Tag Archives: Famous Poets

UNCONDTIONAL LOVE OUR GIFT IN TIME ~ MYSTIC POET

WE-ALL-WANT-ABSOLUTELY-GOOD-LOVE! “Well, what’cha-know-’bout-that!”

“UNCONDITIONAL!” a poem a.k.a.: “A Moment Is Sufficient!” 24 May 2019 (for: Friday)

Good luck! with-finding-perfect-love! Yeah! I’m-“smellin’-a-rat,” ( JUST JOKING) *

For I-ain’t buying this notion – of LOVE WITH NO CONDITIONS!!

At-least looking-for-it-in-others’-eyes; so, here’re-some-favorite-ad-missions:

(1) I tried to give TRUE LOVE, but-it-was-just-thrown-away;


(2) I failed to give love FULLY! So, I sought another way,
To-get-love on-a-street-corner, at-least-for-a-short-while;


(3) I searched for LOVE ETERNAL, and-I-found-me-many-a-smile,
But-frowns-always-came-later, so I “knew” IT-was-not-TRUE;


(4) I gave-up-on Unconditional-Love UNLESS-I-can-have-IT-with-you;


Or (5) “I took what I could get!” I took what I could get,


And-stopped-looking-for-“perfect-love”-in-others, ’cause-I-ain’t-found-it-yet!

Plus, I don’t expect-to-EVER – for ideas about love always change,


So, if I can get IT for just A MOMENT, I-DON’T find-that strange,


And-I-can cherish that-moment, for the rest of my life!

IF-I-CAN-FIND-LOVE-FOR-A-MOMENT-IN-A-PRETTY-FACE,


I’ll-[try-to]-make-her-my-wife!! ๐Ÿ™‚ – Yeah! **

fin <3

* lost it there for a moment, rhythm had me flying

** please wifey Iโ€™m not serious about that

Forgiveness is next to GODLINESS ๐Ÿค“

The life in front of you is more important than behind you
Donโ€™t look back youโ€™re not going there
You are amazing
You are unquestionably fabulous

Unconditional kindness ~

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~ Black Bonnet – Henry Lawson

A day of seeming innocence,
A glorious sun and sky,
And, just above my picket fence,
Black Bonnet passing by.
In knitted gloves and quaint old dress,
Without a spot or smirch,
Her worn face lit with peacefulness,
Old Granny goes to church.

Her hair is richly white, like milk,
That long ago was fair —
And glossy still the old black silk
She keeps for “chapel wear”;
Her bonnet, of a bygone style,
That long has passed away,
She must have kept a weary while
Just as it is to-day.

The parasol of days gone by —
Old days that seemed the best —
The hymn and prayer books carried high
Against her warm, thin breast;
As she had clasped — come smiles come tears,
Come hardship, aye, and worse —
On market days, through faded years,
The slender household purse.

Although the road is rough and steep,
She takes it with a will,
For, since she hushed her first to sleep
Her way has been uphill.
Instinctively I bare my head
(A sinful one, alas!)
Whene’er I see, by church bells led,
Brave Old Black Bonnet pass.

For she has known the cold and heat
And dangers of the Track:
Has fought bush-fires to save the wheat
And little home Out Back.
By barren creeks the Bushman loves,
By stockyard, hut, and pen,
The withered hands in those old gloves
Have done the work of men.

…..

They called it “Service” long ago
When Granny yet was young,
And in the chapel, sweet and low,
As girls her daughters sung.
And when in church she bends her head
(But not as others do)
She sees her loved ones, and her dead
And hears their voices too.

Fair as the Saxons in her youth,
Not forward, and not shy;
And strong in healthy life and truth
As after years went by:
She often laughed with sinners vain,
Yet passed from faith to sight —
God gave her beauty back again
The more her hair grew white.

She came out in the Early Days,
(Green seas, and blue — and grey) —
The village fair, and English ways,
Seemed worlds and worlds away.
She fought the haunting loneliness
Where brooding gum trees stood;
And won through sickness and distress
As Englishwomen could.

…..

By verdant swath and ivied wall
The congregation’s seen —
White nothings where the shadows fall,
Black blots against the green.
The dull, suburban people meet
And buzz in little groups,
While down the white steps to the street
A quaint old figure stoops.

And then along my picket fence
Where staring wallflowers grow —
World-wise Old Age, and Common-sense! —
Black Bonnet, nodding slow.
But not alone; for on each side
A little dot attends
In snowy frock and sash of pride,
And these are Granny’s friends.

To them her mind is clear and bright,
Her old ideas are new;
They know her “real talk” is right,
Her “fairy talk” is true.
And they converse as grown-ups may,
When all the news is told;
The one so wisely young to-day,
The two so wisely old.

At home, with dinner waiting there,
She smooths her hair and face,
And puts her bonnet by with care
And dons a cap of lace.
The table minds its p’s and q’s
Lest one perchance be hit
By some rare dart which is a part
Of her old-fashioned wit.

…..

Her son and son’s wife are asleep,
She puts her apron on —
The quiet house is hers to keep,
With all the youngsters gone.
There’s scarce a sound of dish on dish
Or cup slipped into cup,
When left alone, as is her wish,
Black Bonnet “washes up.”

~ Black Bonnet – Henry Lawson

~ Ben Duggan – Henry Lawson

Jack Denver died on Talbragar when Christmas Eve began,
And there was sorrow round the place, for Denver was a man;
Jack Denver’s wife bowed down her head — her daughter’s grief was wild,
And big Ben Duggan by the bed stood sobbing like a child.
But big Ben Duggan saddled up, and galloped fast and far,
To raise the longest funeral ever seen on Talbragar.

By station home
And shearing shed
Ben Duggan cried, `Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!’

He borrowed horses here and there, and rode all Christmas Eve,
And scarcely paused a moment’s time the mournful news to leave;
He rode by lonely huts and farms, and when the day was done
He turned his panting horse’s head and rode to Ross’s Run.
No bushman in a single day had ridden half so far
Since Johnson brought the doctor to his wife at Talbragar.

By diggers’ camps
Ben Duggan sped —
At each he cried, `Jack Denver’s dead!
Roll up at Talbragar!’

That night he passed the humpies of the splitters on the ridge,
And roused the bullock-drivers camped at Belinfante’s Bridge;
And as he climbed the ridge again the moon shone on the rise;
The soft white moonbeams glistened in the tears that filled his eyes;
He dashed the rebel drops away — for blinding things they are —
But ’twas his best and truest friend who died on Talbragar.

At Blackman’s Run
Before the dawn,
Ben Duggan cried, `Poor Denver’s gone!
Roll up at Talbragar!’

At all the shanties round the place they’d heard his horse’s tramp,
He took the track to Wilson’s Luck, and told the diggers’ camp;
But in the gorge by Deadman’s Gap the mountain shades were black,
And there a newly-fallen tree was lying on the track —
He saw too late, and then he heard the swift hoof’s sudden jar,
And big Ben Duggan ne’er again rode home to Talbragar.

`The wretch is drunk,
And Denver’s dead —
A burning shame!’ the people said
Next day at Talbragar.

For thirty miles round Talbragar the boys rolled up in strength,
And Denver had a funeral a good long mile in length;
Round Denver’s grave that Christmas day rough bushmen’s eyes were dim —
The western bushmen knew the way to bury dead like him;
But some returning homeward found, by light of moon and star,
Ben Duggan dying in the rocks, five miles from Talbragar.

They knelt around,
He raised his head
And faintly gasped, `Jack Denver’s dead,
Roll up at Talbragar!’

But one short hour before he died he woke to understand,
They told him, when he asked them, that the funeral was `grand’;
And then there came into his eyes a strange victorious light,
He smiled on them in triumph, and his great soul took its flight.
And still the careless bushmen tell by tent and shanty bar
How Duggan raised a funeral years back on Talbragar.

And far and wide
When Duggan died,
The bushmen of the western side
Rode in to Talbragar.

~ Ben Duggan – Henry Lawson

~ Australian Engineers – Henry Lawson

Ah, well! but the case seems hopeless, and the pen might write in vain;

The people gabble of old things over and over again.

For the sake of the sleek importer we slave with the pick and the shears,

While hundreds of boys in Australia long to be engineers.

A new generation has risen under Australian skies,

Boys with the light of genius deep in their dreamy eyes—

Not as of artists or poets with their vain imaginings,

But born to be thinkers and doers, and makers of wonderful things.

Born to be builders of vessels in the Harbours of Waste and Loss,

That shall carry our goods to the nations, flying the Southern Cross;

And fleets that shall guard our seaboard—while the

East is backed by the Jews—

Under Australian captains, and manned by Australian crews.

Boys who are slight and quiet, but boys who are strong and true,

Dreaming of great inventions—always of something new;

With brains untrammelled by training, but quick where reason directs—

Boys with imagination and keen, strong intellects.

They long for the crank and the belting, the gear and the whirring wheel,

The stamp of the giant hammer, the glint of the polished steel,

For the mould, and the vice, and the turning-lathe

—they are boys who long for the keys

To the doors of the world’s mechanics and science’s mysteries.

They would be makers of fabrics, of cloth for the continents—

Makers of mighty engines and delicate instruments,

It is they who would set fair cities on the western plains far out,

They who would garden the deserts—it is they who would conquer the drought!

They see the dykes to the skyline, where a dust-waste blazes to-day,

And they hear the lap of the waters on the miles of sand and clay;

They see the rainfall increasing, and the bountiful sweeps of grass,

And all the year on the rivers long strings of their barges pass.

. . . . . . .

But still are the steamers loading with our timber and wood and gold,

To return with the costly shoddy stacked high in the foreign hold,

With cardboard boots for our leather, and Brum-magem goods and slops

For thin, white-faced Australians to sell in our sordid shops.

~ Australian Engineers – Henry Lawson

~ Australian Bards And Bush Reviewers – Henry Lawson

While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country’s greatest curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler’s part —
You’re a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.

If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there’s only mud and sticks;
If you picture `mighty forests’ where the mulga spoils the view —
You’re superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.

If you swear there’s not a country like the land that gave you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns’.

But if you should find that bushmen — spite of all the poets say —
Are just common brother-sinners, and you’re quite as good as they —
You’re a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar’s simply awful and your intellect is weak.

~ Australian Bards And Bush Reviewers – Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson ~ Australian FAMOUS POET

When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn’t white,
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you’ll reach to-morrow night,
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care,
And as yet be unacquainted with the Demon of Despair;
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind.

You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin
When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock, and skin;
You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk
If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke;
You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know;
But — of course, you’re bound to face them when your pants begin to go.

I have noticed when misfortune strikes the hero of the play,
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way;
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around,
And they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound;
But, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care,
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair.

If, when flush, you took your pleasures — failed to make a god of Pelf,
Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank yourself —
Some will swear you’ll die a beggar, but you only laugh at that,
While your garments hand together and you wear a decent hat;
You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing low,
But — a man’s an awful coward when his pants begin to go.

Though the present and the future may be anything but bright,
It is best to tell the fellows that you’re getting on all right,
And a man prefers to say it — ’tis a manly lie to tell,
For the folks may be persuaded that you’re doing very well;
But it’s hard to be a hero, and it’s hard to wear a grin,
When your most important garment is in places very thin.

Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you best,
That your sorrows won’t run over in the presence of the rest;
There’s a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to whine,
He’ll declare your coat is tidy, and he’ll say: `Just look at mine!’
Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn’t show,
And he’ll swear it can’t be noticed when your pants begin to go.

Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not fret,
Keep your courage up and struggle, and we’ll laugh at these things yet,
Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some —
Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come!
We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know,
And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go.

โ€ฆโ€ฆ

Now the lady of refinement, in the lap of comfort rocked,
Chancing on these rugged verses, will pretend that she is shocked.
Leave her to her smelling-bottle; ’tis the wealthy who decide
That the world should hide its patches ‘neath the cruel look of pride;
And I think there’s something noble, and I swear there’s nothing low,
In the pride of Human Nature when its pants begin to go.

Henry Lawson
  • Whenever you believe in yourself anything is possible
    Sometimes all we need is a new perspective ๐Ÿ˜€ It only takes one light to illuminate the darkness~ never underestimate the light you shine onto this word. Kindness is free sprinkle it all over the world together. Wouldnโ€™t that make it a wonderful world ๐ŸŒŽ @bestofnatureblog
  • UNCONDTIONAL LOVE OUR GIFT IN TIME ~ MYSTIC POET
    WE-ALL-WANT-ABSOLUTELY-GOOD-LOVE! "Well, what'cha-know-'bout-that!" "UNCONDITIONAL!" a poem a.k.a.: "A Moment Is Sufficient!" 24 May 2019 (for: Friday) Good luck! with-finding-perfect-love! Yeah! I'm-"smellin'-a-rat," ( JUST JOKING) * For I-ain't buying this notion – of LOVE WITH NO CONDITIONS!! At-least looking-for-it-in-others'-eyes; so, here're-some-favorite-ad-missions: (1) I tried to give TRUE LOVE, but-it-was-just-thrown-away; (2) I failed to give love FULLY! … Read More
  • Love you just the way you are ๐Ÿฆ๐Ÿฆ
    https://youtu.be/tJWM5FmZyqU
  • ~ Borderland – Henry Lawson
    I am back from up the country — very sorry that I went — Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track — Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may … Read More
  • ~ Black Bonnet – Henry Lawson
    A day of seeming innocence, A glorious sun and sky, And, just above my picket fence, Black Bonnet passing by. In knitted gloves and quaint old dress, Without a spot or smirch, Her worn face lit with peacefulness, Old Granny goes to church. Her hair is richly white, like milk, That long ago was fair … Read More

England Yet ~ HENRY LAWSON

England yet! by Henry Lawson

Henry LawsonShe’s England yet! The nations never knew her;
Or, if they knew, were ready to forget.
She made new worlds that paid no homage to her,
Because she called for none as for a debt.
The bullying power who deemed all nations craven,
And that her star of destiny had set,
Was sure that she would seek a coward’s havenโ€”
And tempted her, and found her England yet!

We learn our England, and we soon forget,
To learn again that she is England yet.

They watched Britannia ever looking forward,
But could not see the things her children saw.
They watched in Southern seas her boats pull shoreward,
But only marked the eyeglass, heard the “Haw!”
In tents, and bungalows, and outpost stations,
Thin white men ruled for her, unseen, unheard,
Till millions of strange races and far nations
Were ready to obey her at a word.

We learn our England, and in peace forget,
To learn in storm that she is England yet.

She’s England yet; and men shall doubt no longer,
And mourn no longer for what she has been.
She’ll be a greater England and a strongerโ€”
A better England than the world has seen.
Our own, who reck not of a king’s regalia,
Tinsel of crowns, and courts that fume and fret,
Are fighting for herโ€”fighting for Australiaโ€”
And blasphemously hail her “England Yet!”

She’s England yet, with little to regretโ€”
Ay, more than ever, she’ll be England yet!

  • Henry Lawson ~ Australia
    We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation's slime; Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time. From grander clouds in our `peaceful skies' than ever were there before I tell you the Star of the South shall rise — in the lurid clouds … Read More
  • For every bird there is this last migration;
    Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
    With a warm passage to the summer station
    Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.
    For every bird there is this last migration; Once more the cooling year kindles her heart; With a warm passage to the summer station Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map, divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and … Read More
  • Poetry~~ The Swimmer – Adam Lindsay Gordon
    With short, sharp violent lights made vivid, To the southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb, Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward, And rocks receding, and reefs flung forward, And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward On … Read More
  • ~ An Epitaph On A Child Of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel – Ben Jonson
    Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed Death's self is sorry. 'Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel, Yet three … Read More
  • Famous Poet
    "The Treasure and the Low"–Puck of Pook's Hills. Where first by Eden Tree The Four Great Rivers ran, To each was appointed a Man Her Prince and Ruler to be. But after this was ordained (The ancient legends' tell), There came dark Israel, For whom no River remained. Then He Whom the Rivers obey Said … Read More

Henry Lawson ~ Australia

We boast no more of our bloodless flag, that rose from a nation’s slime;
Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time.
From grander clouds in our `peaceful skies’ than ever were there before
I tell you the Star of the South shall rise — in the lurid clouds of war.
It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase;
For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace.
There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong,
And man will fight on the battle-field
while passion and pride are strong —
So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours,
And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours.

. . . . .

There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school
To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool,
Who’ll stick to their guns when the mountains quake
to the tread of a mighty war,
And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before;
When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack
till the furthest hills vibrate,
And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate.

. . . . .

There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride
Who’ll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side,
Who’ll hold the cliffs ‘gainst the armoured hells
that batter a coastal town,
Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down.
And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day,
Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away —
Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun,
And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, —
As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white,
And pray to God in her darkened home for the `men in the fort to-night’.

. . . . .

But, oh! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide,
‘Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men
in that glorious race to ride
And strike for all that is true and strong,
for all that is grand and brave,
And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his wings', and shut his angels out, And steel his heart for the end of things, who'd ride with a stockman scout, When the race they ride on the battle track, and the waning distance hums, And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like stockwhip amongst the gums -- And thestraight’ is reached and the field is `gapped’
and the hoof-torn sward grows red
With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead;
And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes,
with the spirit and with the shades
Of the world-wide rebel dead who’ll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.

. . . . .

All creeds and trades will have soldiers there —
give every class its due —
And there’ll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo.
They’ll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold,
For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old;
And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed,
For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride;
The soul of the world they will feel and see
in the chase and the grim retreat —
They’ll know the glory of victory — and the grandeur of defeat.

The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done
With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun.
And many a rickety son of a gun, on the tides of the future tossed,
Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost,
Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk
the facts that are hard to explain,
As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again —
How `this was our centre, and this a redoubt,
and that was a scrub in the rear,
And this was the point where the guards held out,
and the enemy’s lines were here.’

. . . . .

They’ll tell the tales of the nights before
and the tales of the ship and fort
Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport,
Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright
at the tales of our chivalry,
And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be —
When the children run to the doors and cry:
`Oh, mother, the troops are come!’
And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum.
They’ll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last,
When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past.
And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend’s clutch,
no matter how low or mean,
Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch
of the man that he might have been.
And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame,
Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman’s shame,
Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend’s expense,
Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence.
And this you learn from the libelled past,
though its methods were somewhat rude —
A nation’s born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed.
We in part atone for the ghoulish strife,
and the crimes of the peace we boast,
And the better part of a people’s life in the storm comes uppermost.

The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime
Will do the deeds in the heroes’ van that live till the end of time.
The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town,
And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry — upside down.
‘Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong,
The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long.
And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease,
Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories.

“STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES!” a poem a.k.a., ” Eternal!” a.k.a., “CHOOSE To Never Say BYE, BYE!” Thursday: Karaoke at The Ole Crystal Bar [May 23, 2019]

“STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES!” a poem a.k.a., ” Eternal!” a.k.a., “CHOOSE To Never Say BYE, BYE!” Thursday: Karaoke at The Ole Crystal Bar [May 23, 2019]

Why-not BE STUPID!? What’s wrong with that?
Why not JUST SWING that bloody bat,
To knock it CLEAN – out-of-The-Park,
And go down swinging? [Go-ahead!] Jump-on-The-Ark,
With Noah and The Family! [What a bunch of dummies!]

Eat what you want; satisfy your tummies,
With The Food of Faith, believe in NO luck!
Why NOT BELIEVE – that-“You are NOT stuck,
That there are NO coincidences!” What-do-you-say?
Why NOT? It’s-ANOTHER STUPID DAY!?

It’s another day in Paradise, with all The Kids;
Let’s-all-go-faith-FULL, and flip our lids!

Is it only luck? That such and such is so?
Why NOT – BELIEVE! That-“something’s”-trying-to-show,
YOU! That-EVERYTHING-WILL BE-PERFECTLY-FINE?
WHY NOT? CHOOSE – choose-to-dine,
On “faith,” rather than give in, in a faithless fashion?

WHAT WILL IT HURT? – TO HAVE A FAITHFUL PASSION?

And – CHOOSE-to-be-“stupid,” as The Faithless contend!
“I choose to live until-NO-bitter-end!”

So, when the next faithless person – lays down to die,
CHOOSE – to raise them from The Dead! Rather-than-saying: “Bye-bye!”

fin <3

P. S.: Gravity? [defeated]; Death? [a laugh]
The aliens? [are friendly!] Embrace “your-‘stupid’-half,”
And have a ball, in a stupid way:
Forget! about-the-planning-you-THINK-you’ve-got-to-do-today!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1IDfrdM1E0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuxHLzwlDY4

” ‘B,’ WHEN YOU FINALLY DECIDE TO LIVE, IT’S TIME TO CRY, LAUGH & MAKE SOME DECISIONS!”* a poem May 23, 2019 (Thursday) for: “B!”

” ‘B,’ WHEN YOU FINALLY DECIDE TO LIVE, IT’S TIME TO CRY, LAUGH & MAKE SOME DECISIONS!”* a poem May 23, 2019 (Thursday) for: “B!”

“‘B,’ my friend! I want a friend!”
“Are you my friend until The End?”

What’s a friend? I will decide;
My friend’s WITH ME? ALL-through my ride!

(S)he’ll go with me and make-each-decision:
MAKING-THEM-ALL will-be-her(his)-“mission!!”
For-I’ve-ABDICATED – “my life stream throne!”
STAY WITH ME! I-CAN’T-BE-ALONE!

I NEED you here, to tell me what to do!
Tell me anything you want, for-I-NEED-YOU!

WHAT? You’re not doing? What I DESIRE?
Make-me-“GOOD” decisions, to entertain-and-inspire!
IF NOT – then KILL ME! I’ll NOT complain!!!
[I REFUSE to use – any more of my brain!]
I won’t complain! Lock-your-hands-around-my-throat;
YOU’RE MY FRIEND; YOU HAVE MY VOTE!

IF you-don’t-do “right-by-me,” you’re-my-enemy-too!
THIS JOB IS YOURS, [‘CAUSE] I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!

What kind of friend are YOU? Aren’t-you-my-friend?
Won’t you stay with me – TO “MY” BITTER END?
And: DECIDE! for: ME! I-demand your help;
Of course, IF-I-don’t-like-your-choice, I’ll-give-out-a-yelp,
And bite off your [friendly] hand, which-may-be-trying-to-feed-me!
I’VE AB-DI-CATED Yeah! WILL-ING-LY!

I’ll get upset! but I might not cry;
Yes, I will!!!! I’m-surely-gonna-die,
At your hand, you bastard, for EACH-DECISION-IS-TOO-BIG!
Why don’t you kill me, you IRRESPONSIBLE pig!

fin <3

  • – Just make those decisions! You may not have to take responsibility for them, “B,” but why not make them anyway!! ๐Ÿ™‚ – Smile, “B;” perhaps, it could be worse

For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

Year after year a speck on the map, divided
By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;
Season after season, sure and safely guided,
Going away she is also coming home.

And being home, memory becomes a passion
With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart’s possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;
The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;
That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,
Custom and fear constraining her no longer,
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,
Single and frail, uncertain of her place,
Alone in the bright host of her companions,
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

She feels it close now, the appointed season;
The invisible thread is broken as she flies;
Suddenly, without warning, without reason,
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of light no sign;
Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers
Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.

The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,
And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,
And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,
Receives the tiny burden of her death.

Poetry~~ The Swimmer – Adam Lindsay Gordon

With short, sharp violent lights made vivid,
To the southward far as the sight can roam,
Only the swirl of the surges livid,
The seas that climb and the surfs that comb,
Only the crag and the cliff to nor’ward,
And rocks receding, and reefs flung forward,
And waifs wreck’d seaward and wasted shoreward
On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.

A grim grey coast and a seaboard ghastly,
And shores trod seldom by feet of men —
Where the batter’d hull and the broken mast lie
They have lain embedded these long years ten.
Love! when we wander’d here together,
Hand in hand through the sparkling weather,
From the heights and hollows of fern and heather,
God surely loved us a little then.

Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer —
The blue sea over the bright sand roll’d;
Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur,
Sheen of silver and glamour of gold —
And the sunset bath’d in the gulf to lend her
A garland of pinks and of purples tender,
A tinge of the sun-god’s rosy splendour,
A tithe of his glories manifold.

Man’s works are craven, cunning, and skillful
On earth where his tabernacles are;
But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful,
And who shall mend her and who shall mar?
Shall we carve success or record disaster
On her bosom of heaving alabaster?
Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster
For fallen sparrow or fallen star?

I would that with sleepy soft embraces
The sea would fold me — would find me rest
In luminous shades of her secret places,
In depths where her marvels are manifest,
So the earth beneath her should not discover
My hidden couch — nor the heaven above her —
As a strong love shielding a weary lover,
I would have her shield me with shining breast.

When light in the realms of space lay hidden,
When life was yet in the womb of time,
Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden,
And souls were wedded to care and crime,
Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit —
A burden of folly, a void of merit —
That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit,
And cannot fathom the seas sublime?

Under the sea or the soil (what matter?
The sea and the soil are under the sun),
As in the former days in the latter
The sleeping or waking is known of none,
Surely the sleeper shall not awaken
To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken,
For the price of all things given and taken,
The sum of all things done and undone.

Shall we count offences or coin excuses,
Or weigh with scales the soul of a man,
Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses,
Whose light is a spark and his life a span?
The seed he sowed or the soil he cumber’d,
The time he served or the space he slumber’d,
Will it profit a man when his days are number’d,
Or his deeds since the days of his life began?

One, glad because of the light, saith, “Shall not
The righteous judges of all the earth do right,
For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not
Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?”
And this man’s joy shall have no abiding
Through lights departing and lives dividing,
He is soon as one in the darkness hiding,
One loving darkness rather than light.

A little season of love and laughter,
Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,
And a horror of outer darkness after,
And dust returneth to dust again;
Then the lesser life shall be as the greater,
And the lover of light shall join the hater,
And the one thing cometh sooner or later,
And no one knoweth the loss or gain.

Love of my life! we had lights in season —
Hard to part with, harder to keep —
We had strength to labour and souls to reason,
And seed to scatter and fruits to reap.
Though time estranges and fate disperses,
We have had our loves and loving mercies.
Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses,
Yet bides the gift of darkness — sleep!

See! girt with tempest and wing’d with thunder,
And clad with lightning and shod with sleet,
The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder
The flying rollers with frothy feet.
One gleam like a bloodshot swordblade swims on
The skyline, staining the green gulf crimson
A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun
That strikes through his stormy winding sheet.

Oh, brave white horses! you gather and gallop,
The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins;
Now the stoutest ship were the frailest shallop
In your hollow backs, or your high arch’d manes.
I would ride as never a man has ridden
In your sleepy swirling surges hidden,
To gulfs foreshadow’d, through straits forbidden,
Where no light wearies and no love wanes.

~ The Swimmer – Adam Lindsay Gordon

WOMEN GOTTA WORRY ๐Ÿค“

“IT’S JUST NOT!” a poem, a.k.a.: “Yes! It Is!” Too[s]-Worry-or-Not-To[s]-Worry-Day! 21 May 2019

Just remember: “NONE-O’-THIS-NONE-O’-THIS-is THAT great!”
It just ain’t! IMPULSES! Not FATE!

Scorpions-gotta-sting-frogs; frogs gotta ask: “Why?
Did-you-sting-me, man?” [Scorpion:] “I won’t lie –
It’s IN MY NATURE!” and – Nature calls,
Setting up impulses – in your balls!

Women gotta worry, ’cause they ALL forgot,
That – none-of-this-is-that-great! and-there’s-a-lot,
Of stuff to be concerned over!!!! Can’t you just let it go?
Well, the resounding answer – is-a-resounding: “H -E -L l, NO!”

So, woman gotta keep on worrying – They don’t wanna give it up!
Like: “I-know-none-of-this-is-worth-it, BUT (but-but-but) baby, I-gotta-sup,
On the best food and drink – and cling to my man!”*
Well, he ain’t THAT GREAT! [like all of us,] He’s-just- an “also ran!”

Dogs-return-to-[their]-vomit; cats are just plain “scare-dy,”
Until they get used to you – Then-they-lay-around-all-day, “without-a-care” D!

You see, IF you realize none of this is that great, you’ll never need to worry;
You’ll say: “Easy come; easy go!” and-you-won’t be in a hurry!

So, GIRLS [and sissy boys] just say: “I DON’T CARE & IT’S NOT THAT GREAT!”
BUT – NO girl [or – ] will! (S)he’ll-consider-it [maybe] -and-then-SQUIRM! and-mate!

NONE OF THIS IS THAT GREAT but – it’s great enough, ๐Ÿ™ – Whaaaaaat?
For the best of us to-hang-around! and-fall-in-love with-girls-and-stuff!

fin <3

  • – or girlfriend! or dog! or cat! or cuddly toy! or s – x-toy! or tree! or – – – -( Editors deleted this last passage, not for under 18 viewing )
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“IN SEVERAL PARTS!” a poem, a.k.a.: “Pass Me A Frappuccino, Please!” TUESDAY May 21, 2019

“IN SEVERAL PARTS!” a poem, a.k.a.: “Pass Me A Frappuccino, Please!” TUESDAY May 21, 2019

One part of you worries! Another part [simply] worked it out!

One part in so happy! One part likes to pout!

Pout-y parts are-still-purty [pretty], and poop-y parts are nice,

Every part, by-itself, is-a-precious-little-slice,

Combining all together, to make the perfect you,

From several parts, just like a play –
You’re Shakespeare, through and through,

With comedy and tragedy: DRAMA! and a twist,
Especially! at your end, My Sweet! which I’ve often missed,
BUT! Your front is also special, and your sides are good parts too!

I just love-a ALL your parts! Even-the-ones- that-will-go: “BOO!”

And SCARE ME HALF TO DEATH, My Love! Each part has special needs,
But each part’s TOTALLY worth it, because-combined Well! Each-part-leads,
To making-the-magic-of-you, which-I-could not live without,
Which brings us back, of course, My Love – to-that-part we just call “POUT!”

Pout combines with: CRY – and WHIMPER – when you do not get your way,
But, when you do,* there’s another part – that-cries-aloud: “Hey! Hey,”
And bounces all around the house – and grabs me, ’cause it’s happy:
It’s ANOTHER wonderful part of you; we call IT – Mrs. Frappy!**

fin <3

  • – GET YOUR WAY, that is!
    ** – because this so-called “happy response” is what happens when you get to have a nice frappuccino or quadruple espresso! – – – on an empty stomach!