|
Post by dvg on Apr 30, 2019 14:14:12 GMT -5
The stars are blotted out, The clouds are covering clouds It is darkness vibrant, sonant. In the roaring, whirling wind Are the souls of a million lunatics Just loosed from the prison-house, Wrenching trees by the roots, Sweeping all from the path.
The sea has joined the fray, And swirls up mountain-waves, To reach the pitchy sky. The flash of lurid light Reveals on every side A thousand, thousand shades Of Death begrimed and black — Scattering plagues and sorrows, Dancing mad with joy, Come, Mother, come!
-Vivekananda dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on May 8, 2019 12:01:52 GMT -5
Light is more important than the lantern, The poem more important than the notebook, And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you Are greater and more important than both of us. They are the only documents Where people will discover Your beauty And my madness.-Nizar Qabbani
dvg
|
|
|
Post by kestrelcalling on May 15, 2019 21:30:00 GMT -5
Sunshine all the time makes a desert. - Arab Proverb
|
|
|
Post by dvg on May 23, 2019 12:28:50 GMT -5
A Drop fell on the Apple Tree – Another – on the Roof – A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves – And made the Gables laugh –
A few went out to help the Brook, That went to help the Sea – Myself Conjectured were they Pearls – What Necklaces could be –
-Emily Dickinson
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Jun 3, 2019 7:00:37 GMT -5
I know not what I am,
but what I know, I'm not --
A thing, yet a no-thing,
a circle, yet a dot.
-Angelus Silesius
dvg
|
|
|
Post by kestrelcalling on Jun 4, 2019 20:54:43 GMT -5
If I never see you again I will always carry you with me Inside Outside
On my fingertips And at brain edges
And in centers Centers Of what I am of What remains
- Bukowski
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Jul 8, 2019 16:47:30 GMT -5
Our lyon wanting maturitie
Is called greene for his unripeness trust me:
And yet full quickly he can run,
And soon can overtake the Sun.
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Aug 29, 2019 22:54:59 GMT -5
There's something wild comin' I can feel it in my bones, something really good comin' comin' home!
Dancing, drinking, laughing everyone, everywhere, something crazy comin', comin' to end: every worry, every care! -Smoky Hoss
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Sept 28, 2019 17:25:17 GMT -5
And now here’s my secret, a very simple secret;
it is only with the heart that one can see rightly;
what is essential is invisible to the eye.-Antoine de Saint-Exupery
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Oct 29, 2019 12:18:24 GMT -5
Trumpty Dumpty wanted a wall
To stir up a rabid political brawl.
His Republican rivals, both feckless and stodgy,
Succumbed in the end to his rank demagogy.
Dumpty’s wall made no earthly sense,
A boondoggle built at enormous expense.
But he promised, in speeches despotic and shrill,
He’d make certain that Mexico footed the bill.
Trumpty Dumpty kept insisting.
More and more citizens started resisting.
Sadly, there won’t be an end to this tale,
At least until reasonable people prevail.
-John Lithgow
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Nov 5, 2019 14:09:31 GMT -5
Remember, remember! The fifth of November, The Gunpowder treason and plot; I know of no reason Why the Gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot! Guy Fawkes and his companions Did the scheme contrive, To blow the King and Parliament All up alive. Threescore barrels, laid below, To prove old England's overthrow. But, by God's providence, him they catch, With a dark lantern, lighting a match! A stick and a stake For King James's sake! If you won't give me one, I'll take two, The better for me, And the worse for you. A rope, a rope, to hang the Pope, A penn'orth of cheese to choke him, A pint of beer to wash it down, And a jolly good fire to burn him. Holloa, boys! holloa, boys! make the bells ring! Holloa, boys! holloa boys! God save the King! Hip, hip, hooor-r-r-ray!
-author unknown
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Dec 4, 2019 13:51:22 GMT -5
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
-Wallace Stevens dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Dec 5, 2019 15:32:55 GMT -5
The gift of free will is that in this life we can choose to be good or we can choose to be bad. We can choose what standards to hold ourselves to and what we will regard as important, honourable, and admirable. The choices we make in that regard determine whether we will experience peace or not.
Which is why each of us needs to sit down and examine ourselves. What do we stand for? What do we believe to be essential and important? What are we really living for? Deep in the marrow of our bones, in the chambers of our heart, we know the answer. The problem is that the business of life, the realities of pursuing a career and surviving in the world, come between us and that self-knowledge.
-Ryan Holiday
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Dec 27, 2019 7:56:05 GMT -5
One can never be certain where their inspiration may be found. This next entry here, comes from the poem, "The Rhyme of the Remittance Man", penned in 1907 by Robert W. Service. For me, it appeared on the back of a can of an India Pale Ale, labeled "Ice Fog", as a gift received this Christmas. "Ice Fog" is brewed in Whitehorse, Yukon, Canada, by Yukon Brewing. Cheers! There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin, And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day; But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover, And I killed it on the mountain miles away. Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming On the water where the silver salmon play; And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming, In the twilight, of a land that's far away.
-Robert W. Service
dvg
|
|
|
Post by dvg on Jan 13, 2020 13:45:42 GMT -5
Jackfish and walleye circle like clouds as he strains the silt floor of his pool, a lost lure in his lip, Five of Diamonds, River Runt, Lazy Ike, or a simple spoon, feeding a slow disease of rust through his body’s quiet armour. Kin to caviar, he’s an oily mudfish. Inedible. Indelible. Ancient grunt of sea in a warm prairie river, prehistory a third eye in his head. He rests, and time passes as water and sand through the long throat of him, in a hiss, as thoughts of food. We take our guilts to his valley and dump them in, give him quicksilver to corrode his fins, weed killer, gas oil mix, wrap him in poison arms. Our bottom feeder, sin-eater.
On an afternoon mean as a hook we hauled him up to his nightmare of us and laughed at his ugliness, soft sucker mouth opening, closing on air that must have felt like ground glass, left him to die with disdain for what we could not consume. And when he began to heave and thrash over yards of rock to the water’s edge and, unbelievably, in, we couldn’t hold him though we were teenaged and bigger than everything. Could not contain the old current he had for a mind, its pull, and his body a muscle called river, called spawn.
- Karen Solie
dvg
|
|