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Rattled

Don't think that floating boat,
You sit in needs no one to paddle.
You need to grab those paddles,
And begin to steer that boat.

You can handle this with feelings felt specific.
You need to grab those paddles,
And begin to steer that boat.

You can handle this and quick.
With a healing that mends.
You need to grab those paddles,
And begin to steer that boat.

Knowing you are well equipped to face and conquer battles.
You need to grab those paddles,
And begin to steer that boat.

No need to get annoyed,
From annoyances that sit.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Old Spookses' Pass

I.
WE'D camped that night on Yaller Bull Flat,--
Thar was Possum Billy, an' Tom, an' me.
Right smart at throwin' a lariat
Was them two fellers, as ever I see;
An' for ridin' a broncho, or argyin' squar
With the devil roll'd up in the hide of a mule,
Them two fellers that camp'd with me thar
Would hev made an' or'nary feller a fool.
II.
Fur argyfyin' in any way,
Thet hed to be argy'd with sinew an' bone,
I never see'd fellers could argy like them;
But just right har I will hev to own
Thet whar brains come in in the game of life,
They held the poorest keerds in the lot;
An' when hands was shown, some other chap
Rak'd in the hull of the blamed old pot!
III.
We was short of hands, the herd was large,

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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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In Your Atmosphere

I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
I don't know what it's like to blame you
Nothing's true
I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
I'm not sure that I really ever could
Hold on to a hotel key in a
Bedroom neighborhood
and go sleep-walking in Hollywood
I'm gonna steer clear
Burn up in your atmosphere
I'm gonna steer clear
Cus I'd die if I saw you
I'd die if I didn't see you there
So I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
Cus I miss you
It sucks that I'm not mad
I dont think I'm gonna go to LA anymore
I get lost on the boulevard at night

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song performed by John Mayer
Added by Lucian Velea
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Going Nowhere For A While - Its A Beautiful Thing B-side

Where do you go
When it is all complicating
Where do you go
When you steer it all away
Where will you find
The nerve to find it complicating
What will you find
When you steer it all away
I could go on but its only conversation
I could go on but it seems likes persuasion
Where do you go
You know that its complicating
Where do you go
When you steer it all away
I could go on but its only conversation
I could go on but it seems likes persuasion
Where do you go
You know that its complicating
Where will you go
When you steer it all away

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song performed by Ocean Colour Scene
Added by Lucian Velea
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Going Nowhere For A While

Where do you go
When it is all complicating
Where do you go
When you steer it all away
Where will you find
The nerve to find it complicating
What will you find
When you steer it all away
I could go on but it's only conversation
I could go on but it seems likes persuasion
Where do you go
You know that it's complicating
Where do you go
When you steer it all away
I could go on but it's only conversation
I could go on but it seems likes persuasion
Where do you go
You know that it's complicating
Where will you go
When you steer it all away

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song performed by Ocean Colour Scene
Added by Lucian Velea
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From Violence to Peace

Twenty-eight shotgun pellets
crater my thighs, belly and groin.
I gently thumb each burnt bead,
fingering scabbed stubs with ointment.

Could have neutered me, made extinct
the volatile, romantic man I am.
“He’s dead,”
doctor at emergency room
could’ve easily told my wife that night.
Instead, “Soak him in a bath twice a day. Apply
this ointment to the sores. Here’s a month’s supply
of pain killers.” I remember the deep guttural groan
I gave, when the doctor pressed my groin.
Assured
I could still make love, morphine drowsed me
and in a dull stupor I don’t remember
police visiting my bed, or laughing so hard,
they scowled for a serious answer.
I howled a U.F.O. shot me along the Río Grande,

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poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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Sweet Little Mystery

My love has taken a tumble
Oh, but Im still standing
Youre such a natural, sing,
Thats what you are
Say I wouldnt steer you wrong now baby
I wouldnt steer you wrong
Its just that sweet little mystery
That makes me try, try, try, try
Its just that sweet little mystery
That makes me try, try, try, try
Didnt I come resisting this sight of wonder
Didnt I come insisting the higher decision
Didnt I come resisting this sight of wonder
To your life
Say I wouldnt steer you wrong now baby
I wouldnt steer you wrong
Its just that sweet little mystery
That makes me try, try, try, try
Its just that sweet little mystery
That makes me try, try, try, try

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song performed by Wet Wet Wet
Added by Lucian Velea
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Georgic 3

Thee too, great Pales, will I hymn, and thee,
Amphrysian shepherd, worthy to be sung,
You, woods and waves Lycaean. All themes beside,
Which else had charmed the vacant mind with song,
Are now waxed common. Of harsh Eurystheus who
The story knows not, or that praiseless king
Busiris, and his altars? or by whom
Hath not the tale been told of Hylas young,
Latonian Delos and Hippodame,
And Pelops for his ivory shoulder famed,
Keen charioteer? Needs must a path be tried,
By which I too may lift me from the dust,
And float triumphant through the mouths of men.
Yea, I shall be the first, so life endure,
To lead the Muses with me, as I pass
To mine own country from the Aonian height;
I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palms
Of Idumaea, and raise a marble shrine
On thy green plain fast by the water-side,
Where Mincius winds more vast in lazy coils,

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;

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poem by John Dryden
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.

I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!

II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she rob'd, and of her feast

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poem by Byron
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