take football quite seriously though 'tis only a game after all,
The winners are always the heroes and that's how it always will be
The fans of the winners are singing rejoicing in their victory
Life and sports are akin in many ways though some may say 'tis only a game
The winners get all of the applause and the winners can bask in their fame,
The winners are always the heroes and the winners get all of the praise
And always only to the winners the toasters their toasting glasses raise
The losers are quickly forgotten though some must lose for some to win
Yet some look on losing as shameful to them there is no greater sin,
In life as in sport the poor losers are the people the masses ignore
And in football the really big hero is the one who kicks the winning score.

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Patrick White

Tryst With The Muse At An Ungodly Hour

A tryst with the muse at an ungodly hour.
The past creatively adapts to the moment
as readily as the future does. The bronze age flames
of your auburn hair, withered petals
of a fire flowering in the rain
that may be down, but not out.
The wellspring of a muse is always
the third eye of a woman overwhelmed by tears
at the approach of spring. Last night,
pink-lilac Mercury on the short leash of the sun,
Venus as bright as I've ever seen it
and nearby Jupiter dim by comparison,
Sirius southeast of Orion, then Mars,
and shortly before dawn, Saturn.
I stood for an hour at the backdoor
of the all night laundromat, out
in the parking lot behind the Chinese Restaurant,
while the streetlamps held their heads down in reverence
as if they'd all taken vows or something,
and I, cigarette in mouth, looked up
like a chimney spark in awe of a radiance
so unattainably beautiful all I aspired to
seemed merely the ashes of firefly by comparison,
a runt of light in the vastness of the fire-womb
of a busy, busy sky, while
I waited for my laundry to dry.
And the last time I can remember feeling like that
was combing my hands through your hair
as if were laving my roots in your bloodstream,
without getting my fingers burnt
walking on fire all the way
to the gibbous moon of your earlobe.
And here you are at the door again
like the red maple key
of a rainy night loveletter
that's let itself in soaking wet
to inspire me to write it in tears.
To shed my eyes like the starmaps
of last night's luminaries, to tear down
the old spider webs of the defunct dreamcatchers
hanging like constellations
at the broken windowpanes
of the abandoned houses of the zodiac.
I was on my way to the homeless oblivion of my bed
as if I'd found a heating grate to sleep on
to keep me warm for another night.
As I once saw a man in old Montreal
after a poetry reading at Concordia,
curl up on his cardboard flying carpet
as if he'd run out of places to go,
friends, family, lovers he used to know
and pulling the shadows up over him
let himself by swept up on the concrete shore
like a dead starfish on his own private island.
Every time you step across my event horizon
you break another taboo of mine, your voice
slips into mine like a watersnake into a moonlit lake
and you become the connubial chanteuse
of an unspeakable solitude with something to say.
It's always been this way with you.
A fire-bird flies into the room at night
like inspiration through an open window
just as I'm about to put out the lights
because the music's over and the dancing girls
of the candleflames have completely disrobed
and stand naked in gowns of wax at their feet.
And just as I'm about to leave my seat in a dark theatre,
you come in the guise of an usher
to show me the way out of curtain call
like the moonrise of a crocus in the snow.
And I can hear you from way off
like a ghost being summoned
by an empty lifeboat in the fog.
Like a fragrance of life returning
to the apparition of my spirit
when you kiss me and it feels
like someone doing cpr on my deathmask
to prove I can't hide from you anywhere
even here, where I've said
who I thought I was in my solitude
and buried my name in the night
like a silver star-shaped locket
deep in the palm of your fathomless hand
for you to remember me by before I drown
again in again in the eyes of Isis
like a sailor who sees a different life
flash before him every time
he goes down for the night
and can't get Venus off his mind.
Because even in the empty parking space
of my deathbed in a dark room
lying there like a crystal skull
that's gone prophetically blind
in the shroud of the black sail
I've taken down like the tent
of a wild iris in mourning down by the river,
even when my eyes fail
before the unattainable,
I can feel through my fingertips
you coming on to me like a stripper in braille.

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The Right Honourable Edmund Burke

Why mourns the ingenuous Moralist, whose mind
Science has stored, and Piety refined,
That fading Chivalry displays no more
Her pomp and stately tournaments of yore!
Lo! when Philosophy and Truth advance,
Scared at their frown, she drops her glittering lance;
Round her reft castles the pale ivy crawls,
And sunk and silent are her bannered halls!
As when far off the golden evening sails,
And slowly sink the fancy-painted vales,
With rich pavilions spread in long array;
So rolls the enchanter's radiant realm away;
So on the sight the parting glories fade,
The gorgeous vision sets in endless shade.
But shall the musing mind for this lament,
Or mourn the wizard's Gothic fabric rent!
Shall he, with Fancy's poor and pensive child,
Gaze on his shadowy vales, and prospects wild,
With lingering love, and sighing bid farewell
To the dim pictures of his parting spell!
No, BURKE! thy heart, by juster feelings led,
Mourns for the spirit of high Honour fled;
Mourns that Philosophy, abstract and cold,
Withering should smite life's fancy-flowered mould;
And many a smiling sympathy depart,
That graced the sternness of the manly heart.
Nor shall the wise and virtuous scan severe
These fair illusions, ev'n to nature dear.
Though now no more proud Chivalry recalls
Her tourneys bright, and pealing festivals;
Though now on high her idle spear is hung,
Though Time her mouldering harp has half unstrung;
Her milder influence shall she still impart,
To decorate, but not disguise, the heart;
To nurse the tender sympathies that play
In the short sunshine of life's early way;
For female worth and meekness to inspire
Homage and love, and temper rude desire;
Nor seldom with sweet dreams sad thoughts to cheer,
And half beguile affliction of her tear!
Lo! this her boast; and still, O BURKE! be thine
Her glowing hues that warm, yet tempered shine;
Whilst whispers bland, and fairest dreams, attend
Thy evening path, till the last shade descend!
So may she soothe, with loftier wisdom's aid,
Thy musing leisure in the silent shade,
And bid poor Fancy, her cold pinions wet,
Life's cloudy skies and beating showers forget.
But can her fairest form, her sweetest song,
Soothe thee, assailed by calumny and wrong!
Ev'n now thy foes with louder accents cry:
Champion of unrelenting tyranny,
At Freedom hast thou aimed the deadly blow,
And striven with impious arm to lay her altars low!
No, BURKE! indignant at the voice we start:
We trust thy liberal views, thy generous heart;
We think of those who, naked, pale, and poor,
Relieved and blessed, have wandered from thy door;
We see thee with unwearied step explore
Each track of bloodshed on the farthest shore
Of injured Asia, and thy swelling breast
Harrowing the oppressor, mourning for the oppressed,
No, BURKE! where'er Injustice rears her head,
Where'er with blood her idol grim is fed;
Where'er fell Cruelty, at her command,
With crimson banner marches through the land,
And striding, like a giant, onward hies,
Whilst man, a trodden worm, looks up, and dies;
Where'er pale Murder in her train appears,
With reeking axe, and garments wet with tears;
Or, lowering Jealousy, unmoved as Fate,
Bars fast the prison-cage's iron gate
Upon the buried sorrows and the cries
Of him who there, lost and forgotten, lies;--
When ministers like these, in fearful state,
Upon a bloody tyrant's bidding wait,
Thou too shalt own (and Justice lift her rod)
The cause of Freedom is the cause of GOD!
Fair spirit, who dost rise in beauteous pride,
Where proud Oppression hath thine arm defied!
When led by Virtue thou dost firm advance,
And bathe in Guilt's warm blood thy burning lance;
When all thy form its awful port assumes,
And in the tempest shake thy crimson plumes,
I mark thy lofty mien, thy steady eye,
So fall thy foes! with tears of joy I cry.
But ne'er may Anarchy, with eyes a-flame,
And mien distract, assume thy awful name;
Her pale torch sheds afar its hideous glare,
And shows the blood-drops in her dabbled hair;
The fiends of discord hear her hollow voice,
The spirits of the deathful storm rejoice:
As when the rising blast with muttering sweep
Sounds 'mid the branches of the forest deep,
The sad horizon lowers, the parting sun
Is hid, strange murmurs through the high wood run,
The falcon wheels away his mournful flight,
And leaves the glens to solitude and night;
Till soon the hurricane, in dismal shroud,
Comes fearful forth, and sounds her conch aloud;
The oak majestic bows his hoary head,
And ruin round his ancient reign is spread:
So the dark fiend, rejoicing in her might,
Pours desolation and the storm of night;
Before her dread career the good and just
Fly far, or sink expiring in the dust;
Wide wastes and mighty wrecks around her lie,
And the earth trembles at her impious cry!
Whether her temple, wet with human gore,
She thus may raise on Gallia's ravaged shore,
Belongs to HIM alone, and His high will,
Who bids the tempests of the world be still.
With joy we turn to Albion's happier plain,
Where ancient Freedom holds her temperate reign;
Where Justice sits majestic on her throne;
Where Mercy turns her ear to every groan.
O Albion! fairest isle, whose verdant plain
Springs beauteous from the blue and billowy main;
In peaceful pomp whose glittering cities rise,
And lift their crowded temples to the skies;
Whose navy on the broad brine awful rolls;
Whose commerce glows beneath the distant poles;
Whose streams reflect full many an Attic pile;
Whose velvet lawns in long luxuriance smile;
Amid whose winding coombs contentment dwells,
Whose vales rejoice to hear the Sabbath bells;
Whose humblest shed, that steady laws protect,
The villager with woodbine bowers hath decked!
Sweet native land, whose every haunt is dear,
Whose every gale is music to mine ear;
Amidst whose hills one poor retreat I sought,
Where I might sometimes hide a saddening thought,
And having wandered far, and marked mankind
In their vain mask, might rest and safety find:
Oh! still may Freedom, with majestic mien,
Pacing thy rocks and the green vales, be seen;
Around thy cliffs, that glitter o'er the main,
May smiling Order wind her silver chain;
Whilst from thy calm abodes, and azure skies,
Far off the fiend of Discord murmuring flies!
To him who firm thy injured cause has fought,
This humble offering, lo! the Muse has brought;
Nor heed thou, BURKE, if, with averted eye,
Scowling, cold Envy may thy worth decry!
It is the lot of man:--the best oft mourn,
As sad they journey through this cloudy bourne:
If conscious Genius stamp their chosen breast,
And on the forehead show her seal impressed,
Perhaps they mourn, in bleak Misfortune's shade,
Their age and cares with penury repaid;
Their errors deeply scanned, their worth forgot,
Or marked by hard injustice with a blot.
If high they soar, and keep their distant way,
And spread their ample pinions to the day,
Malignant Faction hears with hate their name,
And all her tongues are busy with their fame.
But 'tis enough to hold, as best we may,
Our destined track, till sets the closing day;
Whether with living lustre we adorn
Our high sphere, like the radiance of the morn;
Or whether silent in the shade we move,
Cheered by the lonely star of pensive love;
Or whether wild opposing storms we stem,
Panting for Virtue's distant diadem;
'Tis the unshaken mind, the conscience pure,
That bids us firmly act, meekly endure;
'Tis this may shield us when the storm beats hard,
Content, though poor, had we no other guard!

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Glove, The

(PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.)

``Heigho!'' yawned one day King Francis,
``Distance all value enhances!
``When a man's busy, why, leisure
``Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:
`` 'Faith, and at leisure once is he?
``Straightway he wants to be busy.
``Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
``Caught thinking war the true pastime.
``Is there a reason in metre?
``Give us your speech, master Peter!''
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,
``Sire,'' I replied, ``joys prove cloudlets:
``Men are the merest Ixions''---
Here the King whistled aloud, ``Let's
``---Heigho---go look at our lions!''
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading,
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before be arrived at the penfold;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow,
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King bailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,*1
And bade him make sport and at once stir
Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
_Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu_.
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining,
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead:
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
The lion at last was delivered?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already,
Driving the flocks up the mountain,
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain
To waylay the date-gathering negress:
So guarded he entrance or egress.
``How he stands!'' quoth the King: ``we may well swear,
(``No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
``And so can afford the confession,)
``We exercise wholesome discretion
``In keeping aloof from his threshold;
``Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
``Their first would too pleasantly purloin
``The visitor's brisket or surloin:
``But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
``Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!''

The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove flattered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested:
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sat there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove,---while the lion
Neer moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,---
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.

``Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?
``So should I!''---cried the King---``'twas mere vanity,
``Not love, set that task to humanity!''
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,---
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful,---
As if she had tried in a crucible,
To what ``speeches like gold'' were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
To know what she had _not_ to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?
``For I''---so I spoke---``am a poet:
``Human nature,---behoves that I know it!''

She told me, ``Too long had I heard
``Of the deed proved alone by the word:
``For my love---what De Lorge would not dare!
``With my scorn---what De Lorge could compare!
``And the endless descriptions of death
``He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
``I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
``Doubt his word---and moreover, perforce,
``For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
``Must offer my love in return.
``When I looked on your lion, it brought
``All the dangers at once to my thought,
``Encountered by all sorts of men,
``Before he was lodged in his den,---
``From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
``Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
``With no King and no Court to applaud,
``By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,
``Yet to capture the creature made shift,
``That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,
``---To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
``Of the pit, on no greater pretence
``Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
``Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
``So, wiser I judged it to make
``One trial what `death for my sake'
``Really meant, while the power was yet mine,
``Than to wait until time should define
``Such a phrase not so simply as I,
``Who took it to mean just `to die.'
``The blow a glove gives is but weak:
``Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
``But when the heart suffers a blow,
``Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?''

I looked, as away she was sweeping,
And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway.
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean---
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
---He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered ``Friend, what you'd get, first earn!''
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
And in short stood so plain a head taller
That he wooed and won ... how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,---
But of course this adventure came pat in.
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled---``His nerves are grown firmer:
``Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.''

_Venienti occurrite morbo!_
With which moral I drop my theorbo.

*1 A beetle.

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The Glove

(Peter Ronsard, loquitur)

"Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis,
"Distance all value enhances.
When a man's busy, why, leisure
Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:
Faith, and at leisure once is he?
Straightway he wants to be busy.
Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
Caught thinking war the true pastime.
Is there a reason in metre?
Give us your speech, master Peter!"
I who, if mortal dare say so,
Ne'er am at loss with my Naso
"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:
"Men are the merest Ixions"--
Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's
--Heigho--go look at our lions."
Such are the sorrowful chances
If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
Our company, Francis was leading,
Increased by new followers tenfold
Before he arrived at the penfold;
Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed
Her, and the horrible pitside;
For the penfold surrounded a hollow
Which led where the eye scarce dared follow
And shelved to the chamber secluded
Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab
As glossy and black as a scarab,
And bade him make sport and at once stir
Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work
Across it, and dropped there a firework,
And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,
The blackness and silence so utter,
By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
Then earth in a sudden contortion
Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
(Whose experience of nature's but narrow
And whose faculties move in no small mist
When he versifies David the Psalmist)
I should study that brute to describe you
Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu.
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
The tail in the air stiff and straining
The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
As over the barrier which bounded
His platform, and us who surrounded
The barrier, they reached and they rested
On space that might stand him in best stead:
For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,
And if, in this minute of wonder,
No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
The lion at last was delivered?
Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
He was leagues in the desert already
Driving the flocks up the mountain
Or catlike couched hard by the fountain
To waylay the date-gathering negress:
So guarded he entrance or egress.
"How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,
(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
And so can afford the confession)
We exercise wholesome discretion
In keeping aloof from his threshold;
Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
Their first would too pleasantly purloin
The visitor's brisket or surloin:
But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

The sentence no sooner was uttered,
Than over the rails a glove fluttered,
Fell close to the lion, and rested:
The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
For months past; he sat there pursuing
His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
Walked straight to the glove--while the lion
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir--
Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
Leaped back where the lady was seated,
And full in the face of its owner
Flung the glove.

"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?
So should I!"--cried the King--"'twas mere vanity
Not love set that task to humanity!"
Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expression
In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,
As if from no pleasing experiment
She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
So long as the process was needful,--
As if she had tried in a crucible,
To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,
And, finding the finest prove copper,
Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
To know what she had not to trust to,
Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?
For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet:
Human nature,--behoves that I know it!"

She told me, "Too long had I heard
Of the deed proved alone by the word:
For my love--what De Lorge would not dare!
With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare!
And the endless descriptions of death
He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce,
For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
Must offer my love in return.
When I looked on your lion, it brought
All the dangers at once to my thought,
Encountered by all sorts of men,
Before he was lodged in his den--
From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
With no King and no Court to applaud,
By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,
Yet to capture the creature made shift,
That his rude boys might laugh at the gift
--To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
Of the pit, on no greater pretence
Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
So, wiser I judged it to make
One trial what 'death for my sake'
Really meant, while the power was yet mine,

Than to wait until time should define
Such a phrase not so simply as I,
Who took it to mean just 'to die.'
The blow a glove gives is but weak:
Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
But when the heart suffers a blow,
Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

I looked, as away she was sweeping. And saw a youth eagerly keeping
As close as he dared to the doorway.
No doubt that a noble should more weigh
His life than befits a plebeian;
And yet, had our brute been Nemean--
(I judge by a certain calm fervour
The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
--He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
If you whispered "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"
And when, shortly after, she carried
Her shame from the Court, and they married,
To that marriage some happiness, maugre
The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
And in short stood so plain a head taller.
That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her?
The beauty, that rose in the sequel
To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
With the easy commission of stretching
His legs in the service, and fetching
His wife, from her chamber, those straying
Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
While the King took the closet to chat in,--
But of course this adventure came pat in.
And never the King told the story,
How bringing a glove brought such glory,
But the wife smiled--"His nerves are grown firmer:
Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

Venienti occurrite morbo!
With which moral I drop my theorbo.

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Out Of Their Minds With An Accepting

Choosing to remain uninformed,
But in a constant curiosity...
About what goes on in other people's lives.
As the World continues to spin,
News events.
Printed in papers and on TV...
As neighborhoods everywhere,
Become more incensed with violence.
Says this about that...

It is no mystery,
More people are finding they've become...
Out of their minds.
With an accepting of it.

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With Beliefs Their Misdeeds Are Not Perceived

No one achieves heights of success,
Professing what they have done...
Is at their best.
When what they have taken,
Is from someone else's nest.
To impress with accolades,
They expect to get!

Perhaps 'temporarily'...
They may strut in a charading,
With claims to attest!
But a theft is what it is.
And eventually faces protest and regret.
Upsetting not the victim...
But those who deceive,
With beliefs their misdeeds are not perceived!

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Into The Wilderness

Always there will be those,
Going out of their way as if chosen...
To inflict their wicked misdeeds upon others.
Only to arrive with feelings they discover,
Has left them to grieve wishing forgiveness.
Knowing...
Time has not come to heal their wounds.

And those who have been picked to be inflicted,
With wounds...know this.
Even attempts made trying to hide them,
Still sit not to be forgotten.
And the repeated visits with bitterness,
Sometimes may take them on long drives...
To 'trip' into the wilderness just to cry...alone.

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From The Beginning...To The End

From the beginning...
We all feed on those perceptions fed.
To feel an acceptance...
Of a normality taught,
That is compared.
And when those comparisons begin to conflict,
Some with nagging curiosities begin to investigate...
The validity of those perceptions that restrict.

Some settle for those teachings taught to them.
While others elect to peer over fences...
To view the doings of their neighbors.
And begin to confide in the opinions,
Of those who become trusted and loyal friends

It seems beyond the boundaries of families,
Or those we accept before adventuring...
Outside of those limits set.
An expansion of our minds happens.
And this broadens with a widened consciousness.
Only to offend those with beliefs they wish kept protected.
To keep closed in and unbending they defend....
To the end!

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Traumatic Has to Be the Reality Faced

Traumatic for many,
These days lived...
Has to be.
Especially for the ones who identified,
Their lives and self worth...
With the ability to purchase 'bling',
And other materialistic things.
With money that from them is dwindling.

Traumatic has to be the reality faced,
There is no substitute for truth that can be replaced.
Nor are there those empathetic,
Who have grown accustomed...
To finding their way on the streets to eat and sleep.
And yet those with beliefs they are above all of this,
Find themselves indebted to their beliefs...
They wish to keep.

And...
Traumatic for many,
These days lived...
Has to be.
For those who make demands as if...
Their lifestyles can be sustained,
By squeezing them...
From an economy based on credit.
That has exhausted all fantasies,
Once supporting a delusion...
There was no ending that came to a feeding of a feast.

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Those Who Value the Emptiness of 'Things

They were raised with beliefs,
They should compete.
Brothers and sisters...
Separated by jealousies,
And envy condoned.

They speak of favorites...
Picked and solicited,
By parents who thought of them
As part of a litter.

Not one of them knew love...
Since this was not shown.
And that which is not known,
Is reflected by shallow misgivings.

And in an environment
That offers deception to shine
Behind the minds of those
Who value the emptiness of 'things'...
Over a missing self worth!
Flourishes in deceit.

Diminished in those,
Still holding onto its existence!
Is an encouragement self contained.
Yet showing an absence that craves,
An attention too long ignored!

But then again...
Truth has not been welcomed,
As a friend either!
And this is widely reflected,
From generation to generation
Of those obsessed to possess...
Costly sensations,
To appease a loss unprevented!

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We Are Near Life's Finish Line

I feel happy for you mister on your huge superannuation payout
You've earned it so you can relax that's what life should be about
You and your wife can dine out better now and drink more expensive wine
Yet you and I only one thing in common share we are near life's finish line.

You tell me you worked as an engineer for the local council and you earned good take home pay
But you had to provide for and raise five children that's life or so they say
Still others on less than half of your wages raise their big family
And many must live till the day they die in abject poverty.

I do wish you well mister may your retirement years be great
Though you I won't be out golfing with and I'll never be your mate
You are just a well dressed fellow with your wife walking in the park
Though your dog doesn't seem to like me and at me he always bark.

Our lifestyles seem very different but that can be said of most
And I won't be there on your birthday for your happy birthday toast
But we share one thing in common with the vegetarian kine
The Reaper for us is waiting as we are near life's finish line.

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Only In The Making Of Movies

Only in the making of movies,
Are actors found to be handed scripts.
To then learn lines some find to be tedious.
And time well spent is sacrificed to deliver,
What's right for the price...
For the cost being paid.

Camera angles are selected,
By a director who chooses the best scenes.
And the actors are blocked within them,
To emote with belief as an audince viewing this...
Sits,
With their emotions manipulated.

Only in the making of movies,
Are 'realities' depicted.
Although many in the audience become captivated,
With beliefs they also can deceive truth easily.
By saying and doing things they wish to sell.
With hopes their 'portrayals' have gone over well.

And only those who become offended,
They can not sell lies they told to tell...
Are those who become combative,
When confronted by others...
Who are specific and direct AND caring less,
How a charade is masqueraded to address.

Only in the making of movies,
Are actors found to be handed scripts.
To then learn lines some find to be tedious.
Until what is done has been finished.
But many unpaid to 'act' but embellish facts,
Find it difficult to strip away all their fantasies.

Only in the making of movies...
No one sits back to snack.
Only in the making of movies...
Every actor wants to get paid.
And,
Only in the making of movies...
No one sits back to snack.
No one has time for that,
Since a budget has to be paid back.
Oh.
Only in the making of movies...
No one sits back to snack.
Only in the making of movies...
Every actor wants to get paid.
And,
Only in the making of movies...
No one sits back to snack.
No one has time for that,
Since a budget has to be paid back.
Oh.
Only in the making of movies...
Facts are scratched!
And,
Only in the making of movies...
Facts are scratched!

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Enlightened Will They Find Their Minds

Suppressed by their own demonic ties.
And pewed upon by pulpit culprits.
Preached to follow doctrines that do not apply,
To a wholesomeness...
But instead to lies!
Beasts that have fed them an emptiness...
Also taught them to remain suspicious of themselves.
And the days ahead will reveal their confinement!
And enlightened will they find their minds...
Released from deceptions and traditional receptions!
Returning invitations...
To dine and wine with disciples of Lucifer!

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