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The Fishing Poem

Fishing in the moonlight or fishing in the sun;
Fishing for the big ones is fun, fun, fun.
Catching the small ones or none at all,
It’s a great sport to get on the ball.
Good luck on your next trip,
And let’s hope you don’t get sick.

poem by William Sawyers
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Sobre Horizontes

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

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

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

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

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Better Luck Next Time

Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
Gray is for betrayal
What you did to me
White is for the blinding light
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Found you in the gutter
You needed tenderness
I gave you everything I had
I gave you all my trust
Handed out so neatly
Caught me in your trap
When I needed you the most
You stab me in the back, stab me in the back
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How do you find the nerve
Black is for the nighttime
Preys upon the day
Red is for the blood that flows like rivers in our veins
I try and find excuses
For what you did to me
Cant forget that burning rage
When I wake up thinking of your face
For the blinding swiftness of revenge
That I know Ill never see, know Ill never see
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
If you do it once therell never be a second time
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time
Find somebody else, youre never gonna be mine
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
How do you find the nerve
To lie right to me face
How did you find the nerve
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)
Better luck, better luck, better luck next time (better luck, better luck)

song performed by Oingo Boingo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Were There Hope

I was never in a league of noble gentlemen
To whom she'd cast polite and flitting smiles,
Only distant hope and dying dreams for me!
Or perhaps descent into a game of wiles

To give a chance of sipping wine on heady nights
With her angelic presence to declare;
Above, an aura playing out hypnotic hues,
And I in awe of blonde cascades of hair.

But no! my tiring soul is sinking in a mire
To haunt me for an age and evermore, for
How could I expect to hold her silken hand
When I am but a soulless ghost of yore?

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope hope hope hope hope?
Hope, hope?
Hope?

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Never, Ever And Luck

never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck
never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck never, ever and luck

prayers are answered

need repetitions

poem by Nyein Way
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The Victories Of Love. Book I

I
From Frederick Graham

Mother, I smile at your alarms!
I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,
But, like all nursery maladies,
Love is not badly taken twice.
Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,
My playmate in the pleasant days
At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,
The twins, so made on the same plan,
That one wore blue, the other white,
To mark them to their father's sight;
And how, at Knatchley harvesting,
You bade me kiss her in the ring,
Like Anne and all the others? You,
That never of my sickness knew,
Will laugh, yet had I the disease,
And gravely, if the signs are these:

As, ere the Spring has any power,
The almond branch all turns to flower,
Though not a leaf is out, so she
The bloom of life provoked in me;
And, hard till then and selfish, I
Was thenceforth nought but sanctity
And service: life was mere delight
In being wholly good and right,
As she was; just, without a slur;
Honouring myself no less than her;
Obeying, in the loneliest place,
Ev'n to the slightest gesture, grace
Assured that one so fair, so true,
He only served that was so too.
For me, hence weak towards the weak,
No more the unnested blackbird's shriek
Startled the light-leaved wood; on high
Wander'd the gadding butterfly,
Unscared by my flung cap; the bee,
Rifling the hollyhock in glee,
Was no more trapp'd with his own flower,
And for his honey slain. Her power,
From great things even to the grass
Through which the unfenced footways pass,
Was law, and that which keeps the law,
Cherubic gaiety and awe;
Day was her doing, and the lark
Had reason for his song; the dark
In anagram innumerous spelt
Her name with stars that throbb'd and felt;

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Break Free! - Have a Ball!

Time to break free, one's cup of tea may not be to all taste,
past history's stale news, let be, haste, challenge chased, no waste!
Song bird of time migrates, sublime rewarding melody,
wide wings unfurl, from spiral twirl, soar to true rhapsody.

Time to escape, dropp nightshade drape, spring sprightly sings fresh air,
shed strings, red tape of every shape, fresh future fair prepare.
Shift key, click mouse, write waltz like Strauss, carouse in harmony,
drown frowns, don't grouse laze louse round house, spurn tale_spin gravity.

Discard hard times, from prose to rhymes switch life that pain shrugs off,
see light, delight quite free from fright, breathe out and fight rough cough!
Ignore moods poor, pain reign's downpour, sore thumb, fools dumb who bore,
far more expect, hope's scope elect, reject despond's dark core!

Time to rebound, life’s boat aground goodbye waves tidal waves,
from hurts that hound heart thought strung, bound, a clear approach now braves
life’s slings and arrows, narrow minds, discovers empathy,
that brings marshmallows, wide wings hallows, sheds self-sympathy.

From sleepy head, depressed in bed, leap up, cheered frame of mind,
misfortune's sped away, ahead, lies joy; leave lies behind.
Dread, pain vain bled, is shed instead success unbolts faults’ door,
so have a ball, reverse free fall, displace dark doubts with SURE!

Don't hedge your bets, glad sad regrets turns topsy-turvy soon,
don't sit on fence in self defence, self-confidence is boon.
Let inner fire inspire desire, suspicions set at rest,
all you require, adore, admire, won't cloy, - enjoy with zest.

From vain complain move on again, see sea’s brimfull of fish,
go take your pick as lips you lick so wickedly delish.
Look sharp! Don't carp, distress or mess up opportunities
chance offers all, go have a ball, refreshed prioritease!

If once distraught in heart or thought, trust must fuss dust displace,
move on to more - unseen before - let better bad replace.
From inner trial advance and smile, past tears, fears fast forgot,
prick cloudy pall, go have a ball and call each shot!

Hope's heart's at ease when spirit frees harp's soul from sharks, sharp spears,
DO as YOU please and by degrees all darkness disappears,
bread butters fly, sun spo[r]ts in sky, relearn to laugh a lot,
keep on the ball, leap each grey wall – bold, spurning blow cold, hot!

Link one to one, new tale begun, soon shadow shades dissolve,
don’t stumble, run! don’t cry, have fun! hands on luck’s clock revolve.
mosquito bite quite fly-by-night seems past controversy
compared to light solutions bright that crush adversity.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Wat Tyler - Act III

ACT III.

SCENE—SMITHFIELD.

PIERS (meeting JOHN BALL.)

You look disturb'd, my father?

JOHN BALL.

Piers, I am so.
Jack Straw has forced the Tower: seized the Archbishop,
And beheaded him.

PIERS.

The curse of insurrection!

JOHN BALL.

Aye, Piers! our nobles level down their vassals—
Keep them at endless labour like their brutes,
Degrading every faculty by servitude:
Repressing all the energy of the mind.
We must not wonder then, that like wild beasts,
When they have burst their chains, with brutal rage
They revenge them on their tyrants.

PIERS.

This Archbishop!
He was oppressive to his humble vassals:
Proud, haughty, avaricious.—

JOHN BALL.

A true high-priest!
Preaching humility with his mitre on!
Praising up alms and Christian charity
Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd
His honest tenants.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Southey
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?
But God's wise way is to give nought
Till we with asking it are tired;
And when, indeed, the change desired
Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise,
It comes by Providence, not Grace;
And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs
Are groans at unexpected cares.
First Baby went to heaven, you know,
And, five weeks after, Grace went, too.
Then he became more talkative,
And, stooping to my heart, would give
Signs of his love, which pleased me more
Than all the proofs he gave before;
And, in that time of our great grief,
We talk'd religion for relief;
For, though we very seldom name
Religion, we now think the same!
Oh, what a bar is thus removed
To loving and to being loved!
For no agreement really is
In anything when none's in this.
Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd
His wife against his hearty breast,
The interior difference seem'd to tear
My own, until I could not bear
The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife,
And show'd, indeed, that faith is life.
He never felt this. If he did,
I'm sure it could not have been hid;
For wives, I need not say to you,

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

[...] Read more

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Big Night

Oh, it's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

1,2,3, all my boys and girls
We gonna party like it's the end of the world
Let's get it started, started, started, whoa, oh

Waitin' on weekends it's Friday night
We gonna get dressed up
For the time of our lives
Let's get it started, started, started

'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We're gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

It's been a long week
Been workin' overtime
I need a heartbeat
To get this party right

I'm on another level
Turn up the bass and treble
Turn it up, turn it up, turn it up

'Cause I've been feelin' down, down, down
I need a pick me up, round, round, round
I wanna spin it up loud, loud, loud
DJ take me away

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time
It's gonna be a big, big, big, big, big, big night

Oh
It's gonna be a big night
We gonna have a good time

[...] Read more

poem by Jojo Jonna
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Keepin'-Th'Big-Ball Bouncin

Caught up in the nonsense.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.

And waiting for some annoucement...
To stop that loud sound that pounds!

Caught up in the nonsense.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.

Yet hypnotized to the aspect,
Folks stay ready to pounce.
But no one moves to unload the packs,
Stacked on their backs.
Mounting are their burdens,
And some like it like that!

Caught up in the nonsense.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.

Bitten lips,
Bleeding blood.
Taking it.
With the moaning.

Sighing in their pain with pleas...
As if they seek someone to please.
And squeezing sweat from handkerchieves...
In fields they're proud to plow,
But gone!

Caught up in the nonsense.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.

With a dragging of their feet...
To feed defeat on urban streets.
And reminiscing this so easy,
As if this beat succeeds.
And it does.

A nothingness achieved...
Like this does.

Caught up in the nonsense.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.
Keepin'-th'big-ball bouncing.
And...
A nothingness achieved,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Plea Of The Midsummer Fairies

I

'Twas in that mellow season of the year
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;—
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,
Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,
To think how the bright months had spent their prime,

II

So that, wherever I address'd my way,
I seem'd to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,
And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;—
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat
To some unwasted regions of my brain,
Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,
And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

III

It was a shady and sequester'd scene,
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,
Planted with his own laurels evergreen,
And roses that for endless summer blow;
And there were fountain springs to overflow
Their marble basins,—and cool green arcades
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,—
With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

IV

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,
Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,
Some crimson-barr'd;—and ever at a wish
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win
My changeable regard,—for so we doom
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Have Fun

(bernard edwards/nile rodgers)
Hey, everybody
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Meanwhile back at the ranch
You're unhappy, now here's your chance
Don't you let the pressure appear
Make your lifestyle hectic all year
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Money won't be enough
When the going gets tough, it's rough
Try to cuddle with your business
And you'll see that love is priceless
If you don't believe what i say
Just experiment one day
I think that you will agree
That we need some kind of relief
Relif, relief
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Just like little children
Like the little children
Know how they have fun
Have fun again
Have fun
Have fun again
I want you to have fun
Just like little children

[...] Read more

song performed by Diana Ross
Added by Lucian Velea
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Virginia's Story

Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.

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

When she was old enough she got married.

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

Agnes was my mother.

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

Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.

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

Anna was a maid and cook.

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

They were both good cooks

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

My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.

She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.

[...] Read more

poem by Talile Ali
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Catching The Butterfly

As though you were born
As though you were born
And so you thought
And so you thought
The futures ours
The futures ours
To keep and hold
To keep and hold
A child within
A child within
Has healing ways
Has healing ways
It sees me through
It sees me through
My darkest days
My darkest days
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
In that dream of mine
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
In my lucid dreams
In my lucid dreams
In my lucid dreams
Something now? ? ? ?
In my lucid dreams
Through life no fun
I want to feel
I want to run
Something numb
Through life no fun
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
I want to feel
In that dream of mine
I want to run
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In my lucid dreams
In that dream of mine
In my lucid dreams
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
Im gonna keep catching that butterfly
In that dream of mine
Keep catching that butterfly
In my lucid dreams

[...] Read more

song performed by Verve
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Unknown Eros. Book I.

I
Saint Valentine’s Day

Well dost thou, Love, thy solemn Feast to hold
In vestal February;
Not rather choosing out some rosy day
From the rich coronet of the coming May,
When all things meet to marry!

O, quick, prævernal Power
That signall'st punctual through the sleepy mould
The Snowdrop's time to flower,
Fair as the rash oath of virginity
Which is first-love's first cry;
O, Baby Spring,
That flutter'st sudden 'neath the breast of Earth
A month before the birth;
Whence is the peaceful poignancy,
The joy contrite,
Sadder than sorrow, sweeter than delight,
That burthens now the breath of everything,
Though each one sighs as if to each alone
The cherish'd pang were known?
At dusk of dawn, on his dark spray apart,
With it the Blackbird breaks the young Day's heart;
In evening's hush
About it talks the heavenly-minded Thrush;
The hill with like remorse
Smiles to the Sun's smile in his westering course;
The fisher's drooping skiff
In yonder sheltering bay;
The choughs that call about the shining cliff;
The children, noisy in the setting ray;
Own the sweet season, each thing as it may;
Thoughts of strange kindness and forgotten peace
In me increase;
And tears arise
Within my happy, happy Mistress' eyes,
And, lo, her lips, averted from my kiss,
Ask from Love's bounty, ah, much more than bliss!

Is't the sequester'd and exceeding sweet
Of dear Desire electing his defeat?
Is't the waked Earth now to yon purpling cope
Uttering first-love's first cry,
Vainly renouncing, with a Seraph's sigh,
Love's natural hope?
Fair-meaning Earth, foredoom'd to perjury!
Behold, all amorous May,
With roses heap'd upon her laughing brows,

[...] Read more

poem by Coventry Patmore
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