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Dear Moon

Moon I know you can see him, tell him he still in my heart
moon please, tell him how much I miss him
tonight, I know he is admiring you same as me
through you, I want to give him a kiss.

Moon, you know about lonely
please tell him to come back, convince him! am begging you
moon, if you can see him tell him how much I suffer
tell him to come back because is been so long.

Dear moon, you know where’s he is, please tell him I love him
you know where his going, please never live him alone
moon, bright his way with your light, that way he knows where to go.

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Red Letter Day

(ian hunter)
Red letter day (3) mmmm...
Late at night I drift away somewhere
Im walking on the moon - talking to you there
I miss you babe, oh I miss you
In my empty room on a crowded avenue
Oh Ive been rolling down the river, girland I bump into you
I miss you babe, oh I miss you
When I come home the love is gonna last forever
cause deep in my heart, the loving never went away
When I come home, the love is gonna last forever
Its going to be a red letter day (3) oh-oh
Why oh why oh why cant we see eye to eye
All we do is argue and the years go rolling by
How on earth could it be worth such a sacrifice
All we gots each other and Im lonely in this life
I miss you girl oh I miss you
When I come home the love is gonna last forever
cause deep in my heart, the loving never went away
When I come home, the love is gonna last forever
Its going to be a red letter day (many times)
Leave your light on cause Ive waited so long

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Illuminate

My dearly beloved shadow of light;  
My light when the day is dead
Receive and keep me in your brazier,
Receive me your resident lost.

The gorgeous light that illuminate earth evermore,
Like a wide open, sleepless eye forever
The light whose breath is fire;
 
Oh, master over the ever darkening night,
Sometimes, I reach to touch you;
Will I burn, or be bright as day?
With your light other lights illuminate
And returns to their first position
Like triangular stars before the fall
 
Like the light that extinguishes thenight;
Smooth as a king's way,
Riding in your chariot ever shinning;
With your light I am blest.
Who shall behold you my ideal light?
The stream from which bright waters flow
Those abiding in your light most holy
My guerdon is a noble fame; for
 
To turn away from you is the beginning of death.

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Unpleasant Light

I hardly experience pitch darkness,
In this urban wilderness,
The external world is made over-bright,
Obliterating night with neon light!

That illuminating torrent from street lamp,
Floods my home with the light of gloom;
Even if I close my eyes tight,
It seeps through my eyelids with all its might!

I marvel at man's effort in conquering nature,
Solving a problem, by raising another;
Encasing ourselves in sealed chambers,
We choke and struggle, fret and fume!

In pseudo-illumination,
We lose discrimination;
Of day and night,
Of life and death!

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I WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU: A prayer

My child, no matter what you do
No matter what happens to you in this life of exile
Regardless of all the difficulties that you encounter
I am always with you because
I will never leave you.

My child, try to live your life with much care and candor
Try to live your life with much discipline and truth
But even if you fail and stumble in your efforts
I will always be there to lift you up because
I will never leave you

My child try to avoid all occasions that may cause evil
When faced with a choice between the broad and easy path in life and the narrow and difficult one
Come to me and I will show you how the seemingly easy path is fraught with danger
I will show you the ultimate rewards of the narrow and difficult path because
I will never leave you

My child try not to stray from the good that should always prevail
You will often be enticed by reasoning and false logic to embrace the apparently easy and convenient way that ultimately leads to evil
Yet I am there, hoping that with your will that is free, you will eventually perceive your perilous journey ahead because
I will never leave you


My child, life is made up of many instances of pain and sorrow, of overwhelming problems that seem insurmountable
Take heart, for all things pass, yet if matters appear too harsh
Remember me and compare your difficulties with what I went through in my Agony
And you will see things in a new light, a different perspective because
I will never leave you

My child, there will indeed be times in your life when you will feel all is lost
That you have been left alone with your problems
But if you go deeper into your apparent isolation, you will see that it is you who have left me because
I will never leave you

My child always come to me with your problems with all your needs
Do not be afraid to ask me for I am rich, very rich and I will always give you what is for your own good
Through the difficulties you may encounter, remember that I will always be there for you because
I will never leave you

My child will you endure these few problems that come to your life?
Carry whatever load comes your way for love of me
I promise you that you will find rest because my Yoke is easy and my burden is light
Through the crosses that come your way, you will only bear a sliver of the timber and I will carry the rest of the heavy cross for you because
I will never leave you

My child will you do something for me in return?
Come to me whenever you can, I am present in all the Tabernacles of the world
In churches in chapels in prayer rooms, there I wait for you in solitude
Waiting hoping for even just a flicker of recognition from you because
I will never leave you

My child love me for I thirst so much for your love
You will be able to love me much when you love me in others the lonely, the sick, the abandoned, the unloved, and above all, the needy
Give to all who need much for it is to me that you give and even if you have nothing to give, you can always give the alms of a smile
You will never find me wanting in reciprocating your love for
I will always love you back a hundredfold, because I love you so much and
I will never leave you


Note: for your meditation from the Little Soul Sisters

After reading, reflect; be still for a few minutes in gratitude to our Lord for inspiring you with his words of wisdom. Let him rest in your heart. Feel the peace with Him on this special moment. Praise Him.

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Dance With The One That Brought You

Well he shines like a penny in a little kid's hand
When he's out on a Saturday night
He's a real go-getter and the best two-stepper you'll see
But when I'm sittin' alone at a table for two
'Cause he's already out on the floor
I think about somethin' that my mama used to say to me
You got to dance with the one that brought you
Stay with the one that want's you
The one who's gonna love you when all of the others go home
Don't let the green grass fool you
Don't let the moon get to you
Dance with the one that brought you and you can't go wrong

He's got his old best buddies and his new best friends
And all the girls give him the eye
He's a good time Charlie and the life of the party tonight
But when I think about another well I don't think twice
'Cause there'll never be another like him
I know he really loves me and I think maybe mama was right

You got to dance with the one that brought you
Stay with the one that want's you
The one who's gonna love you when all of the others go home
Don't let the green grass fool you
Don't let the moon get to you
Dance with the one that brought you and you can't go wrong

You've got to dance with the one that brought you
and you can't go wrong

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You need not assume

You need not assume at all
Respond to his order with your sincere call
You will see your steps are in complete beats
There is forward going and no retreat

Don't you think life is to make believe?
In whatever position we have to prefer and live
it may not be shortened or lengthened
but think of him when fully threatened

Who are we to think why at all we are here?
With his supreme position he is there
Life is not meant to probed at our level
We need to prove and aim at to excel

He is there to guide
Just whisper and confide
“Lord, forgive me for all my ills”
Pardon me for more crimes still

I shall go on pursing the same
Wait for curse to befall and blame
To err” may remain as my weakest link
I know the evil but helplessly commit and wink

Who will prefer to be drowned in sea?
With all examples and results before eyes to see
Still helplessness in falling with correct lines
Choosing of suicidal path to remain on side lines

It is not merited anywhere
Few lines are drawn here and there
Some may call it morality and some may call it spirituality
More or less it will be called humanity

We are here to live here as human being
Happiness and peace as desired by him to bring
What is most needed in changing world?
A mere acceptance of divine presence and its fold

We have all means to live and believe
Help, if at all possible and relieve
If no, then live with whatever you have
Decent life with acceptable ways and behave

No one may intervene or render advice
Not a single word will come to you as promise
You got to judge and prevail in small capacity
Rest all must be left to merciful and almighty

We are not here to judge action or reaction
The faith should not lead to any type of bitterness or friction
What will be left then in store to retrieve?
Only to shed tears in agony and grieve

I am not sure of uninterrupted breathing space
Who knows when it will be over in any case?
I have nothing to worry about divine fall out
I know nothing at all or what will happen about

To live with lots fear and uncertainty is no answer
It has to be lived in any case however
No one has claimed so far to have known it fully
Let us assume that power rests with Him wholly

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Patrick White

You Can't Embrace Me With Your Moderate Love

You can't embrace me with your moderate love
as if two arms were one too many to give someone a hug,
or one eye were enough to look at the stars in your lover's eyes,
and make up constellations you've never seen before.

I've never fallen in love with anyone who ever
made my whole body feel like it was a ghost amputee
who had never gotten over the memory of having one.
You can't read Braille without fingertips.

And it's either brave and suicidally noble, or something
drastically real about me but I've always preferred
the dark, dangerous muse, to the sunny cheerleader
who cut the bananas into my cereal just for the potassium.

No moon. No music. No slumming in heaven
when we take every other nightshift off from hell
and then walk out on the job permanently like a Tarot deck
to see how it feels to be a shipwreck on the bottom of a prophecy

that foretold, one day, swimmers and drowners alike
would be in it way up over their heads. And that's
when I learned to count on my heart
like an overturned lifeboat to keep things afloat

for me and anyone I love who went into exile beside me.
Got to be ancient starmaps in her eyes
like the return address of extraterrestials
who promised to come back one day

and make crop circles in the hay together.
And fireflies for back up in the long dark halls
of what we were reading when the stars went out
and we opened up to each other about our secret research

into the comparative mythology of each other's psyche.
Even at high noon I want to look out of the corner of my eye
and see in the depths of her silence, stars
hiding out in the shadows on the bottom of her wishing wells

and know that she's ok at either end of the telescope.
And I'll show her the sun shining at midnight
and the moon among the corals, and come up like a pearl diver
with new metaphors to show her how I can still see her radiance

like a lunar eclipse in a mystic moon rise just behind
the guile of her veils and the eyelashes of her tree line.
And there shall be no shadow upon the earth
that she casts behind her that shall remain starless.

And it must be well understood from the very start
that you can't put the wing of an eagle on one side of the heart
and that of a sparrow on the other, even less so, a dragon,
and expect it to fly very good or straight to the mark.

And no broken arrows of the promises
we make to each other at a rain dance for the waters of life.
And no sipping from the river when there's a chance
to swallow it all in a single gulp and satisfy all wells at once

without getting the waterbirds stuck in our throats
like the high notes of sacred syllables above the reach
of the black swans that live in our chimneys for free.
By all means, I want to see the light

but coming out of the dark like a nightbird
with a message that wasn't meant for anyone else.
She can be swarmed by faeries, she can
live on a menu of mushrooms and toadstools,

all the soft gilled things without hooks in them she wants
I don't care, as long as she includes
a banshee or two scratching at her wings like windows
to be let in to the inner sanctum of her devotion

like a black candle at a white mass for wounded voodoo dolls.
And if she wants me to jump through her wilderness fires
to satisfy her occult desires in a coven of one
that's ok too as long as she's enough of a firemaster

to know when I've been done well. Not medium rare.
And I won't have things fifty-fifty, a hundred and fifty percent
and a hundred and fifty percent, or die in the attempt,
because anything less than that is nothing at all.

Love when it comes to the hour of gates, becomes
the best of the other in the leaving, as your lover
absorbs in the turn-counterturn-stand of the perennial dance
things about you she loved at first glance, jewels and virtues,

and all the wildflowers a suffering soul puts out with generosity
that were meant for her eyes only, even you
couldn't see in yourself at the time because even
among the most enlightened of us, the deepest insight

into ourselves as embodiments of thoughtless reality
is always blind. And if you couldn't find what you wanted
together, you always find it under your pillow
once the other who left it like a parting gift is gone.

Don't want anyone after we've broken up
who doesn't know how to honour the memory of what we tried
to be to each other before we outgrew what we meant
when we vowed to console our loss of happiness

with peace and a gentle release of the moon
like a blossom from a dead branch in the middle of winter.
She can come to me flawed, she can come to me wounded.
She can come to me like an apostate sunflower

who wandered off the beaten path to follow the moon.
Selfless as we all are behind our delusions of probity
who remains to be a judge of character except
the most doubtful and disdainfully vain among us?

Let the death masks argue it out among themselves
who is real and who is not, who's been true and who forgot,
as for me and my house, I'd rather be loved than right.
I'd rather have my lover's head in my lap at the end of the night,

or mine in hers. I'd rather stand beside her
and look up at the stars together as if they knew
more about us than us about them, than feel them
hemorrhaging like supernovae in both our eyes

arguing like medieval theologians painting
a picture on the third eye of the telescope
we're looking at through both lenses simultaneously
eye to eye, tooth to tooth, one false idol to the other,

squabbling over whose lop-sided view of the paradise
we planted to live in together, is most worthy of worship,
the hunter or the farmer, the hunter or the farmer,
keeping in mind women invented agriculture.

Intrigue me, berate me, teach, upgrade, or refute me,
just let me feel your hand when I suffer
as if it were the wing of a bird
I was scrying aviomantically to see

if it had healed enough to fly, to make
my homelessness a big enough sky for her
to spread her wings in and wheel
on the passionate thermals of joy

that arise within me like double helices of inspiration.
And in return, I would promise her to never think
I'd found an answer to her mystery, or a reply
to the silences that abound within her

like nightbirds that just won't answer.
And if she's not in her shrine when I come to lay
a bouquet of stars at the foot of her temple stairwells,
or off at a coven somewhere with the Horned One,

trying to get a handle on my polyphrenic diversity
that can speak to the angels as well as the demons in tongues.
Shapeshifter though I may be, I promise her
by the time she gets home she'll always recognize me

in the form that most becomes her. I've always thought
that death was shorter than life, because
death isn't lived through even for a moment and if
anything lasts forever anywhere, it's right here

where we can dance like rootless trees to the songs of the nightbirds
and listen to the squirrels in the walls in the morning
stacking black walnuts like prophetic skulls,
and reach out to the waterlilies like dragonflies

that know how to interpret them like loveletters on the sly.

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Instead Of You Today One Black Mouse

Instead of you today
one black mouse.

It arrives the first
day of your departure.
It catches the corner
of my eye, my blood eye,
as you call it, and I
think at first that this
is only sunlight reflecting
from a window being closed
across the street but
my beating heart, faster,
holding my breath, tells
me it is a mouse that
precedes its smell in
the house, that is, if
it takes up residence,
and the curtains remain
permanently closed.

I do nothing but note
all this as briefly as
the flash, then return
to my grieving.

*

I see it true,
a mouse true, as
was and is the
affection I felt
and feel for you
but I do not want
to make this a
love poem unless
it is to a black
mouse claiming
vacated space

*

You must leave now,
black mouse of sorrow,
now formally named,
take up in another
residence. Do not
borrow my things,
do not move them
with your tail or tongue
or teeth on the table
top or underneath,
nor in the corner
play hide and seek
where I have once
again dropped the
blue accident of love,
he who has left how
he arrived, brown,
beautiful, smelling of
Indian spice, of rose
oil with herbs,
his long black hair,
his silken pockets
full of childhood
prayer carefully
wrapped for safe-
keeping against
the day of his glad-
marry..

Upon the altar then
do not, I plead, sleep
cradled in the god's arms
nor push my thinning
patience where the votive
candle burns for him whom
you seek to replace with
your delicate whiskers
and all your black fur
with webs upon of the one
spider who dwells behind
the jewel box, his gift
for me, his leaving, here
cling/brush against all
things in this dark place
now but do not let me
see it here where it is
I-not-he who is erased.

Is it your wish, then,
to bless me, black mouse?
to keep me company?


*

Today I suffer my
annual asthma of
the New Year only
it has arrived hard,
a little late, but
always sudden but
no surprise as you
have left me at the
same time as the
on-time lessening
of lungs down presses.
The mouse arrives to
remind that I am as
the remote air is,
rarefied, heavily alive,
that hunger grows in each
floret of the lungs
no matter the absence.
Or, no matter the absence,
there may always be an
apparent flash of light
from a near window
closing and opening,
little breaths beseeching
unseen hands, or hand,
striving for first or
second or third person
though there are only
one or two hands at
most and only one window
so far as I can see through
a curtain closed.

Mouse makes three.

*

This morning I open
the curtain which has
been closed since the
day before you flew away.
You had announced your
intention to leave the
first day we met, your
arrival with snow in
your eyes and nose. I
could only laugh, delight
really, at how you trembled
so cold, cold, and beautiful,
did I say already, how brown?
and allowed me to hold both
your hands beneath my shirt
to warm them. They were so
very cold, like late plums,
their outline even now perimeters
my skin, a tree grows there where/
which I proudly hold emboldened
to say, great, great, with
your sometimes mildness,
your sometimes wildness
now grown up, now flown.


*

But what I want to
report to you-not-here,
for the record, to be
read out into the snow
that has begun to fall
silently in the gutter,
is that I opened the
morning curtain and there
on the metal escape sat,
and still sits, a dove,
brown, beautiful, which
does not move at all,
when the curtains made
to move, and the day
rushes in without consent.
It, not the daylight
but the dove, just to
be very clear, cocks
only its head toward
movement and calmly

(I have successfully
resisted writing 'moves
and calamity')

sits shaped
like one pure tear.
Or pear. Both of which
share an 'ear'.

Suddenly, joy in me
flashes and I know the
dove for me has come.
And the mouse.

*

And so in spite of
barricades in doorways
seeking to prevent your
entrance fully into
my study, I allow you
to let yourself out
that door just as you
came in where/which-
ever it is that allows
you entrance without
wind or grain, no offering
of any kind to announce
yourself upon the premises,
a flash mistaken for
light of which/whose
image does not diminish
in portent or muse.

*

I sit now watching
the dove watch the
street below, the sky
above the tenements.
It does not shut its
eyes to flakes which
somehow do not in fall
though I recall now
how they manage to
find mine, even now
they beat upon the
glass trying to enter
eyes intent upon watching
the scene unfold upon
the page and within the
eyes of the Dove of Ages,
see what a thing it is
now already become
since childhood and
the backyard forest
sparkling, every surface
of everything covered
with ice clear, a sheer
skin which seems/seams to
move as I am moved/returned
in response to impertinent
snow to let more new world
come flashing in, and the
one-more-bird, a startle,
a cardinal red against all
the white, white, there were
many, coveys of them inordinate
in all the snow blind, too
much for a boy to bear, broken
eye-nerves, brittle sticks,
he kicks on his back crying
to make an angel his own to
be relieved of the too ordered
world, would be the unwanted,
unexpected child of things
shattered, his need for
constancy and same, beauty
a necessary addiction dependent
upon diction's canary eye and ear,
just to introduce another color
between mouse and meaning,
a chorus stunned into sound.

*

Here I now sing this
lament for the one who
has brownly flown.
And for the one who/that
has brownly perched so
still, still, on the metal
cold, a rust color, allowing
each flake its compulsion to
touch upon eye and rust.
And for black mouse who has
given much to me, an image,
to see of my sorrow a flash
of what, insistent, gnaws at
what now sits in me-the-escape,
in me-the-study with old friends
so constant, books and papers,
notebooks of many years' mice
and birds, the too few lovers,
waiting to see if the present
mouse is still within or has,
too, taken a flown lover's fresh
cue brownly and from the house
removed, without.

*

I must add here,

in praise of cold
beauty which cares
not whether one
suffers, cares not
that the mouse may
suffer, and the dove,

that the mouse,
objectively,
its black fur,
is magnificence
very soft, it
appears without
shine as does the
ice shine in
severest beauty,
sear (now I know
the flash sure was
that of a tail, is
neither light nor
shadow, nor is an
occasion for blindness
as is the snow


or silence) .

*

It matters now
that I record this
in wet black ink
with an old quill
for the record
though the ink's
blackness, India ink,
ironically, and the
wet shine, are your
eyes which once again
are like the mouse,
though I do not wish
to compare them as
if you and the mouse
are the same like
someone's 'love is
a summer day' or 'a red,
red rose, ' snow up your
nose not withstanding,
for it, the day, the
eyes, yours, my house,
is now not to be mine
alone deposed before
the harsher winter,
nor is my heart to be
ever compared though
it wearies me to speak
of heart and love in the
same breath's poem which
does not, asthmatic, conform
to received form or line or
convention and tone as does,
say, a black mouse, just to
compare, conform to its own
convention, or shape swift
constancy and need, insistent,
unthought with not a care or
mind for, well,
(the better) ,

with no mind at
all (to speak of it
again) :

The dove perhaps
on the window is

*

without...

The song is sung
or flinging itself
outwith from above
as snow, the musical
bar is the cold grate
the page upon which
the one true music
note rests, may,
singing silently
itself into itself
singing the world,
even this of the
mouse, your absent
eyes here, about,
my passivity against
the rhythms of chest
ice-rimed (cannot
write the heart again)
adding gutter music
drops, the bells drip
ringing there as you
have/were a bell or
bell-like announcing
the end at the beginning
descanting;

it feels, though I was forewarned,
slipped swiftly away taking-with
a number of days and all my nights,

the wet black ink
winks upon the page

and the song is
instead of you today
one black mouse.

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Love overcomes him

he is full of the milk of love
nectare, pollens, the sweetest
of passion fruits and multi hued
soft petaled flowers

but when he is furious, his disapproving
glimpse strikes like bolts of lightning
and his ferocious voice thunder over
the face of the earth sending every
creature scurrying for shelter

but love always overpowers him
and he is overwhelmed with tears
rain that comes down in torrents
to renew the land for growth and
perpetration of the species good or bad

flowers blossom and animals
sniff their way out for adventures again
the sky is painted with luminous clouds
and the sun disperses his grace all over

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Are you like God, breathing life with your words?

welcome ladies and gentlemen
with poems written
in your palms
in our own humble beginnings
we take the mission
of creating and building words
putting up images
of full moons & stars
on dark nights like these,
the images move
like a circle in our lives
glistening
without ends
the words too become
alive
as we breathe them to ordinary
things
insignificantly tasteles
to the tongues of people
with mouths ungaping
that we resuscitate
so they may too live,

there is life in what we breathe
we touch and
motions begin
in a sense,
may God forgive
us
as we imitate Him,
and i know,
God loves poets like us,

we are not just few
we are many
we are holy
and we shall flock like angels
singing by His side

these poems, these songs
of love, of beauty,
of truth in the quest
of holiness.

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The Wino And I Know

The ice cream man he's a hillbilly fan,
He's got seventy-eights by Hank Snow;
Walks down the street, shufflin' his feet,
To the rhythm that only he knows.
And I've seen him in so many places,
I saw him the night I was born;
In a Bourbon Street bar I received my first scar
From an old man so tattered and torn.
And the Wino and I know the pains of street singin'
Like the door-to-door salesman knows
the pains of bell ringin'
It's a strange situation,
a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.
Well the coffee is strong
at the Cafe Du Monde,
And the donuts are too hot to touch;
But just like a fool, when those
sweet goodies cool, I ate 'til I ate way too much.
Cause I'm livin' on things that excite me,
Be they pastries or lobsters or love;
I'm just tryin' to get by being quiet and shy,
In a world full of pushin' and shove.
And the Wino and I know the pains of backbustin',
Like the farmer knows the pain of his pick-up
truck rustin'.
It's a strange situation, a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.
Sweet Senorita, Won't you please come with me?
Back to the island, honey, back to the sea;
Back to the only place that I want to be.
And the Wino and I know the joys of the ocean,
Like a boy knows the joys of his milkshake
in motion.
It's a strange situation, a wild occupation,
Living my life like a song.

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The Wino & I Know

By: jimmy buffett
1974
The ice cream man hes a hillbilly fan
Got seventy-eights by hank snow
Walks down the street, shufflin his feet
To a rhythm that only he knows
And Ive seen him in so many places
I saw him the night I was born
In a bourbon street bar, I received my first scar
From an old man so tattered and torn
Chorus:
And the wino and I know the pain of street singin
Like a door-to-door salesman knows the pains of bell ringin
Strange situation, wild occupation
Livin my life like a song
Coffee is strong at the cafe du monde
Donuts are too hot to touch
Just like a fool, when those sweet goodies cool
I eat til I eat way too much
cause Im livin on things that excite me
Be they pastry or lobster or love
Im just tryin to get by bein quiet and shy
In a world full of pushin and shove
Chorus:
And the wino and I know the pain of back bustin
Like the farmer knows the pain of his pickup truck rustin
Strange situation, wild occupation
Livin my life like a song
Sweet senorita wont you please come with me
Back to the island honey, back to the sea
Back to the only place that I want to be
Chorus:
And the wino and I know the joy of the ocean
Like a boy knows the joy of his milkshake in motion
Strange situation, wild occupation
Livin my life like a song
Yes its a strange situation, a wild occupation
Livin my life like a song

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His Majesty

It will be unmatched by anything, the coming majesty of our King,
Fully unmatched and unsurpassed; a majesty that will forever last.
His Majesty, witnessed by a few, whom The Lord personally knew,
The Majesty of God’s Only Son, appearing on Earth for everyone.

Many know Him as their Savior, Jesus Christ, our God and Creator,
Though we’ve yet to see His Majesty, we’ll behold it for all Eternity.
Majesty, that we worship presently, we’ll worship together eternally,
When we see Christ face to face, after we’re lifted up by His Grace.

Even all, who don’t believe as us, who in Christ, have put their trust,
Shall see His Majesty up in the sky, as Christ returns with you and I,
This, as all eyes on earth will see, the coming of our Lord’s Majesty,
But as the Judge, for all of them, who in unbelief stand condemned.

The time for believers is drawing near, when the trumpet we will hear,
When we’re gathered to our Savior’s side, as His Holy Chosen Bride.
Presently, we cannot fully appreciate, the Glory of Christ as we wait,
Neither can we truly comprehend, Christ’s Eternal Majesty my friend.

Together with the saints of old, Christ’s Glory we shall soon behold,
As we see the Majesty of Christ, who rose, to give men Eternal Life.
The splendor of His coming friend, shall bring a dark age to its end,
As He brings this age to a close, with a Majesty, that no one knows.

(Copyright ©09/2008)

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O Brother, Why Thou You Are Older

O Brother, why thou you are older than me?
Why you stole my thunder at home with your poetry that you took from me?
I know your brutal past and I am eaisly hurt,
thanks those poems you keep on reading and it
is making me sick in the inside.
Why do I have to be the one
considered not what problems you and our younger brother have?
Why I am stuck bewteen the two?
Why do I have to live everyday with you?
Sometimes I want you to leave but I can not do that
Sometimes I want the lead of my blood to get out so I do not be agressive any more
but it is too late. I can not take it out.
You are older than me but we all have to learn something.
Can you take your time and breathe
before we learn how to jump the gun and shoot our lives away?
The good times we had is no longer here
so I wonder when a shooting star fall so I can wish
for happy times back again instead of me being sad
and lonely
Even you are pushy with friends, you are a good one
do not kill thyself
because your mama and papa needs you for you are their son
who is gifted in so many things...
your younger brother Michael needs a role model because to him you are a friend and friendly...you also want to take people's problems and want to help
and for me, your younger brother #1, I need you because you may not be the brother I wanted
but you are the one I got and I am very happy that books are not your strength and sports are yours so we can show our younger brother the diverse of cultures.

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Never Frown, Even When You're Sad Because You Never Know Who May be Falling in Love With Your Smile

Never frown, when you're sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
Deep inside you know there is someone special to be with
Never change yourself just for guy/girl because there is other fish in the sea
You don't need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
You can be single and happy on your own
When you are single you learned thing you never knew before about yourself
You can be brave and try not to think about it
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with a guy/girl who break your heart and just move on
Their other people to be with

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and there is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the other hand, some of us don't need someone to be with because
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You know that you can found someone or they come to you
Don't wait, just take chances and just be crazy for once
Remember there is always other fish in the sea and not just that person who break your heart
You don't need a boyfriend/girfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
I know I will miss out on all great things, but
I'm tired of bringing my hopes up
I'm done, being single for now and it tragedy at end
There other things can make me happier than ever
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with someone who don't love you
Just remeber the good times you have with them

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and
There is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the hand, some of us don't need someone to be with
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun
Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile

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Patrick White

I Wish I Knew You Well Enough To Say

Trying to get centered in the middle of chaos
isn't going to turn me into the third of eye
of a hurricane rose, or square the circle
with the clarity of a lens with a seeing-eye dog.
The rags of the clouds are teaching the dandelion seeds
how to drift with a good conscience,
just let things go awhile. What's done, what's not.
Why labour at either when together they're just
the human way of walking away from things
one moment after another? Chaos has a way
of conditioning itself into people like me
who relax because they know it's all out of control.

Been feeling like a dead branch, a maple witching wand,
these past few days, because I've given up
divining water with a snake's tongue,
and I thought I was blossoming again
when I saw the first bud of the moonrise
but now it seems to have gone down
behind a screening myth of eyelashes and trees
and my heart is so disappointed in me
there's no help for it, it's crying in my bloodstream,
and when all my childhood insecurities
come mocking me like a fox in my sacred hole,
I don't even bother licking my wounds anymore.

Hope. But it's dogpaddling just beneath an airhole
in the middle of a seal hunt on a bloody ice floe
that's grinding its molars in its sleep like sheet ice.
Always hope. A crack in the door left ajar
for the light to get in and the darkness out.
Only a fool would make the exceptional a rule of thumb,
and hope is a palace of water with so many windows
even the best thieves of moonlight
don't know whether they're breaking in or out.
Just the same, my blessings on everyone's head and house.
The wingspans of two birds hinged to a gate
that doesn't need a guru to teach it to open,
where I'm a stranger who stopped to talk
on the roadside of the fence, and on the other,
I'm a nocturnal wildflower in a secret garden of bliss
that doesn't notice the difference in the way I bloom.

Anyway, who's got the eyes to see any further
into their fate than a pair of dice do, and if things
don't break your way, you're not washed up
on Circe's island like a love affair with the moon,
the manuscript of your first loveletter doesn't
regrettably meet anyone's needs at the time
but feel free to submit again if you're a masochist,
so what, there a more mirages of fish in the desert,
and the star you wished upon digs its spur into your eye,
Giddy up. After you get over a little death,
an emotional stone age when Perseus meets Medusa
on his way to rescue Andromeda from a killer whale,
rejection can be the burr under the saddle of Pegasus
and there's nothing in the way of these high, wide open starfields,
that have never known a fence or a gate, to obstruct you
from burning a little dark energy off
by taking to the air like a mythically deflated weather balloon
in an expanding universe that's just taken
its thumb and forefinger off your throat to let you breathe out
as if you'd managed somehow again
to exorcise yourself from your own self-possession.

A lot of gurus have to like that. But I'm sick of the sound
of one hand clapping like an overly-disciplined seal
with one flipper left while Orca eats its trainer.
I want to take a leap of faith, not death, like the rain
through a circle of my own making whether
it amuses the crowd or not. Or meets the approval of rainbows.
Attachment too is a buddha activity once you get back
from the sad, cold, desolated shore of enlightenment
and the spell has unsilvered the back of the mirror
like flakes of moonlight, and effaced it with a clarity
that lets you see right through yourself
like the stars in an autumn sky into nothing.
What is it Dogen Zenji said in medieval Japan?
When the truth doesn't fill your body and mind
you feel you've had enough. But when it does
you always feel as if something were missing?
God, what a lot of empty truth I must embody
to be so hungry for the taste of all my lost illusions.

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Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

I
Query: was ever a quainter
Crotchet than this of the painter
Giacomo Pacchiarotto
Who took "Reform" for his motto?

II
He, pupil of old Fungaio,
Is always confounded (heigho!)
With Pacchia, contemporaneous
No question, but how extraneous
In the grace of soul, the power
Of hand,—undoubted dower
Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,
My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,
Turning the small dark Oratory
To Siena's Art-laboratory,
As he made its straitness roomy
And glorified its gloomy,
With Bazzi and Beccafumi.
(Another heigho for Bazzi:
How people miscall him Razzi!)

III
This Painter was of opinion
Our earth should be his dominion
Whose Art could correct to pattern
What Nature had slurred—the slattern!
And since, beneath the heavens,
Things lay now at sixes and sevens,
Or, as he said, sopra-sotto—
Thought the painter Pacchiarotto
Things wanted reforming, therefore.
"Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore?
When earth held one so ready
As he to step forth, stand steady
In the middle of God's creation
And prove to demonstration
What the dark is, what the light is,
What the wrong is, what the right is,
What the ugly, what the beautiful,
What the restive, what the dutiful,
In Mankind profuse around him?
Man, devil as now he found him,
Would presently soar up angel
At the summons of such evangel,
And owe—what would Man not owe
To the painter Pacchiarotto?
Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!

IV
But Man, he perceived, was stubborn,
Grew regular brute, once cub born;
And it struck him as expedient—
Ere he tried to make obedient;
The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey
By piping advice in one key,—
That his pipe should play a prelude
To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued,
Something not harsh but docile,
Man-liquid, not Man-fossil—
Not fact, in short, but fancy.
By a laudable necromancy
He would conjure up ghosts—a circle
Deprived of the means to work ill
Should his music prove distasteful
And pearls to the swine go wasteful.
To be rent of swine—that was hard!
With fancy he ran no hazard:
Fact might knock him o'er the mazard.

V
So, the painter Pacchiarotto
Constructed himself a grotto
In the quarter of Stalloreggi—
As authors of note allege ye.
And on each of the whitewashed sides of it
He painted—(none far and wide so fit
As he to perform in fresco)—
He painted nor cried quiesco
Till he peopled its every square foot
With Man—from the Beggar barefoot
To the Noble in cap and feather;
All sorts and conditions together.
The Soldier in breastplate and helmet
Stood frowningly—hail fellow well met—
By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle.
Nor did he omit to handle
The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer:
Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor—
He diversified too his Hades
Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease,
With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies.

VI
Which work done, dry,—he rested him,
Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him
Of the apron that suits frescanti,
And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty,
This hand upon hip well planted,
That, free to wave as it wanted,
He addressed in a choice oration
His folk of each name and nation,
Taught its duty to every station.
The Pope was declared an arrant
Impostor at once, I warrant.
The Emperor—truth might tax him
With ignorance of the maxim
"Shear sheep but nowise flay them!"
And the Vulgar that obey them,
The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling,
They failed not of wholesome schooling
On their knavery and their fooling.
As for Art—where's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is
By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties,
And Painters that pester with nudities!

VII
Now, your rater and debater
Is balked by a mere spectator
Who simply stares and listens
Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens
Nor brow grows hot and twitchy,
Nor mouth, for a combat itchy,
Quivers with some convincing
Reply—that sets him wincing?
Nay, rather—reply that furnishes
Your debater with just what burnishes
The crest of him, all one triumph,
As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph!
Convinced am I? This confutes me?
Receive the rejoinder that suits me!
Confutation of vassal for prince meet—
Wherein all the powers that convince meet,
And mash my opponent to mincemeat!"

VIII
So, off from his head flies the bonnet,
His hip loses hand planted on it,
While t' other hand, frequent in gesture,
Slinks modestly back beneath vesture,
As—hop, skip and jump,—he's along with
Those weak ones he late proved so strong with!
Pope, Emperor, lo, he's beside them,
Friendly now, who late could not abide them,
King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess;
And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges,
How minikin-mildly it urges
In accents how gentled and gingered
Its word in defence of the injured!
"Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff!
Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if
Ye take into con-si-der-ation
What dangers attend elevation!
The Priest—who expects him to descant
On duty with more zeal and less cant?
He preaches but rubbish he's reared in.
The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din
Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling
And what not of vice while a stripling.
The Lawyer—his lies are conventional.
And as for the Poor Sort—why mention all
Obstructions that leave barred and bolted
Access to the brains of each dolt-head?"

IX
He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet?
Precedence to males in the alphabet!
Still, disposed of Man's A B C, there's X
Y Z want assistance,—the Fair Sex I
How much may be said in excuse of
Those vanities—males see no use of—
From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood!
What's their frailty beside our own falsehood?
The boldest, most brazen of . . . trumpets,
How kind can they be to their dumb pets!
Of their charms—how are most frank, how few venal!
While as for those charges of Juvenal—
Quœ nemo dixisset in toto
Nisi (œdepol) ore illoto—
He dismissed every charge with an "A page!"

X
Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee,
Right hand disengaged from the doublet
—Like landlord, in house he had sublet
Resuming of guardianship gestion,
To call tenants' conduct in question—
Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside
Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed
With such transformation of visage
As fitted the censor of this age.
No longer an advocate tepid
Of frailty, but champion intrepid
Of strength,—not of falsehood but verity,—
He, one after one, with asperity
Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses,
Disposed of sophistic excuses,
Forced folly each shift to abandon,
And left vice with no leg to stand on.
So crushing the force he exerted,
That Man at his foot lay converted!

XI
True—Man bred of paint-pot and mortar!
But why suppose folks of this sort are
More likely to hear and be tractable
Than folks all alive and, in fact, able
To testify promptly by action
Their ardor, and make satisfaction
For misdeeds non verbis sed factis?
"With folks all alive be my practice
Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O,
Farewell to ye I" cried Pacchiarotto,
"Let only occasion intérpose!"

XII
It did so: for, pat to the purpose
Through causes I need not examine,
There fell upon Siena a famine.
In vain did the magistrates busily
Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily,
Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open—
Such misery followed as no pen
Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter
Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter,
Emboldened by triumph of recency,
How could he do other with decency
Than rush in this strait to the rescue,
Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue
To each and all slips in Man's spelling
The law of the land?—slips now telling
With monstrous effect on the city,
Whose magistrates moved him to pity
As, bound to read law to the letter,
They minded their hornbook no better.

XIII
I ought to have told you, at starting,
How certain, who itched to be carting
Abuses away clean and thorough
From Siena, both province and borough,
Had formed themselves into a company
Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any
Obstruction of scruple, provoking
The nicer throat's coughing and choking:
Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified
Of "Freed Ones"—"Bardotti"—which signified
"Spare-Horses" that walk by the wagon
The team has to drudge for and drag on.
This notable Club Pacchiarotto
Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to,
As free and accepted "Bardotto."
The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye
The outrage thus done to society,
And noted the advent especially
Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally.

XIV
These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled:
Neighed words whereat citizens trembled
As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by
The Duomo, proposed a way whereby
The city were cured of disaster.
"Just substitute servant for master,
Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty,
Unloose Man from overt and covert tie,
And straight out of social confusion
True Order would spring!" Brave illusion—
Aims heavenly attained by means earthly!

XV
Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,—
Brain practised and tongue no less tutored,
In argument's armor accoutred,—
Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed
Proposals like those to which "Yes" said
So glibly each personage painted
O' the wall-side wherewith you're acquainted.
He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick:
"Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick,
If wealth would become but interfluous;
Fill voids up with just the superfluous;
If ignorance gave way to knowledge
—Not pedantry picked up at college
From Doctors, Professors et cætera—
(They say: 'kai to loipa'—like better a
Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas,
Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)—
No knowledge we want of this quality,
But knowledge indeed—practicality
Through insight's fine universality!
If you shout 'Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie,
Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi,
Who shieldest the rogue and the clot poll!'
If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole
I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's
Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas—"
(Whoever to scan this is ill able
Forgets the town's name's a disyllable)—
"If, this done, ye did—as ye might—place
For once the right man in the right place,
If you listened to me" . . .

XVI
At which last "I."
There flew at his throat like a mastiff
One Spare-Horse—another and another!
Such outbreak of tumult and pother,
Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering,
Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering,
Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff
Whose impudence ventured the late "If"—
That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto
Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe,
Away from the scene of discomfiture—
Had he stood there stock-still in a dumbfit—sure
Am I he had paid in his peison
Till his mother might fail to know her son,
Though she gazed on him never so wistful,
do the figure so tattered and tristful.
Each mouth full of curses, each fist full
Of cuffings—behold, Pacchiarotto,
The pass which thy project has got to,
Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot—tow!
(The paraphrase—which I much need—is
From Horace "per ignes incedis.")

XVII
Right and left did he dash helter-skelter
In agonized search of a shelter.
No purlieu so blocked and no alley
So blind as allowed him to rally
His spirits and see—nothing hampered
His steps if he trudged and not scampered
Up here and down there in a city
That's all ups and downs, more the pity
For folks who would outrun the constable.
At last he stopped short at the one stable
And sure place of refuge that's offered
Humanity. Lately was coffered
A corpse in its sepulchre, situate
By St. John's Observance. "Habituate
Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows,
And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!"
So Misery counselled the craven.
At once he crept safely to haven
Through a hole left unbricked in the structure.
Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your
Poor client and left him conterminous
With—pah!—the thing fetid and verminous!
(I gladly would spare you the detail,
But History writes what I retail.)

XVIII
Two days did he groan in his domicile:
"Good Saints, set me free and I promise I'll
Adjure all ambition of preaching
Change, whether to minds touched by teaching
—The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments
Created by plaster and pigments,—
Or to minds that receive with such rudeness
Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness,
—The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens
Of mind—'haud in posse sed esse mens'
As it was, is, and shall be forever
Despite of my utmost endeavor.
O live foes I thought to illumine,
Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in!
I need my own light, every spark, as
I couch with this sole friend—a carcase!"

XIX
Two days thus he maundered and rambled;
Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled
From out his receptacle loathsome.
"A spectre!"—declared upon oath some
Who saw him emerge and (appalling
To mention) his garments a-crawling
With plagues far beyond the Egyptian.
He gained, in a state past description,
A convent of months, the Observancy.

XX
Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy
For Fancy's more proper employment:
And now she waves wing with enjoyment,
To tell ye how preached the Superior,
When somewhat our painter's exterior
Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing
The matter) much soaking and rinsing,
Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous,
Till, rid of his garments pestiferous,
And, robed by the help of the Brotherhood
In odds and ends,—this gown and t' other hood,—
His empty inside first well-garnished,—
He delivered a tale round, unvarnished.

XXI
"Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment,
"Thine error scarce moves my astonishment.
For—why shall I shrink from asserting?—
Myself have had hopes of converting
The foolish to wisdom, till, sober,
My life found its May grow October.
I talked and I wrote, but, one morning,
Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning:
'Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be!
Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.'
Man's work is to labor and leaven—
As best he may—earth here with heaven;
'Tis work for work's sake that he's needing:
Let him work on and on as if speeding
Work's end, but not dream of succeeding!
Because if success were intended,
Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended.
A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse,
Or—what's the plain truth—just a mill-horse!
Earth's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers:
A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers
Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging
At what don't advance for their tugging.
Though round goes the mill, we must still post
On and on as if moving the mill-post.
So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise,
Do all that we can to make men wise!
And if men prefer to be foolish,
Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish:
Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper,
And worked as the Master thought proper.
Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot;
Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot!
But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot?
Though cured of thy plague, there may linger
A pimple I fray with rough finger?
So soon could my homily transmute
Thy brass into gold? Why, the man's mute!"

XXII
"Ay, Father, I'm mute with admiring
How Nature's indulgence untiring
Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's
Best rhetoric—clutch at all seasons
And hold fast to what's proved untenable!
Thy maxim is—Man's not amenable
To argument: whereof by consequence—
Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence!
Yet blush not discouraged, O Father!
I stand unconverted, the rather
That nowise I need a conversion.
No live man (I cap thy assertion)
By argument ever could take hold
Of me. 'Twas the dead thing, the clay-cold,
Which grinned 'Art thou so in a hurry
That out of warm light thou must scurry
And join me down here in the dungeon
Because, above, one's Jack and one—John,
One's swift in the race, one—a hobbler,
One's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler,
Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious?
Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious
That all's for an hour of essaying
Who's fit and who's unfit for playing
His part in the after-construction
—Heaven's Piece whereof Earth's the Induction?
Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal.
Wait patient the change universal,
And act, and let act, in existence!
For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence,
Thou host thy promotion or otherwise.
And why must wise thou have thy brother wise
Because in rehearsal thy cue be
To shine by the side of a booby?
No polishing garnet to ruby!
All's well that ends well—through Art's magic.
Some end, whether comic or tragic,
The Artist has purposed, be certain!
Explained at the fall of the curtain—
In showing thy wisdom at odds with
That folly: he tries men and gods with
No problem for weak wits to solve meant,
But one worth such Author's evolvement.
So, back nor disturb play's production
By giving thy brother instruction
To throw up his fool's-part allotted!
Lest haply thyself prove besotted
When stript, for thy pains, of that costume
Of sage, which has bred the imposthume
I prick to relieve thee of,—Vanity!'

XXIII
"So, Father, behold me in sanity!
I'm back to the palette and mahlstick:
And as for Man—let each and all stick
To what was prescribed them at starting!
Once planted as fools—no departing
From folly one inch, sæculorum
In sæcula! Pass me the jorum,
And push me the platter—my stomach
Retains, through its fasting, still some ache—
And then, with your kind Benedicite.
Good-by!"

XXIV
I have told with simplicity
My tale, dropped those harsh analytics,
And tried to content you, my critics,
Who greeted my early uprising!
I knew you through all the disguising,
Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried, "Heyday!
This Monday is—what else but May-day?
And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows.
Are surely the privileged fellows.
So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!"
(I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?"


XXV
Then he who directed the measure—
An old friend—put leg forward nimbly,
"We critics as sweeps out your chimbly!
Much soot to remove from your flue, sir!
Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir!
And neighbors complain it's no joke, sir,
You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!"

XXVI
Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you
Is confident oft she detects you
In bringing more filth into my house
Than ever you found there! I'm pious,
However: 'twas God made you dingy
And mewith no need to be stingy
Of soap, when 'tis sixpence the packet.
So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket,
Bang drum and blow fife—ay, and rattle
Your brushes, for that's half the battle!
Don't trample the grass,—hocus-pocus
With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,—
And, what with your rattling and tinkling,
Who knows but you give me an inkling
How music sounds, thanks to the jangle
Of regular drum and triangle?
Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 'tis proven
I break rule as bad as Beethoven.
"That chord now—a groan or a grunt is 't?
Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist.
No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled—
He thought that he sung while he whistled!"

XXVII
So, this time I whistle, not sing at all,
My story, the largess I fling at all
And every the rough there whose aubade
Did its best to amuse me,—nor so bad!
Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper
Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper!
You've Monday, your one day, your fun-day,
While mine is a year that's all Sunday.
I've seen you, times—who knows how many?—
Dance in here, strike up, play the zany,
Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning
You'll find him decamped next May-morning;
Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence
With—kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence!
Mine's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord
Who lets out the ground here,—my landlord:
To him I pay quit-rent—devotion;
Nor hence shall I budge, I've a notion,
Nay, here shall my whistling and singing
Set all his street's echoes a-ringing
Long after the last of your number
Has ceased my front-court to encumber
While, treading down rose and ranunculus,
You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us!
Troop, all of you—man or homunculus,
Quick march! for Xanthippe, my house-maid,
If once on your pates she a souse made
With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis,
First comes to her hand—things were more amiss!
I would not for worlds be your place in
Recipient of slops from the basin!
You, jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness
Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness!
While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there,
Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there—
He'll think as the pickle he curses,
I've discharged on his pate his own verses!
"Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in
Your own sauce,[1] . . .

XXVIII
But, back to my Knight of the Pencil,
Dismissed to his fresco and stencil!
Whose story—begun with a chuckle,
And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,—
To small enough purpose were studied
If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied.
Come, critics,—not shake hands, excuse me!
But—say have you grudged to amuse me
This once in the forty-and-over
Long years since you trampled my clover
And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow
I never once harmed by that arrow
Of song, karterotaton belos,
(Which Pindar declares the true melos,)
I was forging and filing and finishing,
And no whit my labors diminishing
Because, though high up in a chamber
Where none of your kidney may clamber
Your hullabaloo would approach me?
Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me
You,—pacing in even that paddock
Of language allotted you ad hoc,
With a clog at your fetlocks,—you—scorners
Of me free of all its four corners?
Was it "clearness of words which convey thought"?
Ay, if words never needed enswathe aught
But ignorance, impudence, envy
And malice—what word-swathe would then vie
With yours for a clearness crystalline?
But had you to put in one small line
Some thought big and bouncing—as noddle
Of goose, born to cackle and waddle
And bite at man's heel as goose-wont is,
Never felt plague its puny os frontis—
You'd know, as you hissed, spat and sputtered,
Clear cackle is easily uttered!

XXIX
Lo, I've laughed out my laugh on this mirth-day!
Beside, at week's end, dawns my birthday,
That hebdome, hieron emar—
(More things in a day than you deem are!)
—Tei gar Apollona chrusaora
Egeinato Leto. So, gray or ray
Betide me, six days hence, I'm vexed here
By no sweep, that's certain, till next year!
"Vexed?"—roused from what else were insipid ease!
Leave snoring abed to Pheidippides!
We'll up and work! won't we, Euripides?

poem by from Pacchiarotto (1876)Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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You Are My Lighthouse

I am lost in the storm
With nowhere to turn
Out of the corner of my sight
I see your light
Streaming through the air, burning bright
Swimming through the rolling waves I begin to fight
I follow your light above high
A laser of light across the diamond filled sky
I was lost at sea, I was going to die
You are my lighthouse
You show me the way
Your eternal light gives me the strength to live another day
You guide me to the security of the shore
Your light never fades it shines on forever more
When I am lost, I look up and thier you stand
To carry me safely to the sand
You watch over me
With your radient light I am able to see
In the strongest storm your walls will not crumble
With your light I am humble

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The Visit Of The Gods. Imitated From Schiller

Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone:
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler;
Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial hall!

How shall I yield you
Due entertainment,
Celestial quire?
Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!
Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!
O give me the nectar!
O fill me the bowl!

Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet,
Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry!
The wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die!

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Third World Warrior

Chorus:
You cant defeat him - hes fighting for freedom
Thats all he wanted - thats all he needs
Youll never beat him with weapons and money
There aint no chain as strong as the will to be free
Maybe his colors are driving you crazy
Call him a commie - maybe its true
Lure him away from his home with your money
Give him the work that you dont want to do
Chorus:
You cant defeat him - hes fighting for freedom
Thats all he wanted - thats all he needs
Youll never beat him with weapons and money
There aint no chain as strong as the will to be free
See how we honor the struggle for freedom
They needed vision - we gaveem war
See who is patiently watching in silence
The crucification of el salvador
Chorus:
You cant defeat him - hes fighting for freedom
Thats all he wanted - thats all he needs
Youll never beat him with weapons and money
There aint no chain as strong as the will to be free

song performed by Kris KristoffersonReport problemRelated quotes
Added by Lucian Velea
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